Silent Melody

Mary Balogh

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTERSEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Praise for Mary Balogh and her bestselling novels

"Thoroughly enjoyable… an excellent story that moves as swiftly and

smoothly as a river."

—Janelle Taylor

" Balogh's epic love story is a winner… absorbing reading right up

until the end!"

— Publishers Weekly

"From her first book, this superb author has established a reputation

for unsurpassed originality and excellence."

— Romantic Times

"A beautiful, moving romance that should be on the top of every

reader's list. No wonder Ms. Balogh is a favorite of readers

everywhere!"

— Affaire de Coeur

"Captivating, unforgettable… Balogh's graceful prose will draw you

into the glittering world of Georgian England as though you were

actually there… A classic love story not to be missed."

—Elizabeth Thornton

"Mary Balogh is the writer I read for pleasure… She delivers

complex characters and pages that steam with emotional intensity…

Once you start a Mary Balogh book, you won't be able to stop

reading."

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips

PROLOGUE

1756

It was hard to pack.

But it was impossible to stay. He was leaving from choice because he

was young and energetic and adventurous and had long wanted to

carve a life of his own.

He was going to new possibilities, new dreams. But he was leaving

behind places and people. And though, being young, he was sure he

would see them all again some day, he knew too that many years

might pass before he did so.

It was not easy to leave.

Lord Ashley Kendrick was the son of a duke. A younger son, and

therefore a man who needed employment. But neither the army nor

the church, the accepted professions for younger sons, had appealed

to him and so he had done nothing more useful with his twenty-three

years than sow some wild oats and manage the estate of Bowden

Abbey for his brother, Luke, Duke of Harndon, during the past few

months. Business had always attracted him, but his father had

forbidden him to involve himself with something he considered

beneath the dignity of an aristocrat—even of a younger son. Luke felt

differently. And so Ashley, with his brother's reluctant blessing, was

on his way toIndia, to take up his new post with the East India

Company.

He was eager to go. Finally he was to be his own man, doing what he

wanted to do, proving to himself that he could forge his own destiny.

He could hardly wait to begin his new life, to be there inIndia, to be

free of his dependence on his brother.

But it was hard to say good-bye. He did it the day before he left and

begged everyone to let him go alone the following morning, to drive

away from Bowden Abbey as if on a morning errand. He said good-

bye to Luke; to Anna, Luke's wife; to Joy, their infant daughter; to

Emmy…

Ah, but he did not really say good-bye to Emmy. He sought her out

and told her he was leaving the following day, it was true. But then

he set his hands on her shoulders, smiled cheerfully at her, told her to

be a good girl, and strode away before she could make any reply.

Not that Emmy could have replied verbally even if she had wanted

to. She was a deaf-mute. She could read lips, but she had no way of

communicating her thoughts except with those huge gray eyes of

hers—and with certain facial expressions and gestures to which he

had become sensitive during the year he had known her, plus others

they had agreed upon as a sort of private, secret, if not entirely

adequate language. She could not read or write. She was Anna's sister

and had come to Bowden soon after Anna's marriage to Luke.

Emmy was a child. Though fifteen years old, her handicap and her

wild sense of freedom—she rarely dressed or behaved like a gently

born young lady—made Ashley think of her as a child. A precious

child for whom he felt a deep affection and in whom he had been in

the habit of confiding all his frustrations and dreams. A child who

adored him. It was not conceit that had him thinking so. She spent

every spare moment in his company, gazing at him or out through

the window of the room in which he worked, listening to him with

her wonderful, expressive eyes, following him about the estate. She

was never a nuisance. His fondness for her was something he could

not put satisfactorily into words.

He was afraid of Emmy's eyes the day before his departure. He did

not have the courage to say good-bye. So he merely said his piece and

hurried away from her—just as if she were no more to him than a

child for whom he felt only an indulgent affection.

He regretted his cowardice the following day. But he hated good-

byes.

He got up early. He had been unable to sleep, his mind tossing with

the excitement of what was ahead of him, his body eager to be on the

way, his emotions torn between an impatience to be gone and a

heaviness at leaving all that was familiar and dear behind him.

He got up early to take a last fond look at Bowden Abbey, his home

since childhood. But not his, of course. It was true that he was heir to

it all, that Luke and Anna's firstborn had been a daughter. But they

would have sons, he was sure. He hoped they would. Being heir was

not important to him, much as he loved Bowden. He wanted his own

life. He wanted to build his own fortune and choose his own home

and follow his own dreams.

But he loved Bowden fiercely now that he was leaving it and did not

know when he would see it again. If ever. He strode away behind the

house, watching the early morning dew soak his top boots, feeling the

chill wind whip at his cloak and his three-cornered hat. He did not

look back until he stood on top of a rise of land, from which he had a

panoramic view down over the abbey and past it to the lawns and

trees of the park stretching far in all directions.

Home. AndEngland. He was going to miss both.

He descended the western side of the hill and strode toward the trees

a short distance away and through them to the falls, the part of the

river that spilled sharply downward over steep rocks before resuming

its wide loop about the front of the house.

He had spent many hours of the past year at the falls, seeking

solitude and peace. Seeking purpose. Seeking himself, perhaps. A

little over a year ago, he had been inLondon. But Luke had returned

from a long residence inParis, rescued him from deep debts and a

wild and aimless life of pleasure and debauchery, and ordered him to

return to Bowden until he had decided what he wished to do with his

life.

He climbed to the flat rock that jutted over the falls and stood

looking down at the water as it rushed and bubbled over the rocks

below. Emmy had spent many hours here with him. He smiled. He

had once told her that she was a very good listener. It was true, even

though she could not hear a word he said to her. She listened with

her eyes and she comforted with her smiles and with her warm little

hand in his.

Dear, sweet Emmy. He was going to miss her perhaps more than any

of them. There was a strange ache about his heart at the thought of

her, his little fawn, like a piece of wild, unspoiled nature. She rarely

wore hoops beneath her dresses and almost never wore caps. Indeed,

she did not often even dress her hair, but let it fall, blond and loose

and wavy to her waist. Whenever she could get away with doing so,

she went barefoot. He did not know how he would have survived the

year without Emmy to talk to, without her sympathy and her

happiness to soothe his wounded feelings. He had felt despised and

rejected by Luke, his beloved brother, and his own sense of guilt had

not helped reconcile him to what he had considered at the time to be

unwarranted tyranny.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was time to return to

the house. He would have breakfast while the carriage was brought

around and his trunks were loaded, and then he would be on his way.

He strode back through the trees in the direction of the house. He

hoped everyone would honor the promise not to come down to see

him on his way. He wished that he could just click his fingers and

find himself on board ship, out of sight of English shores.

He wished there did not have to be the moment of leaving.

Ashley had told her yesterday that he was leaving today. It had not

been unexpected. For weeks past he had been excited over the

prospect of joining the East India Company and going toIndia. There

had been a new light of purpose in his eye and a new spring in his

step, and she knew that she had lost him. That he no longer needed

her. Not that he ever avoided her or turned her away. Not that he

stopped talking to her or smiling at her or allowing her to walk about

the estate with him or to sit in his office while he worked. Not that

he stopped holding her hand as they walked or stopped calling her his

little fawn. Not that any of the affection had gone out of his manner.

But he was going away. He was going to a new life, one that he

craved. One that he needed. She was glad for him. She was genuinely

glad. Yes, she was. Oh, yes she was.

Lady Emily Marlowe curled up on the window seat in her room and

gazed out on a gray and gloomy morning. She tried to draw peace

from the sight of the trees and lawns. She tried to let them soothe her

aching heart.

Her breaking heart.

She did not want to see him today. She would not be able to bear

seeing him actually leave. It would hurt just too much.

And yet instead of peace, the only feeling that would come to her

was panic. Had he left yet? She could not see the driveway or the

carriage house from her room. Perhaps even now the carriage was

before the doors. Perhaps even now he was stepping inside after

hugging Anna and Luke— would they have taken Joy down too for

him to kiss? He would be looking about him for her. He would be

disappointed that she was not there. Would he believe she did not

care? Perhaps he was driving away—now. At this very minute.

It could well be that he would be gone forever.

It was possible she would never see him again. Ever.

She leapt up suddenly and dashed into her dressing room. She

shoved her feet into a pair of shoes and grabbed the first cloak that

came to hand—her red one. She flung it about her shoulders and

rushed from the room and down the stairs. Was she in time? She felt

that she would die if she were not.

Ashley. Oh, Ashley.

There was only one footman in the hall. And a mound of boxes and

trunks by the doors, which stood open. There was no carriage

outside.

Emily sagged with relief. She was not too late. Ashley must be at

breakfast. She took a few steps in the direction of the breakfast parlor,

and the footman hurried ahead of her to open the doors. But she

stopped again. No. She could not after all see him face-to-face. She

would shame herself. She would cry. She would make him

uncomfortable and unhappy. And she would see the pity in Anna's

and Luke's eyes.

She ran outside and down the steps onto the upper terrace and on to

the formal gardens. She ran fleet-footed through three tiers of the

gardens and then down the long sloping lawn to the two-arched stone

bridge over the river. She ran across the bridge and among the old

trees that lined and shaded the driveway for its full winding length to

the stone gateposts and the village beyond. But she did not run all the

way to the village. She stopped halfway down the drive, gasping for

breath.

She stood with her back against the broad trunk of an old oak and

waited. She would see his carriage as it passed. She would say her own

private good-bye. She would not see him, she realized. Only his

carriage. He would not see her. He would not know that she had

come to say goodbye. But it was just as well. Fond as he was of her, to

him she was just a type of younger sister to be indulged.

She could remember her first meeting with him, the day she arrived

at Bowden Abbey to live with Anna, feeling strange and bewildered.

She had instantly liked Luke, though she had learned later that her

sister Agnes was terrified of his elegant appearance and formal

manners. But he had been kind to her and he had spoken with her as

if she were a real person who had ears that could hear. And incredibly

she hadunderstood most of what he said—he moved his lips

decisively as he spoke and he kept his face full toward her. So many

people forgot to do that. But she had felt uncomfortable during tea in

the drawing room until Ashley had arrived late and demanded an

introduction. And then he had bowed to her and smiled and spoken.

"As I live," he had said, "a beauty in the making. Your servant,

madam." She had seen every word.

Tall, handsome, charming Ashley. He had gone to sit beside his

sister, Doris, and had proceeded to converse with her after winking at

Emily. He had taken her heart with him. It was as simple as that. She

had adored him from that moment as she had adored no one else in

her life, even Anna.

Ashley had a loving heart. He loved Luke, even though they had

been close to estrangement for almost a year. He loved his mother

and his sister, who were now inLondon, and he loved Anna and Joy.

He loved her too. But no more intensely than he loved the others.

She was Emmy, his little fawn. She was just a child to him. He did

not know that she was a woman.

He would forget her in a month.

No, she did not believe that. There was nothing shallow in Ashley's

love. He would remember her fondly—as he would remember the

rest of his family.

She would hold him in her heart—deep in her heart— for the rest of

her life. He was all of life to her. He was everything. Life would be

empty without Ashley. Meaningless. She loved him with all the

passion and all the intense fidelity of her fifteen-year-old heart. She

did not love him as a child loves, but as a woman loves the

companion of her soul.

Perhaps more intensely than most women loved. There was so little

else except the sight of the world around her with which to fill her

mind and her heart. She had somehow made a life of her own dreams

before meeting Ashley. It had not always been easy. There had been

frustrations, even tantrums when she was younger—when perhaps

she had remembered enough of sound to be terrified by its absence.

She had no conscious memories of sound since it had been shut off

quite totally after the dangerous fever she had barely survived before

her fourth birthday. Just some fleeting hints, yearnings. She did not

know quite what they were. They always just eluded her grasp.

Ashley had become her dream. He had given her days meaning and

her nights fond imaginings. She did not know what would be left to

her when the dream was taken away—today, this morning.

She was beginning to think that she must have missed him after all.

Perhaps he had gone ahead and his luggage was to follow later. She

was almost numb with the cold. The wind whipped and bit at her.

But finally she heard the carriage approach. Not that she could hear it

in the accepted sense of the word—she often wondered what sound

must have been like. But she felt the vibrations of an approaching

carriage. She pressed herself back against the tree while grief hit her

low in the stomach like a leaden weight. He was leaving forever and

all she would see was Luke's carriage, which was taking him

toLondon.

Panic grabbed her like a vise as the carriage came into sight, and

despite herself she leaned slightly forward, desperate for one last

glimpse of him.

She saw nothing except the carriage rolling on past. She moaned

incoherently.

But then it slowed and came to a full stop. And the door nearest her

was flung open from the inside.

There had been a feeling of mingled sadness and relief as the carriage

lurched into motion, drew away from the house, and turned at the

end of the cobbled terrace to take the sloping path beside the formal

gardens and past the long lawn to the bridge.

He was on his way. Soon now he would be beyond the park, beyond

the village, and leaving Bowden land behind him. He could look

ahead with pleasure and excitement. Ashley set his head back against

the comfortable upholstery of his brother's carriage and closed his

eyes with a sigh of relief. It had been easier than he had expected.

But he did not keep his eyes closed. When he heard the rumble of

the bridge beneath the carriage wheels, he opened them again for one

backward glance at the house. He looked at the trees of the driveway

and beyond. He could see a small group of deer grazing peacefully off

to his left.

And a slight flutter of red.

It caught his eye when the carriage was already on a level with it and

for a moment he could not identify it. But then he knew.

Emmy's cloak!

He leaned forward without thought and rapped sharply on the front

panel for the coachman to stop. Almost before the carriage had come

to a complete standstill he flung open the door and jumped down

onto the driveway. He looked back.

Ah. He had not been mistaken. And only now when it was too late

did he realize that it might have been better if he had kept on going.

He was not going to escape painful good-byes entirely after all.

She was standing against a tree trunk, holding it with both hands

behind her as if she feared falling. Her face was all eyes and ashen

paleness despite the slight color the wind had whipped into her

cheeks. He walked toward her slowly and came to a stop only when

he was a few inches in front of her. He felt guilty. He was off on an

adventure, off to begin his adult life. All of the world, all of life were

ahead of him. But Emmy, his close companion for almost a year, was

to be left behind to—to what? What would life hold for a child who

would grow into a woman who could not always understand others

or communicate with them?

"Little fawn," he said softly. He clasped his arms together and

shivered. You must be cold, he told her in one of their private signs—

as if physical comfort was of any significance at this moment.

She made no reply. Her eyes gazed back into his—and filled with

tears.

Ah, Emmy.

He leaned forward until his body pinned her against the tree. He

wished—Lord, but he wished he had not noticed the flapping of her

red cloak. What could he say to her in either words or gestures? He

knew she was desperately unhappy, and her unhappiness clouded the

exhilaration he had been feeling. He tilted back his head and closed

his eyes. He clenched his hands tightly at his sides. He should have

done this properly yesterday instead of just telling her cheerfully to be

a good girl.

When he raised his head and opened his eyes, he found that she was

looking at him. Her face was only inches from his own.

There were no words. And no gestures, except one, which was no

part of their private language. There was only one way to say good-

bye.

Her lips were cool, soft, and motionless beneath his. She had been

chilled by her wait for his carriage. He warmed them with his own,

softly and gently. He warmed them until they pushed back against

his, and he realized in sudden shock that what they were sharing was

undoubtedly a kiss.

A kiss, not of a brother and sister, but of a man and woman. Her

body against his, he noticed now that he had been alerted, was slim,

coltlike, soft with budding womanhood.

He felt a flush of heat, a rush of tightness to his groin.

He lifted his head, feeling disoriented. She was Emmy. She was a

child who needed comforting. She needed some sign of affection

from him, something to wrap about herself until she had grown

accustomed to his absence. She certainly did not need… He framed

her face with gentle hands, keeping one still while the other smoothed

back her windblown hair.

"I will be back, little fawn," he said softly but distinctly, as he always

spoke to her, noting that the tears had gone so that she was able to

read his lips. "I will be back to teach you to read and write and to

teach you a more complete language you can use—not just with me

but with everyone. One day, Emmy. But by that time you will have

found other friends to love, other friends who will love you and learn

to find meaning in your silence. You must not mind my going too

deeply, you know. I am a careless sort of fellow. There will be others

far more worthy of your affection." He smiled gently at her.

She gazed at him in such a way that he was given the impression that

her whole soul gazed out at him. Her right hand, clenched loosely

into a fist, lifted and pulsed lightly over her heart. I feel deeply- I am

serious. My heart is full.

It was a gesture he used sometimes when talking, a sign that he was

speaking the deep emotions of the heart. It was a gesture she had

picked up from him and added to their all-too-inadequate language.

He wondered if the gesture was involuntary at this particular

moment.

Ah," he said. "I know, Emmy. I know. I'll be back. I'll not forget

you. I'll carry you here." He stepped back from her at last and

touched a hand to his own heart.

And then he turned and strode back to the carriage. He vaulted

inside, shut the door firmly behind him, and sat back as the vehicle

lurched into motion. He blew out his breath from puffed cheeks.

Emmy. His dear little fawn. Sweet child.

He tried to convince himself that that was how he had seen her, how

he had treated her right to the end. He had put his body against hers

and his lips to hers in an almost instinctive gesture of comfort.

Brother to sister, uncle to niece, man to child. But he was

uncomfortably aware that his chosen method of giving comfort had

been unwise and inappropriate to the occasion. He had discovered a

body and a mouth that would very soon belong to a woman.

He did not want Emmy to be a woman—foolish thought. He

wanted her always to be that wild and happy child who had brought

him peace when his life had been in turmoil. He wanted to remember

her as a child.

He was ashamed of himself for reacting to her for one startled

moment as a male. He loved her. But not as a man loves a woman.

The feelings he had for her were quite unique in his experience. He

loved no one else as he loved Emmy. He wished—ah, he wishedhe

had not sullied his feelings for her by reacting to her physical

closeness as a man reacts to a woman. He would not remember her

so. He would remember her standing on the rock above the falls, her

skirts loose about her legs and short enough to reveal bare ankles and

feet, her blond hair in a wild tangled mane down her back, her lips

smiling, her lovely eyes telling him that, incredible as it might seem,

she had found peace and harmony in her silent world.

The village was already behind him, he noticed. He was well on his

way. His future had already begun. His thoughts turned ahead

toIndiaand his new life. What would it be like? How well would he

meet the challenge? He could feel the exhilaration of youth and the

thirst for adventure humming in his veins.

Emily stood where she was for many long minutes after she had felt

the vibrations of the carriage moving off again. Her head was back

against the tree trunk. Her eyes were closed. And then she pushed

herself away from the tree and began to run recklessly, heedlessly,

through the woods, over the bridge, in among the trees again, faster

and faster, as if all the fiends of hell were at her heels.

She stopped only when she came to the falls and had bounded up

the rocks beside them so that she could cast herself facedown on the

flat rock that jutted out over the water. She buried her face on her

arms and wept until her chest was sore from the weeping and there

were neither tears nor energy left.

Behind her closed eyes she could see him as he had appeared when

he vaulted out of the carriage, before she had been blinded by tears,

tall and slender and handsome, his long dark hair tied back with a

black silk ribbon and unpowdered as usual. He had been elegant in

cloak, frock coat, waistcoat, and breeches. But elegant in his own

almost careless manner—quite unlike Luke, with his Parisian

splendor.

She lay on the cold rock beside the falls, spent and passive, for hours

until at last she felt a hand on her shoulder. She had neither seen nor

sensed anyone coming, but she was not surprised. She turned her

head to see Luke sitting beside her, his eyes intent and sympathetic

on her. She set her face back against her arms while his hand patted

her shoulder.

There was nothing left to live for. Ashley had gone. Perhaps forever.

Taking her heart, her very life with him.

And yet there was Anna, her eldest sister, who had been more of a

mother to her than anyone else in her life. And there were her brother

Victor, the Earl of Royce—and Charlotte, her sister, though both

lived far away with their spouses. And Agnes, Lady Severidge, the

sister next in age to herself, who would be living close by

atWycherlyParkafter she returned from her wedding trip. There was

Joy, her niece, on whom she doted. And there was Luke.

She loved Luke dearly. He loved Anna and Joy and Anna loved him.

Emily would love anyone who loved Anna. And he was Ashley's

brother, though he was not as tall as Ashley, nor was his face as good-

humored or quite as handsome—at least not to Emily's partial eyes.

But he was Ashley's brother.

When he turned her finally and lifted her onto his lap and cradled

her just as if she were a child, she cuddled against him, trying to draw

comfort from him. He too must have hated seeing Ashley leave this

morning. Ashley had used to say that Luke was cold and did not care

for him. But she knew that it had never been true. Luke was neither

cold nor unloving.

Luke had made it possible for Ashley to find purpose in life. He had

arranged for Ashley to join the East India Company. And he had

given her a home here with Anna instead of forcing her to live with

Victor and Constance, who felt awkward with her silence even

though they loved her well enough.

She felt some warmth creep back into her body as Luke murmured

comforting words to her. She could tell he was doing so by the

vibrations of his chest.

She loved Luke. She loved her family. But it was going to be very

difficult to live on. Ashley had found purpose in life. How was she to

find purpose in hers? Could it have meaning without Ashley?

But she knew, emerging as she was now from the blackest depths of

despair, that she must live on and that she must do so without him.

For he would not come back. She knew that. He might return at

some distant time in the future. But the Ashley she knew and loved

would change. And she would change.

She wouldchange. She would grow up into the womanhood that was

already changing her both physically and emotionally. And she would

learn to live without him. She would not mope and pine her life away

for what could not be had.

Ashley could not be had. He loved her, but she was not in any way

central to his very being. He would soon consign her to nothing more

important than a fond memory. She knew that. She had no illusions

about what she meant to him.

She would grow up without him. She would live without him. No

one would ever know how much he would always be a part of her.

She would live as if her heart had not broken from love for him—

although it had.

She would always love him, but from this moment on she would

take her life back and live it as fully as she had before she set eyes on

Ashley a year ago—and all else had faded into insignificance. And it

hadbeen a full life, even if it had necessarily been an almost totally

solitary one.

Even at its darkest moment, life was a precious gift.

CHAPTER ONE

1763

"Faith, child," Lady Sterne said, "but you are as lovely as all your

sisters put together. With no offense meant to the two who are

present." She laughed, clasped her hands to her bosom, and let her

eyes sweep once more over the young lady who stood in the middle

of the dressing room.

"Oh, but she really is," Lady Severidge said generously. "She really is beautiful." At the age of six-and-twenty, seven years and two children

after her marriage, Agnes was still pretty, though she had grown

almost plump.

"Of course she is as lovely as all of us put together," Anna, Duchess

of Harndon, said, smiling her bright, warm smile. "And lovelier even

than that. Oh, Emmy, you look wonderful." But in truth Anna

herself looked equally lovely. Although she was well past her thirtieth

year and had given birth to her fourth child only three months

before, her face was still youthful and unlined, and her figure was

again as trim as it had been before her marriage.

"You will be the belle of the ball tonight, as I live," Lady Sterne said.

She was in the dressing room only partly by right of the fact that she

was Anna's godmother. Although she was no blood relation, she had

assumed the role of favored aunt to Anna's sisters as well as to Anna

herself. After all, she always reminded them, when a woman had no

daughters of her own, then she simply had to adopt a few. " 'Tis a

pity you cannot dance, child. But no matter. Dancing merely makes a

lady flush and sweat—and smell."

"Aunt Marjorie!" Agnes said, shocked.

Lady Emily Marlowe's eyes followed their lips for a while, but it was

a weary business and she knew she had missed at least half of what

had been said—as she always did in a conversation that involved

more than one person. But no matter. She had caught the trend of

the conversation, and it pleased her to for once be called beautiful—

as other women were beautiful. She turned her head to steal another

glance at herself in the pier glass of Anna's dressing room. She

scarcely recognized herself. She was dressed in pale green, her favorite

color, but all else was unfamiliar. Her petticoat, with its three deep

frills, was held away from her legs by large hoops. Her open gown was

trimmed with wide, niched, gold-embroidered robings from bosom

to hem. Her stomacher, low at the bosom, was heavily embroidered

with the same gold thread. The three lace frills that edged the sleeves

of her chemise flared at the elbows below the sleeves of the gown. Her

shoes were gold. Her hair—ah, it was her hair that looked most

unfamiliar.

Anna's maid had dressed her hair rather high in front, in the newest

fashion, and curled and coiled at the back. In the glass Emily could

see the frills of the frivolous lace cap that was pinned back there

somewhere, its lace lappets floating down her back. Her hair was

powdered white. It was the first time she had allowed anyone to do

that to her.

Beneath the gown she could feel the unfamiliar and uncomfortable

tightness of her stays.

At the grand age of two-and-twenty, she was about to attend her first

real ball. Oh, she had occasionally—when Luke, Duke of Harndon,

had insisted—attended local entertainments with her sister and

brother-in-law, and there had sometimes been dancing, which she

had sat and watched. And she had always been present at the

occasional balls held here at Bowden Abbey, though usually she had

watched unseen, looking down from the gallery. Dancing had always

fascinated her.

She had always wanted, almost more than anything else in the world,

to dance.

She could not dance. She was totally deaf. She could not hear the

music. Though sometimes she imagined that once upon a time she

must have heard it. She could not remember music—or any sounds

at all—but there was a feeling, an inner conviction that music must

be more beautiful, more soul-lovely than almost anything she had

ever seen with her eyes.

Tonight she was to attend a ball, and everyone was behaving as if the

whole occasion were in her honor. Almost as if this were her come-

out. In reality the ball was in honor of Anna. There was always a ball

at Bowden a few months after Anna's confinements, following the

christening of the baby. There had been balls after Joy's birth seven

years ago, and after George's and James's more recently. Now there

was to be this one, following Harry's birth. He needed to

demonstrate to his neighbors, Emily had once seen Luke say as he

bent over Anna's hand and kissed her fingers, that his duchess was

just as beautiful now as she had been three months before, nine

months swollen with child.

"Lud," Lady Sterne said now, taking Emily's hands in her own and

bringing both her eyes and her mind back from the glass, "but you

have not heard a word we have said, child. I vow your head has been

turned by your own beauty."

Emily blushed. She wished Aunt Marjorie would speak more slowly.

"Luke will approve, Emmy," Anna said with her warm smile,

cupping Emily's chin with one gentle hand and turning her head so

that she would see the words.

That would be no small accomplishment. Although Luke loved her

unconditionally, Emily knew, he also did not always approve of her.

He paid her the compliment of treating her as if she had no handicap.

He often pushed her into doing things she had no wish to do,

assuring her briskly that she could do anything in the world she set

her mind to doing, even if she must do it silently. He was unlike

Anna in that way, and the two of them sometimes exchanged hot

words over her. Anna felt that her sister should be allowed to live her

life in her own way, even if doing so made her unsociable and totally

unconventional. The implication, loving though it was, was that

Emily could never be quite as other women were. Luke was more

capable of bullying.

There had been the time when she was fifteen, for example, and he

had decided that it was time she learned to read and write. And she

had learned too—slowly, painfully, sometimes rebelliously, with Luke

himself as her patient but implacable teacher. After the first week he

had banished Anna from the schoolroom and had never allowed her

back in. Enough of foolish tears, he had told her. Emily had learned

in order to prove something to him—and more important, to herself.

She had had everything to prove to herself at that painful stage of her

life.

She had proved that she could learn, as other girls could. But she had

learned the severe limits to her world. Books revealed to her universes

of experience and thought she had never suspected and would never

properly understand. She wasdifferent—very different. On the other

hand, there was in her intense relationship with the world close at

hand something unique, she believed.

Luke's approval, Emily thought now, smiling back at her eldest

sister, was worth having. Sometimes she almost hated him, but always

she loved him. He had been both father and brother to her during

the almost eight years since she had come to live at Bowden.

"And Lord Powell will be enchanted," Agnes said. "Oh, Emmy, he is

such a very distinguished-looking gentleman. And he seems genuinely

not to mind the fact of your affliction."

Lord Powell liked to talk. He rather enjoyed the novelty of having a

silent listener, Emily suspected. But indeed he was rather handsome

and his manners were polished and charming. It was hardly a

surprise, of course. Luke had chosen all of her suitors with meticulous

care. All four of them had been eligible in every possible way. She had

rejected the first three without making any effort whatsoever to

become acquainted with them—or so Luke had claimed. He had

regarded her with pursed lips and a look of mingled exasperation and

amusement in his eyes after each had left.

"Emily," he had said on one of those occasions, "if you would merely

cultivate a different image while you are being courted, my dear. If

you would only notdo your best to appear before the flower of male,

unmarried society as the witch of the woods."

It was unfair, as she would have told him if she had had his

advantage of a voice. She might have written it, but she never enjoyed

holding such awkward conversations. It was unfair, because it was

shewho had rejected them, not they who had taken fright and left

her. Besides, she did not look like a witch. But it did not matter.

And now Lord Powell was here, paying court to her. He had been

here for five whole days. Luke had decided to invite him while other

visitors were here for Harry's christening and for the ball that would

follow it. Perhaps, he had reasoned—Emily was well acquainted with

his mind— the formality of the occasion would force his sister-in-law

to stay in company and to behave in a more conventional manner

than was usual with her.

And she had stayed in company and behaved herself and worn stays

and hoops and shoes and curls and caps— though nothing as

elaborate as tonight, it was true. But not just because of the house

guests and the christening.

This time she had decided to allow herself to be courted.

"I vow 'twould be strange indeed if he did not come to the point

tonight," Lady Sterne said. "He will make you his offer, child, and

Harndon will make the announcement before the night is over. But

mercy on me, I almost forgot that Victor is here. 'Twill be Victor

who will make the announcement, mark my words."

Victor, the Earl of Royce, was Emily's brother. He was here for the

christening with Constance, his wife, and their child. So

wasCharlotte, Emily's other sister, with the Reverend Jeremiah

Hornsby, her husband, and their three children.Charlottewas in the

nursery now, nursing the newest baby before attending the ball.

"Will you say yes, Emmy?" Agnes looked eagerly at her. "William

says that Lord Powell has spoken privately with both Victor and his

grace. It can mean only one thing. How splendid 'twill be to have a

wedding in the family again. But would it be here or atElm Court?

Victor will want it atElm Court, I do declare. How provoking of him.

Willyou say yes?"

There was a feeling of breathlessness and panic at seeing on the lips

of her sister and Lady Sterne what she had really known already in

her own heart. Lord Powell had come to court her—Luke had

arranged it all on a visit toLondon. He had walked with her and sat

with her and talked with her and had seemed pleased with her. She

had not discouraged his attentions. Tonight there was to be a grand

ball. And she had been fully aware of the private meeting this

afternoon involving Lord Powell, Victor, and Luke. Everyone had

been aware of it.

Tonight in all probability she was going to be called upon to make

her final decision. Not that there was any decision still to be made.

She had already decided to have him. She was going to be Lady

Powell. She was going to marry and have a home of her own where

she would be dependent upon no one. She was going to have children

of her own. She was going to have a warm, cuddly baby like Harry to

hold, but he would be all her own.

She was going to change—again. She was going to be more than just

half respectable. She was going to be entirely so. Anna and Luke and

all her other relatives were going to be proud of her.

But Anna was hugging her suddenly, as far as the combined widths

of their hoops would allow. She let Emily see her lips before she

spoke. "You are frightening her," she said. "Emmy does not have to

do anything she does not want to do. She is different, but very

special. She belongs here. We love her. You must marry no one just

because you think you ought, Emmy. You may stay here forever. I

hope you willstay here. How would I live without you?"

Very well, Emily thought, watching her sister blink back bright tears.

Anna had Luke, whom she loved dearly and who loved her with an

equal intensity, and she had her four children, on whom they both

doted. Emily had—no one. She belonged nowhere. It was true that

her brother and sisters issued frequent invitations for her to come and

stay and always urged her to remain indefinitely. And it was true that

even Luke had explained to her—it was just before the appearance of

the first suitor—that Bowden was her home as much as it was his and

Anna's and their children's, that he was thinking of her lasting

happiness, but only she could know where that happiness lay.

"You must never feel that I am urging marriage on you because I

wish to be rid of you," he had said, looking at her with keen eyes.

"Even though your sister, my wife, has accused me of just that." He

had thrown a stern look at Anna, who had protested the introduction

of a suitor. "I will present you with marriage possibilities, my dear,

because I feel it is my duty to do so. You will decide if you want

marriage and all it can bring with it or if you would prefer to remain

with us here, as much a member of our family as Joy or George or

James. Have I made myself clear, Emily? Madam?"

He had made both her and Anna reply.

"But Lord Powell is very handsome," Agnes said now. "I do not

know how you could resist him, Emmy. I could not if I were still

young and unmarried and he paid me court, I declare." She smiled

kindly. But Agnes, who had had choices, had married the very plain

and portly William, Lord Severidge, for love and had long ago settled

into dull domestic felicity with him.

"And Lud," Lady Sterne said, clapping her hands, "if we stand here

for much longer, admiring the child and anticipating her betrothal,

the ball will be over and Lord Powell will have gone home. And no

one will have seen Emily in all her finery."

"Come, Emmy." Anna smiled and took her by the hand. "Tonight

you will stand in the receiving line with Luke and me. And my nose

will be severely out of joint because everyone will be looking at you

and will not notice me at all."

"Pshaw!" Lady Sterne said as she strode to the door to lead the way

downstairs to the ballroom. "Harndon has eyes for no one but you,

child. He never has had since he first laid 'em on you at just another

such ball."

Anna laughed as she slipped her arm through Emily's, and Emily

could see the happiness sparkling in her eyes. Emily herself fought

bewilderment. There had been so much talk, most of which she had

missed, though she had determinedly kept turning her head from one

speaker to another, trying to concentrate. She often noticed the fact

that other people did not find conversation wearying and did not

seem to share her all-too-frequent urges to be alone and

undistracted—it was just one more thing that set her apart…

She drew a few deep, steadying breaths. This evening was so far

beyond anything in her past experience that her mind could

contemplate it only as a complete and rather terrifying blank. She was

dressed as formally and with as much glittering splendor as Anna. She

was going to attend a full-scale ball. She was to stand in the receiving

line, smiling and curtsying to all of Luke's guests. And she was to

receive the continued attentions of Lord Powell and possibly—

probably!—his marriage proposal too. She was going to accept.

By the time she came back upstairs in several hours' time, much

would have changed in her life. Everything would have changed. She

would be betrothed. As good as married.

There was something resembling panic in the thought.

Ashley. Ah, Ashley.

He had forgotten just how coldEnglandwas. He shivered and drew

his cloak more closely around him. He sat in a darkened carriage,

looking out on darkness—though the landscape was not pitch black,

it was true. There were moonlight and starlight to illuminate the way.

Although the coachman had been reluctant, he had agreed to

continue the journey after dark. The man had even commented on

what a pleasant warm evening it was for late April.

Warm! He shivered again. He had had time to get used to the

coldness during the long voyage home fromIndia, of course, but

somehow he had expected that he would be warm again once he

reached land.

Perhaps, he thought, setting his head back against the cushions, he

would never be warm again.

And yet Lord Ashley Kendrick still clung to the notion that there

was warmth to be had. At Bowden. If he could but get there. For

months he had been living for the moment that was now only an

hour away, if that long. He must be almost on Bowden land already,

he reasoned. The thought of Bowden had sustained him through all

the months of his voyage, through calms and storms, through the

sleepless nights.

Luke, he thought. If only he could reach his brother. Luke was a

pillar of strength. And Anna. Sweet, warm Anna. And their children,

three now. Joy would be seven, George five, and James three. Luke

had been almost apologetic in his letter announcing the arrival of

George, Marquess of Craydon, his heir to the dukedom. Ashley had

been delighted, and even more so when he had read of the birth of

James two years later. Luke was secure in his line. There could never

be any question now of Ashley's breathing down his neck.

He longed for Bowden and for Luke and Anna. Almost as if they

could make all right for him. Almost as if he were not a man capable

of ordering his own life and handling his own emotions and purging

his own guilt. Almost as if there were warmth to be had. And peace.

Ashley rolled his head on the cushions as if to find a comfortable

position for sleep. But he soon opened his eyes and stared out onto

darkness. And inward into deeper darkness.

Peace! He had had the strange notion that it was to be found at

Bowden. And only there. Now that he was approaching it—yes, he

was sure now they were on Bowden land; they would pass through

the village very soon—he stared at the truth. There was no peace to

be had anywhere. Not even here. Why had he thought there was?

What was it about Bowden that always brought with it the illusory

idea of peace? As if it were a place unlike any other on earth. A place

of escape, a refuge, a home, a belonging.

What was it about Bowden?

He had come back fromIndiawith the desperate idea that if he could

but reach home all would be well again. Yet now, even before he had

quite reached the house—the carriage was passing along the village

street and slowing to make the turn between the massive stone

gateposts onto the winding driveway through the park—he knew that

he had deceived himself.

There was no home for him. No end to his journey. No end of the

rainbow.

Even so he found himself leaning forward in his seat, eager for his

first glimpse of the house as the carriage emerged from the trees to

cross the bridge at the bottom of the long sloping lawn that led

upward to the terraced formal gardens and the upper cobbled terrace

and the house beyond.

But he sat back abruptly as the wheels of the carriage rumbled over

the stone bridge.

Deuce take it, but they were entertaining. The house was lit up by

what had to be a thousand candles. There were carriages outside the

carriage house and stables.

Damnation, but what rotten bad fortune.

He should have stayed inLondonfor a few days, he thought. He

should have sent word ahead of him. Zounds, but they did not even

know he had leftIndia. They did not even know…

He set his head back against the cushions again and closed his eyes

once more.

No, they did not even know.

"Well, my dear," the Duke of Harndon said to his wife, their first

duties in the receiving line with his mother and Emily at an end, their

secondary duty of leading off the opening set of country dances about

to begin, "you may as usual have the satisfaction of knowing yourself

by far the loveliest lady at the ball. 'Tis almost shameful with Harry

in the nursery for only three months and you already—ah, nine-and-

twenty, is it?"

"For the fourth year in succession," she said, laughing at him. "Luke, you have been shopping inParisagain. Your coat is such a splendid

dark shade of blue, and there is so much embroidery on your

waistcoat that you put my gown to shame."

"Ah, but 'tis the woman inside the gown who dazzles the sight,

madam," he said.

She laughed again. "I am glad you remembered your fan," she said.

"It still scandalizes a few people."

He fanned her face with it. "My cosmetics I have abandoned with

the greatest reluctance, my dear," he said, "in deference to country

tastes. But a man must be allowed to retain some of his pride.

Without a fan at a ball I would feel quite naked, by my life."

" 'Tis what comes of those ten years you spent inParis," she said.

"Luke, what will Emmy do?"

"Emily," he said, "is looking so fine that every other lady's face,

except yours, is tinged with green. And as I told her earlier, if she

dressed thus all the time, I would by now be beating back all of His

Majesty's army and navy and the single portion of his civilian male

subjects as well from my doors. Perhaps I should be thankful that she

is more often the witch of the woods."

"Oh, Luke," she said reproachfully.

"If you must quarrel with me, madam," he said, "let it be later.

Much later, in your bedchamber. But I will not play fair, I would

warn you."

"Will she have him?" There was acute anxiety in her voice.

"She would be a fool if she did not," he said. "Powell has everything

to recommend him to a bride below the rank of princess, I believe—

looks, breeding, wealth, mildness of manners. And he is remarkably

eager to bring the matter to a point. There are Emily's dowry and her

connections to attract him, as well as his openly expressed

determination to please his mother and do his duty by taking a wife

and setting up his nursery. I believe too he is somewhat captivated by

the prospect of a wife who will not prattle. There is the small

question of love, of course, and experience has demonstrated to me

that in reality it is no small matter at all. But I believe we can trust

your sister to order her own destiny, my dear. There is nothing abject

about Emily. One can only hope that Powell does not see her as

someone who will be passive and biddable, poor man. The musicians

and all our guests await my signal to start the ball. Shall I oblige them

or would you prefer to indulge in a fit of the vapors?''

"No one else will understand Emmy as you and I do," she said.

"What if he does not like her when he learns more about her? As you

say—"

" 'Tis what marriage is all about, madam," he said. "Have you not

realized it? 'Tis about discovering unknown facets of the character

and experience and tastes of one's spouse and learning to adjust one's

life accordingly. 'Tis learning to hope that one's spouse is doing the

same thing. 'Tis something only the two persons concerned can deal

with. Let us dance." He looked toward the leader of the orchestra,

raised his eyebrows, and lifted one finger.

The music began.

"Egad," Theodore, Lord Quinn, Luke's maternal uncle, said to Lady

Sterne, his long-time friend and lover, "but the young gels grow

lovelier with every passing year. As do the mature ones. That is a fine

new hairdo, I warrant you, Marj, m'dear. Takes ten years off your

age."

"Mercy on me," she said, "but that would make me more than ten

years too young for you, Theo."

He threw back his head and laughed heartily before speaking again.

"So will she have him?" he asked.

The two of them were sitting rather than dancing the opening set,

which they had agreed was somewhat too lively for their aging bones.

They looked across the ballroom to where Lord Powell was seated on

a sofa beside

Emily, talking to her despite the loudness of the music and

conversation.

"Do they not look splendid together?" she asked. "And her affliction

really does not signify, Theo. The dear man likes to talk, and Emily is

well able to listen with her eyes. I had no notion that she would dress

up so fine, though she has looked well for the past number of days, I

declare."

"Zounds," Lord Quinn said, "but it would be hard, Marj, to be tied

to a woman who could not answer one back. One hopes that is not

her chief attraction to the man. One has the notion that there is more

to little Emily than receptive silence. But how is one to know what

she is saying with those big eyes of hers?''

"My dear Anna has always worried about her," Lady Sterne said, her

eyes softening on the sight of her goddaughter dancing opposite her

duke, her face smiling and animated. "She has always taken the full

burden of her family on her own shoulders even though Royce is the

head of the family. 'Twill be good for her to know that the last of her

sisters is well settled. Anna can be finally and fully happy."

Lord Quinn patted her hand, though he did not leave his own on

hers. They were ever discreet in public. "And so can you, Marj," he

said. "Anna is like the daughter you never had. You love her to

distraction. I might almost feel jealous."

"But you do not." She turned her head to smile at him.

"But I do not," he agreed. "I am fond of the gel m'self, Marj, and of

Luke too. He has always been my favorite nephy, though one is not

supposed to have favorites."

"Ah, look at them," she said, returning her attention to Emily and

Lord Powell across the room. "As I live, Theo, she is smiling at him

and he is dazzled enough to move back six inches. 'Tis just like my

Anna's smile, I vow. If only they can be one half as happy as Anna

and Harndon."

Lord Quinn patted her hand again. "Leave love to take its course,"

he said. "By supper time he will have got up the courage to speak and

she will have given him her answer with those eyes of hers and the

announcement will have been made. Then our dear Anna will be

happy, and you too. And hark ye, Marj, m'dear: 'Tis your happiness

that concerns me more than all else." She smiled at him once more.

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY SAT BESIDE LORD Powell on the sofa and longed to

dance. But no one had ever asked her to join a set, and she supposed

that no one ever would. People had a strange notion of deafness.

They assumed that because one could not hear, one could not really

see either. More important, they did not seem to notice for

themselves how much of sound came in vibrations that could be felt.

Sound was not just a thing of the ears. It affected the whole body.

She could feel the rhythm of the dance. And she knew every step of

every dance. She had watched with attentive longing for many years.

Lord Powell was telling her about his mother and about his younger

brothers and sisters—a sure sign, she supposed, that he was moving

closer to a declaration. There was a whole brood of them—his own

word. Three of his six sisters were married, as was one of his three

brothers. He had two nieces and a nephew already. He considered

family, commitment to one's home and one's domestic duties,

important. He had noticed how well Lady Emily was loved by her

own nephews and nieces and how she loved to play with them.

Children, he had observed, never needed words when they were able

to see affection at work. And children almost never returned love that

expressed itself only in words.

It was a compliment to the way she handled her deafness, Emily

supposed. She smiled. Indeed, she had not stopped smiling since

leaving Anna's dressing room.

There was a great deal to smile about, though she felt the strain of

having to watch a man's lips when she longed to gaze about her, and

even so missed many of the details about his family that he tried to

share.

His eyebrows were dark and thick. A little too heavy for perfection of

looks, perhaps, but they were the only small defect to an otherwise

handsome appearance. His nose was well shaped if a little prominent.

His eyes were dark and compelling. His hair, she supposed, was dark.

She had not seen him without his carefully powdered wig, but

thought his own hair must be short beneath. His teeth were good and

only a little crooked—and not unattractively so.

She had noticed several of the other young ladies present gazing at

him admiringly and glancing at her in envy. He was a handsome

man, moderately tall and well formed. He dressed elegantly. Tonight

he wore dark brown and gold.

"I am engaged for the second set with her grace," he said, leaning

toward her slightly as if to be heard above the noise that Emily could

not hear, "and for the third with Lady Severidge. I have not engaged

the supper dance with anyone, Lady Emily. Will you sit with me for

that half hour? Perhaps after we have eaten, you will allow me to send

a maid for your cloak and step out onto the terrace with me?"

Emily opened her fan. The room suddenly felt suffocatingly hot. She

kept her eyes on Lord Powell's lips. They were rather full lips, well

shaped. He had spoken slowly and precisely, she guessed, so that she

would know the final request was important to him.

"I observed earlier," he said, almost as if he felt his invitation needed

explanation, "that it is a fine spring evening."

She nodded and smiled.

"Perhaps," he said, "you will allow me to speak on a matter of some

importance? When we are on the terrace, that is."'

She held her smile and nodded again.

"Splendid," he said, and looked enormously relieved as he rushed on

with an account of his youngest sister's tyranny over her governess in

the schoolroom. Emily could not understand most of what he said.

She longed suddenly and illogically to be alone. Anywhere—alone. "I

believe she would like you, Lady Emily. I believe you will—

wouldlike her."

She liked him, Emily decided. Not just because she had determined

to like him, but because he was a pleasant and earnest young man.

She just wished he did not talk so much. Was silence so unnatural to

those who could hear that they felt obliged to fill it without ceasing?

But how could she dislike any man who loved his mother and his

brothers and sisters? And who was willing to accept a wife who was

handicapped—though she did wonder why. She wished she could ask

him exactly why he wished to marry her. Did he think her beautiful?

Did he like the fact that she was Victor's sister, Luke's sister-in-law?

Did the mystery of her character intrigue him?

She looked down briefly at his hands. They were blunt-fingered,

capable-looking hands. She imagined them touching her, touching

her body—beneath her clothes. She imagined his mouth against hers,

his body. Imagination forsook her after that. She was not really quite

sure…

She looked up to find him telling her more about his sister—he had

demanded that she apologize to the governess. He seemed to believe

that because she could read lips she could understand everything he

said. Would he be disappointed when he learned that she did not?

She had often wondered about physical love. Was it something that

added a dimension to life? Or was it an intrusion, the ultimate

invasion of privacy? By both necessity and inclination she had always

been an excessively private person. She knew enough to understand

that a husband would come right inside her body.

This man. Lord Powell. She did not yet know his first name, she

realized.

On their wedding night she would have to allow him inside herself.

Only so could she be a wife. Only so could she have the babies she

wanted. Would it be wonderful, magical? Or would it be demeaning?

She knew sometimes during breakfast that Anna and Luke had loved

the night before. They would be horrified if they knew that she knew,

but she did. Perhaps it was the absence of one of her five senses that

had sharpened the others. Certainly it was nothing very obvious. Just

something about the softened look in Anna's eyes, something in the

slight droop of Luke's eyelids. Or perhaps not anything even as overt

as that. But whatever it was, it was something that told Emily that

what they shared was more wonderful than anything she could yet

imagine.

Perhaps she would know soon. Or perhaps she would be

disappointed. Would it make all the difference, she wondered, that

she did not love him, though she liked and respected him?

But there were other things to imagine. This man would become as

familiar to her as her own image in the glass. He would be her

companion for the rest of her life. Her friend, perhaps. She would live

in his home. It would become hers, and his family would be hers. She

would learn to run his household. Would she be able to do it? She

had watched Anna run Bowden Abbey. She would have to write

things down, she supposed. She would visit his tenants and his

neighbors. She would not be able to allow herself to be daunted by

the fact that she could not speak to any of them or even understand

all that was spoken. Indeed, it was the exhilaration of the challenge

that was one of the main inducements to her accepting the offer that

was about to be made.

She would become like Anna. She would have a marriage like

Anna's. Or was she deluding herself? Was such a thing possible for

her? But she would have a chance at happiness. At last. After so long.

And she would be happy. She had learned through hard experience

that the will was a powerful thing. She would will herself to be happy,

and she would be.

"The set has ended," Lord Powell was saying, bent slightly toward

her again. "More is the pity, I vow. I shall dance each set until the

supper dance, Lady Emily, but I shall look in envy at each gentleman

who occupies this sofa with you."

It was the closest he had come to a declaration of ardor, though

Emily, sensitive to the language of the body, guessed that he spoke

what he thought she expected him to say. She smiled at him.

But something was wrong. The music had stopped, of course. She

had felt that even before Lord Powell had mentioned it. There was

something else. She felt something almost like panic and looked over

her shoulder to the doorway.

A man was standing there. No one else appeared to have noticed him

yet. He was wearing a long dark cloak and was only just removing a

three-cornered hat even though he must have entered the house

downstairs and passed numerous footmen before climbing the two

flights of stairs to the ballroom. He was tall and thin. Beneath his

dark un-powdered hair, which was neatly curled at the sides and

bagged in black silk behind, his face was thin and pale. Pale to the

point of being haggard. His expression was dark, morose.

She did not recognize him with her eyes. Only with her heart. Her

heart lurched and left pulses beating erratically in her throat and in

her temples. It left her breathless and gasping for air. She got to her

feet and turned and stood still, watching.

Lord Powell, everyone, everything, no longer existed.

Only Ashley.

Ashley was home.

It had been his intention as his carriage approached the house to

avoid whatever entertainment was proceeding within—by the

number of lights and carriages, it appeared that it must be nothing

less than a ball. It had been his intention to have himself shown to a

room—his old one, it was to be hoped—and to remain there until

the morning. It certainly had not been his intention to make a grand,

theatrical entrance.

ButCotes, his brother's butler, was in the hall when he entered it,

apparently giving some instructions to one of the footmen standing

there. AndCoteshad looked at first stiff with suspicion of the stranger

who had arrived apparently ill-dressed for the occasion, then shocked

as he recognized the new arrival, and then his usual dignified,

impassive self. And Cotes informed him, when he asked, that there

was indeed a grand ball in progress and that the occasion was the

christening of his grace's new son, Lord Harry Kendrick.

Ah, a new child. Another son. Ashley bowed his head and closed his

eyes and swayed on his feet. One of the footmen had taken a step

toward him, arm outstretched, by the time he opened his eyes. He

held up a staying hand.

But he was close. So very close. Was he now to go to his room and

shut himself inside and postpone everything until the morning?

"They are in the ballroom?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord,"Cotessaid. "If your lordship would step into the

salon, I shall fetch his grace myself."

But Ashley turned as if he had not heard and made his way to the

archway that led to the grand staircase. He would wait in no salon.

He would retire to no bedchamber. Luke was close.

"My lord?"Cotessounded surprised, even perhaps a trifle alarmed.

It was indeed a grand ball, considering the fact that it was taking

place in the country, where most of the guests must have had to travel

a long distance. The ballroom seemed filled with light and noise and

laughter, with color and movement. Ashley stood in the doorway,

unaware of the inappropriateness of his appearance, of his cloak and

travel-creased clothes and top boots. He removed his hat, more from

instinct than conscious thought. His eyes scanned the throng of

people. He was unaware that a few of them were already beginning to

look at him curiously. He was looking for only one person.

And then he saw him. A set of dances had just concluded, and he

was bowing over the hand of his partner and raising it to his lips.

Luke, looking as richly splendid and fashionable and elegant as he

had looked on his return fromPariseight years ago. Luke, looking

familiar and solid and dependable. Ashley stood very still.

Luke raised his head and looked toward the doorway. And raised his

eyebrows in an unconsciously haughty expression characteristic of

him. Ashley watched the expression become fixed and frozen on his

face. Then Luke took a step toward him, stopped, frowned slightly,

and came hurrying across the ballroom. He kept on coming, opening

his arms when he was near, then closing them hard, like iron bands,

about his brother. Ashley returned the embrace and closed his eyes

very tightly.

"Good God!" Luke said after what felt to Ashley like minutes but

was probably only seconds. "Dear Lord God. Ash!" His voice

sounded dazed, shaken.

"Yes." Ashley swallowed. He did not want to open his eyes.

But Luke ended the embrace and took a step back. He set his hands

on Ashley's shoulders. "By God, Ash, it really is you. What the

devil?" He patted his brother's shoulders as if to assure himself of the

reality of his presence. "What the bloody devil?" Clearly he had

forgotten his surroundings.

Ashley, facing into the ballroom, had become suddenly aware of

them. Noise, or rather the surprising lack of noise considering the

occasion and the largeness of the gathering, assaulted his ears. He was

aware of people, of the very public nature of this reunion. He was

aware of Anna, who came hurrying up behind Luke, looking scarcely

a day older than when he had left and every bit as lovely, looking as

sweet and as sunny as she had ever looked.

"Ashley," she said, and Luke stood aside and she was in his arms.

"Oh, Ashley, my dear, you are home."

And then his mother was there, looking her usual composed,

dignified self even though her eyes were wide with surprise. He had

recovered some of his control and bowed formally over her hands and

kissed her cheeks.

"Madam," he said, "you are looking well."

And then a lady in pink satin and silver lace was hurtling across the

room and throwing herself into his arms, and he closed his eyes again

briefly as he hugged his sister to himself.

"Ashley." She said his name over and over again. "Oh, Ashley, you

wretch. You have not written to any of us for over a year, so that we

have been almost beside ourselves with worry. And all the time you

have been coming home. How could you!"

Doris, Lady Weims, looked a vibrant and lovely woman rather than

the pretty, sometimes petulant girl she had been when he left. She

had married Andrew, the Earl of Weims, five years ago. They had

two children.

But Luke was recovering control of both himself and the situation.

He turned to face his guests in the ballroom and raised his arms,

though the gesture was unnecessary. The attention of almost everyone

was already focused upon the drama playing itself out in the doorway.

"My apologies for the delay in the festivities," he said. "As you can

see, Lord Ashley Kendrick has arrived home fromIndiaunexpectedly.

You will pardon my family group for withdrawing for a few minutes?

The music will resume as soon as the sets have formed." He nodded

to the leader of the orchestra.

"Ashley." Anna had taken his arm and was leading him away from

the ballroom. "Where have you left Lady Ashley—Alice? And

Thomas? Are they downstairs? Or did you haveCotesor Mrs. Wynn

show them to a room?''

He was aware of his family about him. A stranger had joinedDoris—

presumably Weims. They were all beaming with happiness. They

were in the middle of celebrating a new baby's christening with a ball.

And he was tired. Bone weary. Soul weary.

"My wife and son are at a hotel inLondon," he said.

"They were exhausted after the long voyage. I came on alone. I

wanted to come home."

He was desperately tired. Perhaps tomorrow there would be peace.

Not tonight. There was too much turmoil tonight.

Perhaps tomorrow.

A hand touched her elbow and she came back from a long way away

to find herself standing in the ballroom at Bowden Abbey. Lord

Powell was smiling at her and gesturing to the sofa beside her. She

sat.

He stood looking down at her, his hands clasped at his back. The

hilt of his dress sword, she noticed, was studded with rubies. They

did not match his coat. But perhaps, unlike Luke, he did not have a

sword to match each outfit. Or perhaps, unlike Luke, he was not so

meticulous about such matters.

He bent forward and waited for her eyes to focus on his lips. "Her

grace will not now be here to dance with me," he said. "I may spend

the time sitting here talking with you, Lady Emily."

She nodded, not quite sure to what she was agreeing.

"If 'tis your wish," he said. "If you do not consider it improper. Or

an imposition. If you have not promised to spend the time with

another gentleman."

She shook her head and he seated himself beside her again. He

smiled. He looked very pleased with himself. She wished he would go

away. She wished she could be alone. Lips moved wherever she

looked but she could understand nothing. She was like an alien in an

alien country.

She did not want Ashley to come home. Not now. Not ever.

"Lord Ashley Kendrick?" Lord Powell was saying. "FromIndia? He is

his grace's brother, is he not?"

She nodded. Yes, Ashley. Yes. But she did not want it to be Ashley.

"What a happy chance," Lord Powell said, "that he has arrived

tonight of all nights. They all seem exceedingly happy."

She nodded. She wanted simply to close her eyes, to shut out

everything.

"I have observed," he said, "that this is a close and loving family,

Lady Emily. You must consider yourself fortunate to be a part of it."

Yes. Yes, Ashley was home.

Lord Powell leaned a little closer. "I am reminded of my own

family," he said. "You will find—you wouldfind a similar closeness

with us, Lady Emily."

She smiled, stretching the corners of her mouth upward with a

conscious physical effort. He was speaking of his family again. She

tried to concentrate, to remember what he had told her of its

members. She tried to think as his lips continued to move. And she

tried not to think.

She did not want Ashley to be home. She wanted to be able to look

at this man and see in him her future husband and life's companion.

She wanted to make a rational decision about her future. She wanted

a husband and a home and a place of her own in society. She wanted

babies. And perhaps beyond rationality, she wanted hope, the hope

that an affection would grow, even love perhaps. She wanted to have

control over her own destiny. She wanted the impossible—she

wanted to be normal.

And she wanted the hope that her soul would be restored and healed

and made whole again. So that she might take this man inside it.

She had to blink her eyes suddenly and saw when she could do so

clearly again that he was looking at her with concern.

"Yes, you would, on my life," he said, taking one of her hands in

both of his. "And they would be willing to take you into their midst,

Lady Emily. I know it. They love me, and they will love you. That is,

they wouldlove you if…"

She wondered if she would have tumbled into love with him during

the past week if her heart had been whole, if her soul had not been

shattered long ago. She rather thought she might have. But a heart

and soul could not be mended by the power of the will, she had

discovered over seven years. And so she had accepted reality and

moved on. She watched Lord Powell raise her hand to his lips and

hold it there for a few moments. She was aware that other people

must be observing them—probably with indulgence—and that he

knew it. She was aware too that the announcement of their betrothal

must be a common expectation tonight.

And then, before the set was at an end, Anna was there and Lord

Powell was scrambling to his feet and bowing. She smiled warmly at

him and took the seat he had vacated. She took both of Emily's hands

in hers.

"Ashley has come home," she said unnecessarily. "He took passage

fromIndiawithout sending us word. He did it quite impulsively, he

said. He was homesick. He has left Lady Ashley and their son

inLondon. Luke is beside himself with joy. 'Tis a wonderful surprise

for him, Emmy."

Yes. There had always been a special bond between the brothers,

even though they had been estranged for much of the year between

Luke's return fromParisand Ashley's departure forIndia. Yes, Luke

would be overjoyed.

But Anna's eyes were keen on hers, and Emily knew why she had

returned to the ballroom before the rest of the family and had come

to talk to her sister. Anna knew. So did Luke, though not a word had

been spoken on the subject since that dreadful day when he had

found her and comforted her at the falls.

"Luke plans to send our carriage for them tomorrow," Anna said. "I

daresay he might even go himself to fetch them. 'Twill be good to

meetAliceat last. And Thomas. The children will have yet another

cousin with whom to play. Though Harry will doubtless sleep

through it all. He seems content to sleep his life away, except atthree

o'clockeach morning, when he thinks 'tis time for a leisurely meal

and a play. His papa had a stern word with him about it just last

night, but Harry merely yawned at him and blew bubbles and tried to

pull his nose. Luke says he must learn greater respect." She laughed,

but her eyes were still on Emily's and were still almost anxious.

Emily smiled. Anna was saying more than she usually did all at once

to her sister. Anna was worried about her— about how she would

behave, how she would feel.

"Lord Ashley Kendrick must be exceedingly weary," Lord Powell

said. "But at the same time he must feel great pleasure at being back

in the bosom of his family."

"Yes." Anna smiled warmly at him. "But he isweary. And so pale and

thin that he looks almost emaciated. Traveling such a long distance

by sea must be dreadful indeed. My husband has taken him to his

room. Doubtless he will return to his guests soon. Ashley will want to

sleep."

Emily had wanted to die when news came three years before that

Ashley had married Alice Kersey, the daughter of Sir Alexander

Kersey, his superior in the East India Company. She had literally

wanted to die. She had not wanted to live any longer. There had been

nothing left to live for. It had been frighteningly easy after four whole

years to regress to the terrible self-pity and feeling of isolation she had

felt on the day of his departure.

She had dreamed during those four years. Of course, she had known

the difference between dream and reality. Deep down she had known

that Ashley had never loved her as she had loved him, that he would

not come home to her, that there would never be a happily-ever-after

with him. But it had been a sweet dream. It had sustained her

through the pain and loneliness and emptiness she had felt deep

within even while outwardly she set about living an active and

fulfilling life. Her deepest, most private self might have lived on the

dream for a lifetime, even if ten, twenty, fifty years had passed and he

had not returned.

But the news of his marriage had shattered the dream beyond repair.

And life without the dream had seemed insupportable to her. She

simply could not live without it. She had wanted to die. She had had

to begin all over again the lesson of self-reliance.

Soon afterward, Luke had presented her with her first suitor. Luke,

she had realized, understood. He really did know her remarkably

well. Better, perhaps, even than Anna. Luke had never offered her

pity, except perhaps during that dreadful hour at the falls. Luke

offered her solutions and then stepped back so that she could accept

them or reject them as she chose.

Lord Powell had taken her hand again and was raising it to his lips

once more. "I shall return for the supper set, Lady Emily," he said

slowly. The dancing had stopped, she noticed, and the dancers were

preparing for the third set. "I shall look forward to it."

"What a very pleasant young man," Anna said after he had left.

Emily smiled at her and nodded.

"And a very attentive young man," Anna said. "You could be happy

with him, Emmy?"

Emily nodded.

Anna touched her arm. "You could love him, Emmy," she said. "Oh,

my dear, marry him if you have any feelings for him at all. I have told

you repeatedly that you do not have to marry anyone, that you can

stay here for the rest of your life and be as welcome as my own

children. Luke has told you the same thing. We both mean what we

say. But Emmy, what you will miss if you do not love and do not

marry. The closeness and the contentment, the… Faith, but this is

not the time or place. I want you to be happy. You know that. I want

you to be happy as I am."

There was passion in Anna's face. She was speaking with an

earnestness that she would not normally have shown in such a public

setting, and Emily had understood her even if she had not seen every

word. Ashley had come home. But Ashley was married. He was a

father. And during those moments when he had stood in the

ballroom doorway, looking about him and then hugging Luke and

Anna and the other members of his family, he had not once looked at

her. Having greeted them all, he had been content. He had looked

about no longer.

He had not looked for her.

Anna was afraid that Emily would forget reality.

She would not forget. Now that she had had a few minutes to

recover herself, she would not forget again. She looked deliberately

about the room until her eyes found Lord Powell leading Agnes out

to join the third set. She smiled and knew that Anna saw both the

direction of her eyes and her smile.

He was home. He was here at Bowden. He was upstairs, preparing

for sleep.

He was thin and haggard. Exhausted from his long journey.

Tomorrow she would meet him again.

Ashley was home.

CHAPTER THREE

"'TIS MADNESS, BY MY life," Luke gave as his opinion as he sat in

his brother's dressing room, one leg crossed elegantly over the other,

his eyes watching the powder in a cloud above Ashley's head, then

lowering to watch the valet gingerly remove the powdering gown

Ashley had donned over a full-skirted evening coat of burgundy

brocade.

Ashley grinned at him. " Tis not every day one arrives home after a

seven-year absence," he said, "to be reunited with one's brother and

sister and mother and to find a ball in progress celebrating the birth

of another nephew. A third now between me and the dukedom,

Luke. Well done."

Luke raised his eyebrows. " 'Tis in the nature of marriage," he said,

"as you have discovered for yourself. One's brood tends to expand in

number."

Ashley laughed as he stood and buckled his dress sword at his side

and slipped his stockinged feet into heeled and buckled shoes. He was

feeling rather wild and reckless. What was the point in going to bed,

as his mother and Luke and Anna had urged him to do? He would

not sleep anyway. He rarely slept. But the absence of sleep was worse

when one lay alone in a darkened room. No, he would go down to

the ballroom and dance.

"I shall look forward to meeting your sons andDoris's children

tomorrow," he said. "And Joy. She was but a babe when I left."

"And is now a little girl who favors her mother in looks to such a

degree," Luke said with a sigh, "that she has her papa wrapped very

securely about her little finger and knows it. Wait until you have a

daughter, Ash."

Ashley laughed gaily. "Lead on to the ballroom," he said. "One

would hate to arrive too late to dance. I shall dance with all the

prettiest young ladies. Are there any?"

Luke pursed his lips and looked keenly at him. "There are," he said.

"Then present me to the prettiest first," Ashley said, opening the

door and bowing with mock courtliness as he grinned and gestured

his brother to precede him. "Who is she?"

" 'Tis a matter of personal taste, Ash," Luke said. "For myself, I can never look past Anna. But 'tis an affliction that does not affect all

men, I am glad to say. 'Twould not be good for any other man's

health."

Ashley laughed again. "Anna is spoken for, then," he said. "I will

have to settle for second best."

His tiredness was forgotten. Suddenly he was filled with energy.

Suddenly he wanted to dance all night and all tomorrow too. He

wanted noise and laughter and movement and flirtation. Above all,

flirtation.

He was standing inside the doorway of the ballroom again a few

minutes later, his brother at his side. A vigorous country dance was in

progress. He resented the fact that he would have to wait for it to

finish before he could dance himself. He felt drunk with exuberance

and gaiety. He looked about him with interest. He saw the members

of his own family, who looked surprised to see him all decked out for

the ball, and then smiled at him. He saw a few familiar faces from the

neighborhood. He saw Agnes, Anna's younger sister, who was

dancing. She was Lady Severidge now, he remembered,

ofWycherlyParkclose by. She had grown plump.

Then his eyes lit on a young lady who was sitting on a sofa some

distance away, half turned away, though he had the impression that

she had looked away from him the very moment his eyes moved in

her direction. He smiled. He had noticed the same thing with a

number of other people in the room. Doubtless he was the sensation

of the hour.

"That one, egad," he said to Luke, indicating the young lady on the

sofa. "The one sitting with—with Will Severidge, by thunder. He has

grown more portly with age. Who is she? And pray do not devastate

me by telling me she is married."

Luke did not answer, and Ashley swung his eyes to him and laughed.

"Zounds," he said, "but you will not keep the secret. Who is she?

Present me to her, Luke. I mean to dance with her. Without delay.

This particular set is ending, by my life."

"She is Emily," Luke said. " 'Twere better…"

Ashley did not hear what would be better. Emily. Emily. Emmy?

"Emmy?" His voice was almost a whisper. "She is Emmy? Little

Emmy?"

"Yes," Luke said.

He stared at her blankly. She was totally unrecognizable. Though

that was not the real reason he stared. She was the one person he had

notthought about during his journey home. He had not really

thought about her in years. And yet now he remembered all in a rush

how very… preciousshe had once been to him. He had carried her in

his heart for many long months after his departure, half with

pleasure, half with heaviness, until the heaviness had outweighed the

pleasure. He had missed her. He had wanted her. Not sexually—she

was a child. Nonetheless he had needed her—her companionship, her

acceptance, her devotion, her happiness, her peace. But he had

despised his need for a child. And he had been uneasy with some guilt

over it. He could no longer remember quite why he had felt guilty.

But he had put her very effectively from his mind.

And then he had met and fallen in love withAlice. And had married

her when he had found his feelings returned.

It had been a love based on need—perhaps on both sides— just as

his love for Emmy had been. But withAliceit had been reassuringly

sexual in nature. She had been a woman and not a child. His lips

tightened with memory for a moment.

But by God, how could he have all but forgotten Emmy? And not

even given her a thought during the voyage home? And not thought

of seeing her in Luke's ballroom? It was as if he had pushed her

ruthlessly from his consciousness and slammed the door on her. He

could no longer remember why he would have done so.

"Take me to her," he said even as he watched another man step up to

her and take her hand in his. William Webb, Lord Severidge, got to

his feet.

"We are expecting an announcement tonight," Luke said, "of her

betrothal. To Powell, the man who is with her now. He has spoken

with both Royce and me. She seems enamored of him."

"Does she, by Jove?" Ashley had not taken his eyes off her. In full

profile she was stunningly beautiful. He still could not believe she was

Emmy. Emmy, all grown up, a woman and not a child. "Take me to

her."

He did not even notice his brother's reluctance. Or if he did, he did

not care about it. He had come here to dance. To dance with the

prettiest young lady in the room. And she was the prettiest, by Jove.

Emmy. He would dance with her. He had forgotten her deafness.

She seemed to know he was coming. She stood and turned to watch

him come. But Emmy, he remembered with a jolt of recognition, had

always seemed to possess that extra sense. She had always seemed to

know when he was approaching from behind her. Even though she

could not hear. Ah yes, there was that. He recalled it with a shock of

memory. Emmy could not hear. Or speak. Or communicate except

with her eyes and certain gestures he had grown adept at interpreting.

And had they not devised something resembling a language between

the two of them? Zounds but he had forgotten so much.

"My dear," Luke said, "here is Ashley come home to us."

She was Emmy, right enough. Emmy masquerading as a grand lady

and doing magnificently at it. But Emmy all the same. There were

the eyes, large and expressive, leaving one with the impression that

one could look through them straight into her soul. But she was a

woman. He felt strangely sad.

"Emmy." He took her hand from her side. It was limp and icy cold.

He smiled. "Hello, little fawn." He had forgotten his old name for

her until he heard it coming from his own lips. And how

inappropriate it seemed now. She was an elegant, fashionable,

beautiful woman. Again he felt that flashing of sadness. The name

had used to fit so well.

Her mouth quirked into the most fleeting of smiles. But she was pale

and serious. He brought her hand to his lips.

"Tell me you are glad to see me," he said, almost instinctively

speaking to her in the old way, mouthing his words carefully,

speaking a little more slowly than he did with other people. "I have

come all the way fromIndia. It has been a weary journey. Tell me you

are glad."

She stared mutely at him and there was nothing in her eyes that he

would instinctively have recognized. Ah. She was not glad. Seven

years had passed. He wished unreasonably that she of all people and

places and things could have remained the same—a wild and lovely

and happy child. What a selfish thought!

"May I present Lord Powell to you, Ash?" Luke was saying. "My

brother, Lord Ashley Kendrick, Powell."

Ashley made his bow, as did Lord Powell, briskly, the annoyance

unconcealed on his face. So this was to be Emmy's husband? And he

was already possessive of her? Even jealous, perhaps? Ashley turned

back to Emily with a grin.

"They tried to put me to bed," he said. "They tried to tell me I was

tired. But I wanted to dance, Emmy. I am determined to do so. I

promised to dance with the prettiest lady in the room. She is you.

Come and dance with me."

Her hand still lay in his. He covered it with his free hand. "You see?

The sets are forming."

"This set is mine," Lord Powell said stiffly. "Lady Emily has agreed

to sit with me."

"Besides, Ash," Luke said, "Emily cannot dance."

"Because she cannot hear?" Ashley grinned at her. "Is it true, Emmy?

Does your deafness make it impossible for you to dance? Do you not

know the steps? Can you not watch the other dancers? Do you not

long to dance?"

Her eyes had taken on depth and he realized with some satisfaction

that he could still read them, just as if seven years had not passed

since he had last looked into them. Yes, of course she longed to

dance. She always had. He knew it as surely as if she had put her

feelings into words. Had no one else this evening seen the longing

there? The longing to dance to the silent melody she could hear in

her heart? And he was drunk with longing himself.

"Ashley." His brother's voice had taken on the firmness of authority.

"Emily cannot hear the music. Besides, this set is promised to Lord

Powell. Come, allow me to find you another partner."

But Ashley was gazing into Emily's eyes. "Let Emmy choose," he

said, smiling at her. "Which will it be, Emmy? Will you sit here,

where I will wager you have sat all evening? Or will you dance with

me? Willyou dance with me?"

For several moments she merely stared. Her nod, when it came, was

almost imperceptible. But they all saw it.

"Emily," Luke said, but she was looking at Ashley, not him. "Ash—"

But Ashley took no notice of him. He was still smiling at Emily, a

look of triumph and recklessness in his eyes.

Lord Powell bowed. "I shall return to take Lady Emily in to supper,"

he said.

"Come," Ashley said, squeezing the cold little hand that lay in his

own. "We will dance, Emmy. We will prove to these unbelievers that

a man who is weary through to the marrow of his bones and a

woman who cannot hear music or anything else can dance without

missing a step."

She walked beside him to take their places in a set. Emily had not

grown taller since the age of fifteen, he noticed. She had been slightly

above the average in height then, and slim and agile as a young colt.

She had developed womanly curves since then, accentuated by the

fact that she wore stays and hoops. But she had not really changed in

any other way. Not physically, anyway.

He wondered if they really had tamed her during the seven years of

his absence. If they had imposed all the trappings of civilization upon

her. He hoped not. By God, he hoped not.

She looked up at him and he smiled at her as the orchestra began to

play. Ah, yes. And her face was no longer that of a pretty child, but

that of a lovely young woman.

He knew he had just done a dastardly thing. He had taken her from

the man who was apparently to propose to her and announce his

betrothal to her tonight. He had interrupted the set the man had

reserved with her. He had stolen her away with the temptation of

fulfilling a dream he knew very well she must always have had. Emmy

would always have wanted to dance; anyone who had ever known her

must surely understand that, he reasoned. He had not known her for

seven years, but he remembered her as a child who was born to dance.

He was drunk with emotion. He did not pause to analyze the strange

thought.

He had done a dastardly thing. Another heavy burden to add to a

dauntingly long list.

But he did not care the snap of two fingers. Tonight he had arrived

home. Tonight he was going to enjoy himself. Tonight he wanted to

dance with Emmy. And Emmy wanted to dance. And dance they

would, by God. Together.

It was only later that she realized what she had done, how very

unmannerly she had been. She was remorseful then, for herself and

the selfish weakness she had portrayed and for Lord Powell, whom

she must have humiliated. But it was only later that she felt those

things.

She had been caught up in some magical spell, and reality did not

exist for her. He was there before her, speaking with her, holding her

cold, cold hand in his strong warm one, smiling at her, calling her his

little fawn as he had used to do, just as if seven years had rolled back

and they were as they had used to be. He was here again, real flesh

and blood.

Ashley.

He was the same and different. His eyes were the same, his blue eyes

that searched desperately for meaning, for peace. His smile was the

same—boyish, mischievous, reckless. His restless energy was the

same. He was the Ashley she had known and adored. But he was

different. Peace had forsaken him, and with it… hope? Was it despair

that impelled him forward now? It looked very like despair to her

searching eyes. And he was no longer a boy to whom restlessness and

eagerness were appropriate. He was a man, hard and harsh beneath

the surface gaiety. He was thin, haggard. Not with the paleness of one

who has traveled long and far, but with the paleness of one who has

suffered almost more than he can bear.

He looked like a man who was close to breaking and who might yet

break.

Ashley!

Yet he was there before her. He had come home. And he needed her

to dance with him. Not only wanted it, but needed it. She sensed his

need like a tangible thing. Even such a small thing as her refusal

might snap him in two.

But despite that realization there was magic. Irresistible, wonderful

magic. He was asking her to dance. He did not doubt for a moment

that she could dance. And he knew instinctively that she wished to

dance, that she had always wanted to dance. She had almost forgotten

how well Ashley had always understood her. Perhaps it was one

reason she had loved him so dearly. He had seemed so nearly the

other half of herself.

He was asking her to dance.

How could she possibly resist? How could she possibly say no? The

temptation was just too powerful. Though at the time she did not

even think of it as temptation. If she had, perhaps she would also

have paused to realize that there was something wrong about

accepting. But she did not realize it—until later.

And so she danced. A minuet. With Ashley.

It was not as easy as she had expected. Now that she was moving

herself, she was not at liberty to watch as she always could when she

sat at the edge of the floor, sometimes with her eyes half closed,

seeing the rhythm and patterns of the dance as an ordered, visual

kaleidoscope. Feeling them in the pulsing of her blood. Although she

knew the steps, now that she was part of the kaleidoscope, she was

not quite sure of the timing. But Ashley grinned encouragement at

her and the magic caught at her again. She closed her eyes for several

moments, not even trying to watch the other dancers, merely feeling

the vibrations of their feet on the floor and of the instruments playing

the tune. And then it was almost easy. She could feel the rhythm

pulsing in her body. She moved her feet in time to the pulse, using

the remembered steps and patterns of the minuet. As if she had

stepped into a painting and had become part of the perfect symmetry

of its composition.

It was, she thought, the most glorious moment of her life. She was

dancing. With Ashley. And then she was smiling at him, feeling all

her happiness flowing out to him, feeling all the joy of the music she

had never consciously heard and never would hear.

"Ah, Emmy," he said after a half hour, when sadly the set was

coming to an end, "you need to throw off the disguise of fashionable

woman and become again my little fawn. Though you never can be

quite that again. You are all grown up. Isit a disguise you wear? Or is

this what they have done to you? Have they tamed you and your

heart has not cried out for the wild? Do they have you singing prettily

here, like a linnet in a cage?"

She saw his words. In addition she could see the harshness and

bitterness in his face. Ashley's face, also in disguise. Like a grotesque

mask that needed to be peeled away.

'"Ashley." Doris had come up to them and had taken her brother's

arm. She was laughing. "You came back downstairs. I thought you

were exhausted. And Emily, you can dance. How very clever of you.

How do you do it when you cannot hear?"

"Emmy can feel the music," Ashley said. " Tis inside her, Doris,

whereas 'tis merely outside you and me."

"Oh, fie," she said, laughing, "how strangely you talk, Ashley. You

are to take me in to supper. I have a thousand questions to ask, eight

hundred of them about young Thomas. Here is Lord Powell for

Emily."

It was then that Emily too saw Lord Powell approach and that the

magic was broken. She realized what she had done. She turned to

smile uncertainly at her suitor.

"Egad, but the lad has the energy of a twenty-year-old," Lord Quinn

said to Lady Sterne as they sat at the supper table, watching Ashley

talking and laughing with his sister and her husband, with his

mother, and with Agnes and William. "One would have sworn when

he first arrived, Marj, that he was on the verge of collapsing with

exhaustion. He is happy to be home, I warrant you."

"Lud, but so thin," Lady Sterne said. "He looks ill, Theo, though he

is as handsome as the devil when he smiles, it must be admitted."

"Aye, but 'tis the voyage that has done that to him," Lord Quinn

said. "A few English dinners and a few draughts of English ale will

soon coat his ribs and plump him out again."

"Is he here to stay?" she asked. " 'Twill mean much to Anna and

Luke if he is. He has been sorely missed."

"I daresay," Lord Quinn stated. "He has made his fortune in India,

or so 'tis said, and he has married a rich wife into the bargain. Her

papa has died and left everything to her, and therefore to my nephy

too. They have come home to stay, I warrant you, Marj. There is the

young lad to be considered, after all. England is the place to raise

children."

"Yes." Lady Sterne smiled. "And so I may drift into old age and

know my adopted family and yours to be happily settled, Theo. 'Tis a

comfortable feeling. All will be complete by the time this night is out,

think you?" She raised her eyebrows and nodded in the direction of

the dining room door. Lord Powell and Emily, having finished their

supper early, were leaving the room together.

"Aye, by my life," Lord Quinn said. "A wedding in June, would you

say, Marj? And Lady Powell will be delivered of a boy come nine

months following that same night?"

Lady Sterne sighed, too accustomed to the bluntness of her lover's

language to be shocked by the indelicacy of his remark. "Faith, but

'tis to be hoped," she said. "My little Emily settled. I did not think to

see the day, Theo. I thought no man would be willing to overlook the

affliction."

"Nay, but the gel is as pretty as a picture, Marj," he said, handing her

a large linen handkerchief, with which she dabbed at her eyes. He

chuckled. "And not daunted by her affliction. She can dance, by Jove.

Egad, but my nephy had some audacity to lead her out into the set as

he did."

"Dear Emily," Lady Sterne said. "And dear Anna. Who will make

the announcement after supper, do you think, Theo? Luke or Victor?

I can scarce wait."

CHAPTER FOUR

"Luke?" Anna touched his arm and looked in the direction of the

dining room door. "They are leaving."

He stopped cooling her face with his fan for a moment. "And so they

are," he said. "Neither is hungry and both find the indoors stuffy and

long for air and exercise. Tis nothing to be alarmed about, my dear.

'Tis called youth and young love, I believe." He smiled at her.

She gazed at him as if all the answers to life's worries might be found

in his eyes. "She will have him, you think?" she asked. "She feels an

affection for him, Luke? She will be happy with him?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Your questions become progressively less

possible to answer, madam," he said. " 'Tis my belief that the answer

to all three may be yes. But only Emily and Powell can answer them

for sure—and only with the passage of time. Are you intent upon

creasing my cuff by gripping so hard?''

She released her grip immediately. "Luke," she said, "why did he

come back downstairs? He was so very tired."

"I believe for that very reason," he said. "He was too tired to sleep.

Too emotionally excited, perhaps, at being home again after so long.

I may have trouble sleeping myself, Anna—unless you can be

persuaded to help me, of course." His eyelids drooped over his eyes

for a moment.

"Why did he dance with Emmy?" she asked. "And why did she

dance with him, Luke? She dancedwith him. I had no idea she

could."

Luke shrugged elaborately. "He wished to dance with the loveliest

lady at the ball," he said. "Emily is the loveliest—after you. She

danced with him because, apparently, she has wished all her life to

dance. She did remarkably well, my dear. She did not make a

spectacle of herself."

"Luke." She looked at him with appeal in her eyes. Yet she seemed to

have no words for what she wished to say. "Luke…"

He drew his closed fan along one of her arms to the ends of her

fingers. "Emily is receiving her offer at this very moment," he said.

"She has appeared somewhat enamored of him, my dear. Certainly

she has grown into a sensible young lady who is unwilling to pine her

way through life as either Victor's dependent or mine. And she is not

near the untamed creature she once was. Ashley has his wife and his

son staying at a London hotel. Tomorrow I shall go and fetch them

home. I will persuade him to stay here and rest instead of

accompanying me. You must not upset yourself unnecessarily. There

are realities to dictate everyone's behavior."

"I am so very happy to see him at home again," she said. "Happy for

you, Luke, because he is your only surviving brother and there is a

close bond between you. And happy for him. I cannot believe that

India is the place to spend more than a few years of one's life. It is

certainly not the place in which to raise a young family. I am happy."

"But you could wish that his timing had been a little better," he said

with a smile. "That he had arrived at least a few days later, or

preferably a few weeks."

"Yes," she said lamely.

"You have ever been overprotective of Emily, my dear," he said.

"You persist in seeing her as delicate and more than usually

vulnerable merely because she lacks one of the five senses most of us

take very much for granted.

Emily is not delicate. Merely different— verydifferent, I will confess.

But she has a strength of character beyond that of almost any other

woman I know, I do believe. Since the day he left, has she given one

sign that she cannot order her life without him?"

She shook her head. "But we knew—," she began.

He interrupted her. "Even on the day his letter announcing his

marriage arrived?" he asked.

"I remember how you avoided for hours reading it aloud to her," she

said, closing her eyes briefly.

"Or on the day the letter came telling of Thomas's birth?" he asked.

She shook her head again.

"Yes," he said, "of course we knew, my dear. But Emily is a strong

person. You can safely allow her to live her own life in her own way."

She smiled ruefully at him. "He is dreadfully pale and thin."

"Yes," he agreed.

"I hope Alice and Thomas are well," she said.

"Doubtless," he said, "if they are back in England to stay, they will

wish to remove to Penshurst without too long a delay since 'tis Alice's

home and now belongs to Ashley. In the meantime, you will persuade

them to stay here, my love, and you will fuss over them and feed

them and tuck them into their beds to your heart's content. They will

look quite human again by the time they leave here."

She smiled.

"That is better," he said. "I thought the sun had disappeared behind

a cloud. And of course, my dear, you will have a wedding to prepare

too. Royce seemed agreed that this would be the better place for it.

You may plan and spend as lavishly as you wish. I shall not ask for an

accounting."

"Luke." She leaned slightly toward him. Her cheeks were flushed and

her eyes were shining again, her more normal expression. "All will be

well, will it not?"

"All will be well," he told her, covering her hand with his own. "But

we neglect our guests, madam. Shall we lead the way back to the

ballroom?''

"Lady Emily." He leaned toward her at the supper table until her

eyes focused on his mouth. "May I send a maid for your cloak? Will

you step outside with me?"

Her heart was heavy with guilt and other things. She had been

unable to do anything more than toy with her food. And rightly or

wrongly, she felt that much attention was being directed at her.

Probably rightly. She would be under observation for two reasons. It

was expected that Lord Powell would declare himself tonight. And

she had just danced for the first time in her life. Besides, she felt

suffocated. She was very aware of the group clustered about Ashley

not far distant and of Ashley himself, brightly chattering in their

midst.

She still could not quite grasp the reality of his return home.

She would give anything in the world, she thought, to escape to her

room. Or better still, to escape alone outdoors. She always found

crowds and conversation overwhelming. She missed so much. She

was always so aware of her differentness, of her inability to

understand more than a fraction of what was being said, of the

impossibility of communicating her own thoughts beyond the

simplicity of smiles and nods. But she could not escape—she

wouldnot. She had pledged herself to be like other women as far as

she could.

She smiled and nodded. Lord Powell drew back her chair as she got

to her feet, and offered his arm. She took it and felt the eyes of

everyone in the room follow them to the door and through it. Or so

it seemed.

It was not really cold outside, although it was only April and late at

night. The slight breeze even felt refreshingly cool. They strolled the

length of the cobbled terrace and back again. There was no one else

outside. He stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the upper

terrace of the formal gardens, perhaps thinking it would be too dark

down there for her to be able to read his lips. He turned to her.

"Lady Emily," he said, "I believe you must know why I came to

Bowden Abbey at his grace's invitation."

She gazed mutely at him. If she could have stopped this moment,

delayed it for a day or two, she would have. Her head was pounding

in a tight band just behind her eyes. But it could not be delayed.

Every moment since his arrival five days ago had been leading to this

one. She wished suddenly that she had a voice, that she could

apologize for her bad manners in dancing with Ashley when she had

promised the set to him. His own manners had been too polished to

allow him to refer to the matter during supper.

"I came here not knowing you," he said. "Not knowing if… You are

beautiful. Poised and elegant and perfect in every way."

And a fraud. And without a whole heart to give. But perhaps he did

not want her heart.

"You cannot speak," he said. " 'Twould be thought by many men to

be an insuperable handicap in a w-wife. But not to me. I have always

preferred quiet women. And my mother will gladly continue to run

my household and entertain our guests—'tis what she does best. You

would merely have to charm everyone with your beauty and your

smiles." He smiled at her.

No. Oh no. So she would merely be another protected child in

another household that would run very well without her. He merely

wanted an ornament for his home, a—a breeder for his children? He

was choosing her because she was quiet and biddable—and because

she would allow his mother to continue dominating his household?

Did he believe that what he saw, what he had seen in five days, was

everything that was her? She felt a stabbing of fear. He saw only a

smiling, placid, reasonably lovely woman? Was she nothing more to

him?

But when it came to the question of what she meant to him—what

did hemean to her?And what really did she know of him beyond

certain facts she had read from his lips? Was she merely using him to

give purpose and a measure of independence to her life? Was it

enough? Was it even fair?

She had believed she had thought through her decision very sensibly

and very carefully. Suddenly she felt that she had not thought it

through at all.

"Lady Emily." He had possessed himself of her hand. Unwillingly

she noticed the difference between his touch and Ashley's. His hand

lacked the warmth, the strength of Ashley's. She shook off the

unwelcome thought. "Will you do me the honor of marrying me?''

He had said nothing of love. That realization at least brought relief

with it. But only for a moment. He was offering her everything else—

his name, his home, his family, a place at his side for the rest of her

life. He thought she was poised and elegant and perfect.

Have they tamed you and your heart has not cried out for the wild?

She could see in her mind Ashley's mouth forming the words.

But Ashley was married. He had forgotten her—or rather, she had

never been of any importance to him as a woman—and he had

married someone else. He had been married for three years. The fact

that he had come home and had danced with her made no difference

to anything at all. She had learned to live without Ashley. She had

taken her life back for herself and had pieced it together again. She

had enriched it, making it more deeply lived than it had been even

before she met him. The fact that Ashley would be a part of her for as

long as she lived mattered to no one but herself.

She wanted marriage. She wanted a home of her own. She wanted

children. She wanted to be normal. She could fight for the right to

run her own home and entertain her own visitors. She could show

that she was capable of doing both. It would be the new challenge of

her life. And she could do no better than Lord Powell. Luke had

chosen well.

"Lady Emily?" He was peering at her anxiously in the near darkness.

"Will you? Do you understand what I have said? Is it too dark out

here?"

For one who had made up her mind quite deliberately over the past

five days, she reasoned, she was alarmingly hesitant. There was no

reason to hesitate. There was every reason not to. She had no reason

to feel guilty. Her heart was no less whole than it had been five days

ago. Her love for Ashley was her own private concern—always had

been and always would be. Lord Powell had neither offered his own

heart nor asked for hers. He had merely offered an arrangement that

could be comfortable for them both. And as for the loneliness of not

being known—well, she had never been known by anyone. Though

almost by Ashley, an unwilling part of her mind whispered. She half

nodded.

"You will?" He smiled broadly. "Zounds, but I was not sure. Not

sure at all. You willmarry me?"

She nodded a little more firmly, though his lips were moving faster

now and she could not see every word. But he looked so very pleased.

She resisted the temptation to close her eyes, to block out everything

except herself. She had made every effort over the past few years to

live outside herself as well as deeply within, to be a part of the social

world in which she had to live her life.

He had taken her other hand, and kissed the back of each before

holding her palms against his chest.

"You have made me the happiest of men. Lady Emily," he said. "My

mother will be pleased. So will all my family. They have made me

realize in the past year or two, you see, that 'tis my duty to bring

home a bride and to set up my nurs— Well." He looked

embarrassed.

But she had stopped making the effort to follow the rapid movement

of his lips.

"I knew as soon as Harndon approached me," he said, "that you

would be the perfect choice. You are the daughter and sister of an

earl, sister-in-law of a duke, the possessor of a competent dowry. You

are the right age." He smiled. "Pardon me, but I did not want

someone directly from the schoolroom. I wanted someone who has

proved that she knows how to behave in society. I have a position to

maintain. I have brothers and sisters yet to marry. I wanted someone

I could trust." His smile became almost boyish. "And someone quiet.

I could scarce have done better on that score, could I?"

From tonight on her life would have to change more drastically, she

thought. But could she bear to live every day as she had lived the past

five? Could she do this? Could she live permanently in the wearying

world of other people merely because she wanted… well, merely

because she wanted?

"And in addition to everything else," he said, and her eyes read his

lips again, "I have conceived a fondness for you."

Ah. She had not wanted that. She lowered her gaze and looked at his

hands holding hers against him. And yet it was what she must want,

for him as well as for herself. A relationship without fondness would

not prosper. There could be fondness even if there could not be love.

Very deliberately she turned her hands to clasp his, to squeeze them.

He waited for her to look up. "May I have your brother make the

announcement tonight?" he asked her. "Now?"

She swallowed involuntarily. Tonight. Now. Once the

announcement was made, it would be irrevocable. It would be like

being married. There would be no going back from a public

announcement. She would be bound to him for life. But that was

what she wanted. That was what she had decided for her own future.

It would be a good future. The best she could ever expect. Luke had

helped plan it. She could trust Luke. Besides, she had already given

her consent.

But when she looked at him to nod her head, she found herself

shaking it instead.

"Lady Emily?" He frowned. "Not tonight?"

She shook her head again.

"Tomorrow, then?" he asked.

Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Not tonight, so very publicly.

Tomorrow, when there would be just the family to hear— and

Ashley, a treacherous part of her mind said. She thrust the thought

back.

She nodded and smiled. Yes, tomorrow. By tomorrow her mind

would be calm. Good sense would have returned. By tomorrow she

would have forgotten that she had danced tonight. With Ashley.

She would never forget dancing with Ashley. It would be etched on

her memory like his departure for India. Like the first time she ever

saw him. But by tomorrow she would have put it all away again in

that deep recess of her being where it would not intrude on daily

living or cause suffering to anyone except herself.

"Tomorrow, then," he said. "Perhaps 'twill be better then. I have not

relished the thought of going back into the ballroom and becoming

so much the focus of attention. You are cold."

She had shivered though she did not feel cold at all.

"Let me escort you inside," he said. "I long for tomorrow. To be able

to write to my mother. To know that the future is finally settled."

She wondered what his mouth would feel like on her own. But she

was glad he had not kissed her. Not tonight. Soon enough she would

know his kiss and a great deal more. Tomorrow she would think

about it. Tomorrow she would begin to prepare for it. Tonight she

was weary. So very weary.

Waiting until today had not perhaps been a great idea after all, Emily

thought as she lay wide awake in bed. It was very early—or very late,

depending upon the perspective from which one viewed the time. She

had been in bed for only a few hours—the ball had ended very late

and she had forced herself to stay to the end. She had not slept at all.

It was daylight. She would not sleep now.

There had been an embarrassing air of expectation when they had

returned to the ballroom. She feared she had deeply mortified Lord

Powell by her insistence that they postpone the announcement.

Perhaps Luke's guests thought she had refused him. She still did not

know his given name, she thought. Yet they were betrothed.

Yes, they were. She had said yes. Even though they had told no one

and no announcement had been made, she had said yes. They were

betrothed. He would probably want to be married before the summer

was out.

She wished now that she had agreed to allow him to speak to Victor

so that the announcement might have been made. It would all be

finally irrevocable.

It was irrevocable now.

Emily pushed the bedclothes back from the bed and got out to cross

the room to the window. It was the very loveliest time of the day,

now when no one was yet up except perhaps a few grooms in the

stables. It was the time of day she loved best, the time of day when

she felt most free.

She had promised herself, she thought, but she was tempted anyway.

She gazed longingly across the side lawn over which her window

looked toward the line of trees in the distance. She could not see the

river or the falls, but she knew they were there, just beyond the limit

of her vision. Her favorite place in the world. Her haven of peace.

It was the way in which her differentness showed. Her need for

solitude, for the living things of nature that were as content as she to

communicate without demanding reciprocity. To give and to receive

without obligation. Her contentment. Her happiness.

Her loneliness. Why had she had to grow up? Why had she had to

need?

Was it Ashley who had taught her unwittingly about loneliness?

About the needs of a woman?

She had promised herself that she would not go to the falls while

Lord Powell was at the house. It was not a normalactivity. She had

promised herself… But it was very early. And no one would be up

much before noon anyway after such a late night. Besides, she would

not have many more chances for freedom. Once she was married, she

would have to be much more careful to behave respectably—

normally. She owed him that.

But surely just this once…

Less than ten minutes later Emily was leaving the house and turning

in the direction of the trees and the falls. She had paused only long

enough to pull on an old and loose sack dress and to drag a brush

through her hair. She had hesitated over her shoes. She knew that,

lovely as the day looked from inside her room, in reality it would be

chilly at this hour of the morning. And there would be dew. But she

could not bear the thought of being shod. She had to feel the earth

beneath her feet. She had to feel the connection.

Beneath her arm and in her hands she carried her easel and paper

and paints and brushes. She had tiptoed into the schoolroom to get

them, hoping that she was not making noise that would disturb the

children sleeping in the nursery rooms.

She was going to paint.

She had discovered painting fairly recently. She had been taught long

ago to paint pretty watercolors by a very competent governess, of

course. But she had always found the lessons and the exercises

tedious. Why paint something that, however pretty, could not even

begin to rival the real thing? Why attempt to reproduce what only

God in his majesty could create? But she had discovered real painting,

and it had become something of an obsession with her. Something so

deeply necessary to her that she wondered how she was to leave it

alone when she married Lord Powell.

She would have to leave it alone, at least most of the time. But this

morning was hers. Later today he would tell Victor that she had said

yes, and Victor would tell everyone staying at Bowden that they were

betrothed. Later today she would no longer be free. She would

exchange freedom for conformity and the greater independence she

would enjoy as a married lady. But this morning she was still free. Or

if that was not strictly true, then she would cheat a little.

She would steal one more hour of freedom.

She set her things down when she reached the falls and stood for a

long time, as she usually did, looking, listening with her body,

smelling, feeling. She let it all seep inside her, the beauty, the wonder,

the glory of it. Beneath her bare feet, cold and wet from the dew, she

could feel the pulse of the world. The pulse of life.

Idleness was so often seen as a vice. Every moment had to be

occupied with busy activity and endless conversation even if one

never stopped to ask what purpose was served by a particular task or

by a particular communication. Idleness was so often despised. And

yet it was in idleness, she knew, that one touched meaning and peace.

Sometimes she put the name God to what it was she touched, but the

name was too evocative of rules and restrictions and sin and guilt. In

the Bible, which she had tried to read since Luke taught her how, she

had noted with interest how the great meaning and peace behind

everything had instructed Moses not to name it. It had called itself

merely the I AM. Emily liked that. It was in idleness that one came

face-to-face with the I AM. With simple, elemental Being.

She stood still for more than fifteen minutes before setting up her

easel and starting to paint. She worked slowly, even hesitantly, at

first, not sure what the paper and the paint and the brush in her hand

had to show her today. But soon enough she was absorbed in what

she was doing. All else receded.

She was free. She had found a way to pour out all the wordless,

unformed passions that were inside her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ashley had slept for maybe a couple of hours, and woke up

disoriented, believing he was still in India. He was surprised he had

slept at all. He had still been filled to the brim with nervous energy

when he came to bed.

He marveled at the coolness of the morning. The blessed coolness.

Through the window that he had opened before lying down he could

hear birds singing. And somewhere far in the distance, probably in

the stables or the carriage house, the faint ringing of a hammer on

metal.

He was in England. He was home. He drew in a deep breath of cool

English air through his nostrils and let it out slowly through his

mouth. Then he threw back the bedclothes and jumped to his feet.

He shivered as he crossed the room to the window. He had always

slept naked, but perhaps it was not such a good idea now that he was

back in a cooler climate.

He was in his old room, one of the few bedchambers that looked out

on the front of the house. The terraces of the formal gardens were still

bright with spring flowers. Beyond them the long lawns stretched to

the stone bridge and the trees in the distance. The trees were bright

with their spring foliage.

He was here, where he had longed to be. The thought of Bowden

had sustained him through the long, tedious voyage. If he could but

get here, he had thought. Irrationally, he had expected to find peace

here. He had expected to be able to put everything behind him.

Including himself. Or perhaps not. In reality he had known very well

that there was no peace to be found—anywhere.

He should get dressed, he thought, and go riding. Luke must have

some decent mounts in the stables. A good gallop would blow

cobwebs away, if nothing else. Suddenly he craved the recklessness of

speed, the feel of a good horse between his thighs. It was early. He

was unlikely to encounter anyone else, especially today of all days,

after the ball. It had been well into the morning hours before any of

them had gone to bed.

He turned to stride into his dressing room, but he did not ring for

his valet. Poor Bevins had been up as late as he despite the fact that

he had been instructed not to wait up.

An hour later he had completed his ride. He had taken out a

powerful and skittish stallion, which his grace allowed no one but

himself to ride, the most senior groom on duty had explained

pointedly. On the grounds that it was dangerous? Ashley had asked.

"Aye, m'lord," the man had confirmed.

Ashley had laughed and led the honse from its stall into the

stableyard in order to saddle it up himself. And so had begun a grand

battle of wills that had lasted the whole of the hour. But he and the

stallion understood each other very well by the end of the hour, he

thought, patting it on the rump before turning it over to a groom's

care and leaving the stables.

He wondered if anyone else was up yet. He stood still, looking

toward the house, tapping his riding crop absently against one boot.

He was reluctant to return. Reluctant to face anyone. There was

something that had to be told this morning.

He drew a deep, slow breath.

And then he remembered something—somewhere. A place that had

been gone from his memory until this very moment. Completely,

almost as if he had deliberately blotted it out. Strange, really,

considering the fact that it had been his favorite part of Bowden, the

place where he had spent so many solitary hours. The place where he

had always been most likely to find peace. Especially during that last

year…

The falls. He turned his head toward the trees to his left, and his

whip tapped harder and faster. He was strangely reluctant to go there.

Although he had forgotten it with his conscious mind, he knew now

that in some way it had been the focus of all his longings during his

journey home. All his hopes for peace and forgetfulness and oblivion

were centered on the falls. An absurd thought. An absurd hope.

It was a hope impossible to be realized. But for as long as he did not

go there…

His jaw set grimly.

He was going to be even more disappointed than he had braced

himself to be, he thought a few minutes later as he made his way

through the trees and realized that someone was there before him. He

could hear a voice. Luke's? But by the time he had stopped to listen,

the man had ceased talking. Perhaps it had been merely a gardener

passing by and talking to his dog. But he picked his way more

carefully. He had no wish to be seen, to be engaged in social

conversation before he had properly braced himself. Even with Luke.

Especially with Luke.

He saw Powell first. He was immaculate for so early in the morning,

in dark blue frock coat and knee breeches, with embroidered cream

cotton waistcoat. His wig was carefully styled and powdered—it was

not last night's powder, at a guess.

He was standing silently in front of an easel, his hands clasped at his

back. He was frowning. The easel was turned away from Ashley, so

he could not see what was displayed there.

Ashley drew back behind a tree. He had no wish to encounter the

man he had treated rather badly last night. Emmy's betrothed.

Though now that he came to think about it, no announcement of a

betrothal had been made, even though Luke had predicted it.

And then he saw her. She was standing some distance away, on top

of the pile of rocks that ascended the bank beside the falls. On the flat

one that jutted out over the water. She was looking across the water,

very still. A gust of wind had flattened her dress against her and sent

it billowing out behind. Her hair was blowing out behind her too.

God, he thought. Lord God, Emmy. The dress was a loose sack

dress. Very loose. Shapeless. It looked as if it might once have been a

rich blue in color, but now it was a nondescript gray-blue. It must

have shrunk from repeated launderings; it ended at least two inches

above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Her blond hair, unconfined and

unpowdered, fell in wild and unruly curls to below her waist.

God, he thought, memory stabbing at him. His little fawn. Except

that she was no longer a child. Yet she did not seem quite a woman.

She was more sprite than either child or woman. More a graceful and

beautiful creature of the wild.

How many times had he seen Emmy standing or sitting on that

rock? And yet he had forgotten every single one of them. Just as he

had forgotten the falls. Just as he had forgotten her. Yet he could not

have forgotten what had been so important in his life. Why had he

suppressed the memories?

It was a lovers' tryst, he thought. He felt a moment's resentment over

the fact that his first visit to the falls had been spoiled thus. But

perhaps it was as well. This was a mere place, after all. There was no

magic here. And they had the right, the two of them, to meet where

they would. They were to be married. And Emmy was of age. Seven

years had passed since those days of his memory. Yes, of course she

was of age. She had been fifteen when he left, had she not?

A child then. A woman now.

But instead of turning immediately away, as he knew he ought to

have, he watched as Powell removed a handkerchief from a pocket,

touched it to his brow, and turned to stride the few steps to the

bottom of the pile of rocks.

"Lady Emily?" Lord Powell called.

She could not hear him, of course, but she must have seen him with

her peripheral vision and realized that he was speaking. She did not

turn her head to see what he said.

There was silence for a few moments. Ashley turned away. He had

no wish to eavesdrop on lovers' words. He had even less desire to

watch a lovers' embrace.

"Lady Emily," Lord Powell said again, loudly and distinctly, as if he

thought she was only partially deaf. "I shall return to the house now.

I shall see you at breakfast? I shall— Perhaps we may talk further?"

Despite himself Ashley paused and looked back. She had not turned.

Powell stood where he was for a few moments, and then turned to

stride away through the trees. He was still frowning, and watched the

ground at his feet. He did not see Ashley.

A lovers' spat? But how could one quarrel with Emmy? Ashley

mused. What could she say to make one angry? She could, of course,

ignore one when one was talking to her. Emmy could more

effectively ignore someone than most other women. All she had to do

was refuse to look at one. It would be a trifle annoying, to say the

least.

Ashley grinned and set one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. He

crossed one booted foot over the other. Good old Emmy. She was not

after all allowing them to walk all over her just because she was deaf.

He watched her.

She did not move except to clench her hands at her sides and tip

back her head and close her eyes. Her hair cascaded all the way down

to her bottom. She looked, Ashley thought, a hundred times more

lovely than she had looked last night with her elaborately powdered

curls and her silks and lace and her stays and hoops. And yet even last

night she had been the loveliest lady at the ball.

His little fawn really had grown up, he thought regretfully. It was

strange how one could come back after seven years, totally and

dreadfully changed oneself, and yet imagine that everything and

everyone one had left behind had somehow been happily frozen in

time. If he had pictured Emmy at all during those years, it was as a

slender, coltish child.

He had made no sound. Even if he had she would not have heard it.

And he was well behind her line of vision. But after a minute of

stillness she opened her eyes and raised her head and looked over her

shoulder directly at him. Being Emmy, of course, she had sensed his

presence. She had known he was there. She had known he was not

Powell—she had refused to turn her head for him.

She had known he was there.

The years had somehow rolled back after all. For the first time there

seemed to be a thread of warmth in the morning.

Usually she sensed someone coming up behind her, especially when

she was alone. But sometimes that intuition failed her. It happened

most often when she was absorbed in some activity and lost all sense

of time and place. Painting had had that effect on her for the past

year or so.

She turned with a start of guilt only when whoever it was was very

close behind. She expected to see Anna or Luke. Anna would merely

smile and hug her and commend her on her painting and pretend not

to notice her appearance. Anna perhaps did not realize that she still

treated her youngest sister as a child. Luke would raise his eyebrows

and purse his lips and look at her painting and make some satirical

remark about witches in the wood.

But it was Lord Powell who was standing there, looking perfectly

immaculate. Even his wig had been freshly powdered, she noticed. If

only she had heard him coming, she might at least have hidden her

painting. Preferably, she would have hidden herself too. She felt

suddenly naked. Not physically so but emotionally. He had come

unexpectedly upon her other self. The very private self she could

explain to no one.

This morning he looked more handsome than usual. Even with the

frown on his face and the aghast look in his eyes. He looked very…

civilized.

"It isyou, by my life," he said. His perfect manners appeared to have

been left behind at the house, at least for the moment. His eyes

moved down her body, from the topmost hair on her head to the tips

of her toenails. It was a look of sheer horror.

Emily saw herself through his eyes. She saw her shapeless, shabby

dress, with neither stays nor hoops beneath. And her bare ankles and

feet. And her wild, tangled hair. In her embarrassment she felt and

resisted the totally inappropriate urge to laugh. This was herworld,

she might have told him if she had been able. So very different from

his own. Why was she the one called upon to make all the

adjustments?

But for five days she had been so very careful. So very determined.

She smiled.

He recovered his lost manners then and made her a hasty but elegant

bow. "Lady Emily," he said.

She tried to picture him without his wig, with dark, close-cropped

hair. She rather believed he would look more handsome yet. Though

quite undressed by current standards of fashion and propriety, of

course. She hated fashion and propriety. Last night she had been

dazzled—and wearied— by them. This morning she hated them.

"There are servants up and abroad," he said. "House servants,

grooms, gardeners. 'Twas his grace's butler who informed me that

you were up and outside already and had come this way. He also

informed me that his grace and Lord Ashley Kendrick are up. You

may be seen, Lady Emily."

She had been seen. By him. She could not tell if he was warning her

of possible embarrassment to herself, or whether he was scolding her.

She smiled again and raised her shoulders in acknowledgment of the

fact that she had been caught out and was perhaps sorry. Yes, she was

sorry. This morning was in the nature of a swan song to freedom, she

would have told him if she had had words. She must work on some

sort of shared language with him, she thought suddenly. As she had

with Ashley. But then perhaps she did not want anyone else to know

her. Perhaps she hid deliberately behind her deafness and muteness.

Perhaps she was too frightened by—or attached to—her differentness

to expose it to someone who might not understand or accept. But

this man was to be her husband.

"Zounds, but it doesmatter." His frown had returned, and his heavy

brows almost met over the bridge of his nose. "The careless shrug

does you no credit. Appearances do matter, especially in one who is

the daughter of an earl and one who is to be a baroness and wife of

the head of a family. I have younger sisters, who will look to you as a

model of appearance and behavior. I do not believe your deafness can

be used as an excuse for such shocking impropriety."

Emily frowned in incomprehension. Why was he angry? She looked

into his eyes and raised her chin. She did not often feel anger, but she

felt it now in response to his. Though she realized that her

appearance wasimproper and that after five days it must be a shock to

him to see her thus on the sixth. He was speaking hastily, before he

had given himself time to digest what he had seen and to react more

rationally.

She watched him draw a deep breath and watched his frown lessen in

ferocity. Perhaps he had realized his mistake. Perhaps he would

apologize for his hasty and hurtful words, beg her pardon. Perhaps he

would smile at her and she at him. Perhaps they would even laugh

together. And perhaps she would run back to the house ahead of him

and change into more acceptable clothes, and there would be an end

to this unfortunate encounter.

But his eyes had moved beyond her shoulder and focused on her

painting. Her first instinct was to move across in front of it, to block

it from his view. But she did not do so. It struck her suddenly that

through her painting she could communicate with him for the first

time beyond smiles and nods. She could show him something of her

inner self. She felt terribly afraid and almost breathless in

anticipation. She moved to one side and watched his face.

His brows snapped together again. He gazed at her painting rather as

he might at a poisonous snake. He turned to her after he had gazed

long and hard.

' 'Youdid this?" he asked.

She nodded. Why was he angry?

"But what isit?" His polished manners seemed to have deserted him

yet again.

It was not obvious, then? Her painting was no substitute for words?

She lifted her arms and indicated the trees around them. Then she

raised her arms to the sky, stretching her fingers tautly upward, and

closed her eyes. Then she looked at him again.

"I see no trees or sky in the painting," he said. "Did his grace not

hire a drawing master or a governess capable of teaching watercolors

when you were in the schoolroom. Lady Emily?"

She nodded.

"My sisters have had the good fortune to enjoy the services of a very

superior governess," he said. "They all paint charmingly. I have

paintings of theirs hanging in my study and my bedchamber. They

have been taught to create gentle beauty out of the world around

them." She watched him intently. It seemed important to see every

word he spoke.

Godhad created gentle beauty. And ferocious beauty too. She had no

interest in slavishly copying what had already been done. But perhaps

to people who could hear—and talk—it was not so important to be

able to speak through a painting. She wondered if he would

understand even if she could explain to him. She had the rather

alarming notion that he might not. The burden of understanding was

always on her. Shewas the odd one, the one who lacked speech and

wits. Or so it seemed sometimes. But she was being unfair to Luke

and Anna and a few other people.

"This," he said, indicating her painting and turning his face to it, "is the ravings of a madwoman."

She was not sure if he had meant her to see his lips. But she had. She

had been watching intently, and her eyes widened in shock and hurt

and anger.

"I beg your pardon," he said too late, looking again at her. " 'Tis not entirely your fault, perhaps. I am beginning to understand that his

grace might have been too lenient with you, Lady Emily, because of

your affliction."

She thought of Luke leaning over her desk as she learned to read,

firm and implacable despite her frequent tears and occasional

tantrums, telling her that the effort might well kill him and shatter

his marriage but that she wouldread and write and that they

wouldpersevere for one more hour before stopping for tea. And yet

never for one moment— she had never quite known how he did it—

had she doubted that he loved her dearly. If she had, she would

probably never have learned.

" 'Tis understandable," Lord Powell said, his eyes softening

somewhat. "He must pity your affliction. My mother will help you

when we are married."

But she had been too deeply shocked, too deeply hurt to be soothed

by his apology or his assurances, though she saw his lips offer both.

And now indignation had been added to everything else. His

motherwould help her to learn what was what? As if she were a

gauche and ignorant, somewhat spoiled child. Or a half-wit perhaps.

She turned sharply away from him even though she realized that he

was speaking again, and darted along the riverbank and up the rocks

that took her almost to the top of the falls. She stood on the top one,

looking out across the fast-flowing water that rushed and bubbled

downward over the steep rocky slope to the level below. She

deliberately did not turn her head, though she knew that he was still

there. She wanted him to go away.

Fortunately he did not try to come after her.

Luke would have understood her explanation about her painting, she

thought. He might not have approved of it, and he might well still

have made his remark about witches, but he would have understood.

And if he had not, he would merely have shrugged and suggested that

perhaps it was time for breakfast. He would not have raved. More

important, he would not have condescended. Luke treated her as if

she were a real person.

And Ashley. Ashley had asked her to dance even though he knew

very well she could not hear music. But she did not want to think

about Ashley. Not now.

Lord Powell, she could see though she did not turn her head, had

moved from in front of her easel and had gone to stand at the foot of

the rock pile. She willed him not to come up. She needed to recover

from her hurt before she could smile at him again. He needed to see

her again as she had been for the past five days before he said more.

They both needed time.

Go away, she told him silently, without looking at him. Please go

away.

And finally he went. She had the feeling that he had said something

first, but she had no curiosity to know what.

It was very clear to her, even clearer than it had been before, that her

life would change completely on her marriage. Even if the wedding

was not to take place immediately, even if there was still time here

alone with Luke and Anna and the children before it, she must accept

the fact that life was to change, she told herself. She must prepare for

it. There must be no scenes like this after her marriage. None.

She had not really expected that the changes would have to be so

very sweeping. Much would have to go. This freedom, this

communion with the natural world around her. Her solitary

wanderings. Her painting. Everything that she had held most dear all

her life. Everything that had given her life meaning and texture. It

was what was called growing up, she supposed. And it was probably

about time. Anna lived very well within the bounds of convention

and propriety. So did Agnes and Charlotte and Doris. So did every

other woman of her acquaintance. It could be done. It wouldbe done,

even if she did have a handicap that made her situation not quite

comparable to theirs.

But shouldit be done? she wondered. Must she sacrifice herself in

order to conform, in order to achieve the respectability and relative

independence of marriage? Was it in the nature of womanhood that

one had to amputate oneself for the sake of a man? She rather

thought it must be.

Emily clenched her hands at her sides, closed her eyes,and lifted her

face to the morning sun. Yes, she would change from this moment

on. Everything from the past would be gone, and she would accept

the challenge of the future. She would fit in. She would be normal.

She would learn to smile and nod and endlessly read lips.

But everything would be gone…

Ashley…

Even as she thought his name, before she could push it firmly away

from her, she felt him. He was there. Not just at Bowden. He was

there, here, close by, watching her. She had but to open her eyes and

turn her head to see him.

For a few moments she hesitated. If she did not look, he would

perhaps go away. And there would be an end to it. For once she left

the falls, she knew, she must never come back. In many more ways

than one she must never come back. Ashley would be gone. Gone

forever, even though she would see him at the house over the coming

days, with his wife and his son.

And so this was the end. Or not quite. There was this now, this final

moment. And she could not resist it. She was not yet strong enough

in her new commitment. She opened her eyes and turned her head

and looked at him.

He was dressed for riding, with the old careless elegance that had

always characterized him. His long dark hair, un-powdered, was

caught at the back of his neck with a black ribbon. His three-

cornered hat was in one hand. He was leaning lazily against a tree,

smiling at her.

And yet she was aware that beneath the relaxed, careless stance was

the haggard weariness that had translated itself into frenzied gaiety

the night before. His thin, haunted body pretended to a well-being

this morning that might have fooled everyone but Emily.

She was not fooled for a moment.

CHAPTER SIX

SHE DID NOT MOVE. SHE stayed where she was, unsmiling. But

there was nothing unwelcoming in her stance either. She merely

looked at him.

He remembered then that the first time he had met her here he had

been alone, hurrying toward this place to find solitude and peace. But

she had been here before him. And had bounded down the rocks to

take him by the hand and lead him back up to join her. They had sat

side by side on the flat rock and she had asked him to talk to her—

yes, she had, even though she had not been able to ask in words. And

so he had talked.

There was an ache of something in the memory—of a friendship

lost.

She did not come down now. Or invite him to join her. But she did

not tell him to go away either, as she had just told Powell. He pushed

his shoulder away from the tree and lessened the distance between

them. He stopped at the foot of the rock pile.

"I should have known I would find you here," he said. "Where else

would you be so early on a lovely spring morning?"

But she was not to be amused. Her eyes, which watched him

unwaveringly, gained depth, but she still did not smile.

"Emmy," he said, reaching up one hand, "come down."

But he wanted to go up to her. How many hours had they spent

sitting together on that rock while he talked and talked, pouring out

his heart to her? And yet, strangely, those monologues had felt more

like conversation. Though silent, she had seemed like a participant.

He longed for her friendship again. But she was no longer a child.

Was friendship with this woman possible?

It was as if she had read his mind. She shook her head slowly and

beckoned once—and then touched the fingers of her beckoning hand

to her heart.

He felt a fluttering of memory. It had been one of their secret

signals. Not just Yes, please join me, but yes, do join me. I want your

company. Without that extra sign they knew that the other was just

being polite and therefore had not intruded—not that that had

happened more than once or twice in the year they had known each

other.

He wondered now if she remembered—if the gesture had been

conscious.

He must not try to recapture the past, he told himself. She was a

woman with a life of her own, not a child willing and even eager to

listen while he unburdened himself of all his troubles. He grinned at

her as he strode quickly up to stand beside her. "He said he would go

back to the house and perhaps see you at breakfast," he told her. "He

said that the two of you must talk further. Did you wonder what he

was saying. Emmy, when you would not turn your head? 'Twas

nothing more significant than that."

She looked down at her hands for a moment and then back at him.

"I did not hear it all," he said. "You must not fear that I was

eavesdropping. Was it a quarrel, Emmy?"

She did not answer him.

"Do you wish to talk about it?" he asked, smiling at her. He meant

what he said. She could tell him if she would. Emmy had always been

able to make herself understood to him—on some things at least. But

then, that had been a long time ago. "As to an old friend, Emmy? As

to a brother?"

The thought of listening sympathetically to someone else's concerns,

to herconcerns, was strangely seductive. To be able to give back a

little of what she had once given him so unstintingly. To forget for a

few moments about his own concerns.

Her eyes went beyond him, down the slope, and back to him again.

She raised her eyebrows.

He turned his head and looked. "The painting?" he said. "You

quarreled over the painting? He did not like it? What a scoundrel he

was if he said so. No gentleman would do so, Emmy. Shall I go down

there and give you my judgment?"

But she caught at his arm and shook her head, and then dropped her

hand quickly. He caught the look in her eye. It was one of dismay,

even fear. She was afraidto let him see the painting?

She pointed in the direction of the house and then at herself. She

indicated the whole of herself with hands sweeping downward from

her head. And she took a step back so that he could have a good look

at her. She looked at him ruefully. The truth was, he supposed, that if

she had been anyone else but Emmy he might have been almost

shocked. Her body was softly and revealingly feminine beneath the

loose dress. Her legs were bare to well above the ankles. Her hair was

displayed as no woman's hair should be except to her husband in the

privacy of their own bedchamber.

"He objected?" He chuckled. "I cannot understand why, Emmy. He

must be a fool. Last evening, before I even recognized you, I was

knocked over by your beauty. But this morning you are many times

lovelier. Today you are yourself. Does he not knowyou, Emmy? Does

he know only last evening's lovely woman?"

She looked lovelier still with a blush of color in her cheeks. It was

such a relief to him this morning to see that she was still the old

Emmy, a creature far more suited to the wild than to a ballroom—

though he really had been dazzled by her beauty there last evening

before he knew it was she. But she was not as other women were. To

try to make her so would only emphasize her handicap and make her

feel both unhappy and inadequate. She was different, but she was not

inferior. Did none of them understand that? Not even Anna—or

Luke? But what did he know of her now? He had not seen or thought

about her for seven years. She had undoubtedly become a woman.

"You are to marry him, Emmy?" he asked. Powell certainly

understood and was willing to live with her inability to hear and

speak, Ashley reassured himself. It had probably been unfair to judge

him on the displeasure he had shown a few minutes ago, apparently

over what was on that canvas.

She nodded.

But the man had objected to her appearance too; she had just

indicated so. Yet this was Emmy, far more surely than that dazzling

beauty of last evening. Powell's disapproval did not bode well.

"You love him, little fawn?" It saddened him that the old name no

longer suited her.

She would not answer him. Her feelings for her betrothed were none

of his business, of course. He was a stranger to her—as she was to

him. They stood there for several moments, looking at each other. He

realized that he was feeling more relaxed than he had felt for days.

Weeks. Months. There was something about Emmy… There had

always been something about her.

You, she said then, holding both hands palm up and beckoning

quickly with her fingers—the old gesture. Tell me about you. It was

no mere polite inquiry. He could see the light of real interest and

sympathy in her eyes. The temptation to do what he had done all

those years ago was strong in him. He longed to open his heart, to

pour out everything to her. Everything. Emmy had always

understood him. He had been aware that she did not see every word

that he spoke. He was never sure quite how many she had missed.

But she had always understood him.

With one hand she indicated the edge of the rock where it protruded

over the water. She seated herself there without waiting for his

comment, and very briefly dangled one bare foot in the water. As he

lowered himself beside her, she drew up her knees, clasped her arms

about them, then rested one cheek on them, so that she could watch

him.

Memory rushed at him again. She looked once more almost like the

girl she had been. He felt almost like the very young man he had

been.

"I went to India for the challenge," he said. "I went to work to make

my fortune. But most of all I went to acquire a sense of my own

worth. I wanted to prove that I could make my own way in the

world. You remember all this, Emmy."

Yes. She needed neither to nod nor to smile. Yes, she told him, she

remembered.

"I did it all," he said. " 'Twas like a dream come true. I was very

happy. There was the war with France, of course, and it touched us in

India. There was always danger and the threat of danger. But

somehow it merely added to the challenge, the exhilaration. I had—I

have—some close friends in the military." Major Roderick

Cunningham, for example, who had come to fetch him…

She gazed at him and then invited him with those beckoning fingers

to tell her more. She knew there was more.

"And then I met Alice," he said. From the way he had worded it, he

had made it seem as if meeting her had put an end to the happiness,

the exhilaration. "Her father, Sir Alexander Kersey, was my superior

in the company. She was newly arrived in India—she had been at

home with her brother until he died suddenly. I met her when I was

in the middle of a raging fever. My valet had sent word to Kersey,

and when I came to myself from the delirium, she was cooling my

face with a damp cloth. She tended me tirelessly for a number of

weeks, her old nurse always hovering in the background. She was

exquisitely lovely, Emmy—small, dainty, dark, soft-spoken. Is it any

wonder I tumbled head over ears in love with her?"

No, she told him with large, calm eyes and a half smile. He knew

from the intentness of her gaze that she had read every word from his

lips. No. it was quite understandable.

Perfectly understandable. Alice had been gentle and patient. She had

been deeply grieving for her dead brother. She had responded to his

sympathies and his attentions. She had fallen in love with him. And

so they had married.

"And so we married, Emmy," he said, "on a few weeks'

acquaintance, during which time I knew her as a nurse and she knew

me as a patient. We set about living happily ever after."

She reached across and touched his hand for a moment. Perhaps

something of the bitterness in his voice must be visible in his face, he

thought. Why are you not happy? her searching eyes and her puzzled

frown asked him. Why have you come home? She did not need

words or even gestures. He had never known anyone with as

expressive a face as Emmy's.

"Her father died," he said, "and so through my wife I inherited

property and another vast fortune. And then there was Thomas…

Perhaps the challenge went, Emmy. Perhaps I was homesick and

wanted to return to England. After all, I always said I would come

back when I made my fortune—to settle on my own land, to live in

contentment with my own family."

She knew it was not as simple as that. She told him with her steady,

intelligent eyes that she knew something was wrong, that she knew he

was in pain even if she did not understand its source. Perhaps she had

not even understood all he had told her. But she had sifted out

essentials. She knew he had not told all.

He would tell her no more. She was a woman now with a life of her

own to live. With a suitor of her own—and some sort of quarrel to

patch up, it seemed. She did not need the burdens of a virtual

stranger. Besides, he was no longer that boy who had selfishly loaded

all his troubles onto the shoulders of a willing listener. He had

learned to bear his burdens alone. Though he had come running back

to Bowden, back to Luke, even back to Emmy, he had known even

before his arrival that none of them could help him—partly because

he would not allow any of them to do so. He was a man for whom

self-reliance had been learned the hard way.

He looked over his shoulder down at her easel and then back at her.

He grinned.

"May I see the painting?" he asked. "I confess myself curious,

Emmy."

She bit her lip and flushed again. She raised her cheek from her

knees.

" 'Tis so very dreadful?" he asked.

He could see her hesitation. She looked downright embarrassed.

"I'll not insist," he said, laughing. "Or keep you from your solitude, Emmy. I'll take myself off back to the house. Perhaps I will have

breakfast with Powell."

But she relented then and shook her head and bounded to her feet to

move lightly past him and down the rocks to lead the way to her

easel. She turned to watch with wide and wary eyes as he approached.

It was not anything he might have expected. Indeed, it was difficult

to know what it was she had painted. There were greens and browns

and blues, all bright. Her colors appeared to have been thrown at the

canvas rather than smoothed on. He could see bold brush strokes

moving up through the paint in wild swirls that drew the eye upward

to where they all almost converged. He had seen nothing like it

before. He could almost sympathize with Powell's frown. Except that

there wassomething he could see. Whatever it was she had painted,

she had done it with passionate conviction. It was a painting that

pulsed with feeling. It spoke—though he could not understand the

language.

"Emmy?" He looked at her curiously. "Explain, if you will. I can feel

the painting, if that makes sense, but I cannot understand it."

Oh, she told him with eyes and hands, and he knew that she was

spilling over with eagerness to tell him what the painting was all

about. She showed him the trees around them and the sky above and

stretched her arms and her hands and her fingers upward. Her head

tipped back and her eyes closed. There was a look of near agony, near

ecstasy, on her face. Her arms moved in small spirals.

He looked back at the canvas. Yes. Ah yes, he could see it now,

though it was unlike any other painting he had ever seen. It was like

music. Wild, passionate music that exalted the spirit. He could

imagine himself lying on the forest floor and gazing heavenward to

that point where tree trunks and branches reached up and met the

sky and merged with it. Emmy had seen that in her mind? And

somehow reproduced it on canvas? She had been that close to—to

what? To understanding the meaning of it all? He looked back at her,

intrigued, almost awed. The wary look had intensified in her eyes.

Powell had not understood, he realized, or been willing to try to

understand. Powell had hurt her. He had expected her to read his lips

but had been unwilling to read her painting. Perhaps he had thought

there was no meaning there. Perhaps he thought Emmy would be an

empty receptacle, a comfortable but unchallenging life's companion.

"You see life spiraling through everything," Ashley said. "It comes

through the soil and bursts upward, through everything and on out

into the whole universe. Life is too powerful to be contained in one

living thing but must be joined to all other living things. Life is a

passionate celebration—a dance, perhaps. Is that what you saw this

morning, Emmy? What you painted?"

Her eyes were bright with tears then and she closed her right hand

into a loose fist and pulsed it against her heart. Ah yes. He

remembered immediately. I feel it deeply. She bent to gather up her

paints and brushes.

He felt somewhat awed, somewhat humbled. He had always known

that there were depths to Emmy that all but a few of those who loved

her had never even suspected. He had experienced her sympathy, her

happiness, her peace. He had devised a very rudimentary language of

signs with her so that they had some form of two-way

communication. But for the first time he had glimpsed something of

the complex depths of her vision. He felt… privileged.

"Emmy, my dear," he said, sensing that he had entered one of those

rare moments of insight in his life. "If you could but speak." But she

could not, and she would not be the person she was if she could, he

realized. Besides, she was not even looking at him to know that he

had spoken. Or to know that bitter despair had welled up suddenly

inside him.

When she did look up, the rush of tears had gone and she raised her

eyebrows and gestured toward the house. Was he ready to return with

her?

"Go," he told her. "Leave me here. I am not good company for you

this morning. Or for anyone else, either. You must guard your

innocence and your happiness and your inner peace from such as me,

Emmy. I could only destroy them."

She did not look startled or hurt, as he had half expected she might,

though he knew she had seen his words. She looked calmly at him,

but the sadness in her eyes almost had him grabbing for her. He had

spoken the truth, though: If once he gave in to the lure of confiding

completely in Emmy, unburdening himself to her, as he had used to

do, he would destroy her. He would cling and pull her into his own

darkness and never let her go free.

It terrified him that he was tempted.

"Go," he told her again, and heard with surprise the harshness in his

voice. He wondered if it showed in his face.

She went, taking her easel and her painting with her.

She was in communion with all that was light and joy and life-

giving, he thought, or so it seemed to him. He had felt it in her

painting, strange and wild as it was. He had seen it in her silent

explanation.

And he was all darkness. The very antithesis of what she had found.

Emmy had grown up, he realized. And grown beyond him in the

process. She had taken the limited opportunities that life had offered

her as a woman, and a handicapped woman at that, and had used

them to make herself into a mature and interesting person—he was

sure she would be fascinating to know. He longed to know her as he

had once longed for her to know him.

He was suddenly appalled by the selfishness of that former self of his.

And by something else too: He had taken the limitless opportunities

that life had offered him and used them to discover—hell.

He must stay away from Emmy, he knew. If there was something

good he could still do in life, he must do that. He must stay away

from her.

She was a woman now—beautiful, fascinating, alluring. Oh yes. He

closed his eyes and smiled twistedly. Even that demon had found him

out. There was no point in denying it. She was alluring.

Luke embraced his brother when Ashley entered the breakfast parlor,

there being no one else present.

"Harry has decided to kick his heels and exercise his lungs," Luke

explained. "An unusual time of day for him. 'Tis the advent of teeth,

Anna swears. She has stayed in the nursery to help Nurse soothe him.

Zounds but 'tis good to see you, Ash." He indicated a seat at the

table.

Ashley smiled crookedly and sat. "I have been up these two hours or

more," he said, "riding and walking. English air is more conducive to

exercise than to sleep."

"Yes." Luke had seated himself and picked up his coffee cup. But he

returned it to its saucer. "Sultan was in something of a lather when

you returned him to the stables, Ash. I was obliged to take him out

again to calm him and to cool him gradually."

Ashley laughed. "Deuce take it," he said, "have you taken to trotting

sedately about the park, Luke, at a pace to suit your children? 'Tis

time, perhaps, that your mounts knew that there is a pace known as a

gallop."

Luke pursed his lips. "There is such a thing as respect for one's

horse," he said. "Sultan is particularly difficult. 'Tis my theory that he

was abused by his previous owner. I hadadvised my grooms that until

further notice no one was to ride him but me. One of my grooms

received a tongue-lashing from me this morning—probably unfairly."

"I beg your pardon," Ashley said somewhat frostily, turning to

indicate to the footman at the sideboard that he was ready to be

served. "I had forgotten that I am a mere stranger here now."

Luke sat back in his chair, one hand playing absently with his cup

and saucer until Ashley's plate was heaped with food and the footman

had been informed with a mere lift of the ducal eyebrows that he

might withdraw.

"We have quarreled," Luke said with a sigh when they were quite

alone together. "On your first morning back. 'Twill not do, Ash. I

refuse to quarrel further. What brought you back to England?"

Ashley laughed again. "An inhuman climate," he said. "Inhuman for

Englishmen, anyway. Wealth—I must almost rival even you in riches,

Luke. The desire to move on to the next chapter of my life.

Homesickness."

"And the desire to settle your family in their homeland?" Luke said.

"Ah." Ashley laughed once more. "And that too." He pushed away

his heaped plate, the food scarcely touched, and got restlessly to his

feet. "And your family has expanded since I was last here, Luke. I

must see your sons today. And Joy. And Doris's two are in the

nursery here as well? Egad, but we have been a prolific family.

Mother must be ecstatic."

'"Tis never the way of our mother to show any emotion to excess,"

Luke said. "But she is fond of each one of us. And her grandchildren

too. She will be pleased to see young Thomas at last. We all will.

Speaking of which—"

But the door opened at that moment and Anna came inside. She

smiled warmly at her husband, who got to his feet and smiled back,

and hugged Ashley and kissed him on both cheeks.

"Ashley," she said, "I feared I had dreamed you up during the night.

But you are really here. Dreadfully thin though. I fear the voyage was

too much for you. Is that your plate? Do sit and eat."

"Every mouthful, Ash," Luke said, his lips quirking with amusement.

"Anna's wrath is dreadful to behold when one of her children refuses

to be coddled. I have the notion that you are to be one of her

children during the coming days and weeks. Until she has fattened

you up."

"What nonsense you speak," Anna said, smiling sunnily at her

husband. "But Ashley, if youare this worn and thin, what must Al—"

"I have been drawing good English air into my lungs this morning at

least, Anna," Ashley said. "I have been riding—galloping Sultan,

actually, and incurring Luke's wrath in the process. And walking. I

found Emmy and Powell at the falls, quarreling."

Anna bit her lip and looked at Luke.

He raised his eyebrows. "Emily and Powell?" he said. " Quarreling?"

"I saw her just now before I came downstairs," Anna said. "She went

early to the falls, Luke. To paint."

"Ah." Luke sighed and looked pained. "She was able to remain inside

her cage, singing, for five days, was she, but had to break loose on the

sixth? I suppose, Ash, she was not dressed demurely for the eyes of a

lover and executing a picturesque water sketch?"

Ashley grinned.

"No," Luke said. "I thought not. Well, my dear." He leaned forward sufficiently to pat Anna's hand. "I suppose he had to find out sooner

or later that there are two quite distinct sides to our dear Emily.

Better sooner than later. And they were quarreling. How can Emily

quarrel, pray? Ash?"

"She can lift her chin in the air and refuse to look at the one who has

the advantage of a voice," Ashley said. "She can refuse to

acknowledge his very existence."

"Dear me." Luke drummed his fingers on the table.

"Emmy does not have to marry anyone," Anna said fiercely. "She

can remain here for the rest of her life if she wishes, dressed in her

favorite rags and painting her strange paintings. I will love her no

matter what."

"No one, my dear," Luke said with raised eyebrows, "is arguing with

you. Ah."

He got to his feet again as the door opened to admit a seeming flood

of late breakfasters. He bowed over his mother's hand, kissed Doris's

cheek, bowed to Lady Sterne,and acknowledged Lord Quinn and the

Earl of Weims with a nod. There was a great deal of noise and bustle

as the ladies hugged and kissed Ashley and the gentlemen shook his

hand.

"I expected," the dowager Duchess of Harndon said when they were

all settled at the table, "that you would be on your way to town by

now, Lucas. Lady Ashley and her son must be anxiously awaiting

their removal here."

"You are quite right to scold me, madam," Luke said. "Blame a late

night and a teething infant, if you will. Or blame Ashley, who has

been elusive this morning and who did not tell me last night at which

hotel in London I might find my sister-in-law and my nephew. But I

shall be on my way within the hour."

"I would go too," Anna said with a warm smile for Ashley, "if 'twere

not for Harry. There are a maid and a nurse, are there not, Ashley?

Even so, will Alice and Thomas be well enough to travel as early as

tomorrow? You certainly would not be well enough. I hope you have

no notion of accompanying Luke."

"No," Ashley said, smiling about the table. "And there is no need for

Luke to go either."

There was a chorus of protest, but he held up both hands. He

chuckled.

"There is something I neglected to mention last evening," he said. "It seemed somehow unbecoming to the occasion."

"Oh," Anna said, her hands clasped to her bosom. "Alice is ill. Or

Thomas. Oh, Ashley, are they having the proper care? How could

you bear to leave them?''

"Hush, my love." Luke covered her hand with his and kept it there.

"I traveled to England alone," Ashley said. He was laughing. "I did

not bring my wife or my son with me."

"Egad," Lord Quinn said, "then you will be going back soon after

all, lad."

"No, Uncle." Ashley smiled at him. "There is nothing to go back to,

you see. I have resigned my post with the East India Company."

"You have abandonedAlice and Thomas?" Doris's words were

spoken in a near whisper, but they sounded loud in the breakfast

parlor.

Ashley looked at her with a crooked smile. "It has to be spelled out,

by my life," he said. "No one understands. Or no one wants to

understand. They are dead. They died together when my house

burned to the ground a little more than a year ago. I was fortunate

enough to be from home at the time."

The only discernible movements were Luke's hand gripping Anna's

more tightly and the Earl of Weims's hand going to his wife's

shoulder.

"It seemed an appropriate moment to tell it," Ashley said, "with the

whole family gathered for breakfast. Pardon me for blurting such

shocking news without sufficient preamble. As for myself, I have had

a year in which to grow accustomed to the facts. A year in which to

shrug off grief. I am free and I am wealthy. And I am home."

He got to his feet and made them all a bow that seemed almost

mocking in its elegance. He left the room as Luke, the first to react,

got to his feet. But Luke did not follow him. He had a wife and a

mother with whom to concern himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Emily did not go down to breakfast. She did not often do so. She

preferred to eat alone. But since the arrival of Lord Powell six days

before, she had been behaving as any normal young lady would. She

had taken all her meals in the breakfast parlor or the dining room,

watching the conversation about her, dazed by it, but smiling

pleasantly to indicate that she was a participant, not merely a dumb

spectator.

This morning, however, she could not face Lord Powell at the

breakfast table. Or Luke. He would know by now. He would look at

her with pursed lips and narrowed eyes and she would feel more

dreadful than if he scolded her roundly for five whole minutes. That

was the trouble with Luke. He had learned early in their relationship

that a few well-chosen looks were far more effective with her than a

thousand words.

And she could not face Ashley either.

She dressed herself carefully in her dressing room, without the

assistance of a maid. She had no personal maid. What was the point,

Anna had said some time ago with affectionate exasperation, when

Emmy never made use of one? She wore one of her pretty open

gowns, with its accompanying petticoat draped over small hoops. She

dressed her hair smoothly in front and knotted at the back. She

covered the knot with a lace-trimmed cap, and made sure that its

long lappets flowed freely down her back to her waist.

There, she thought, she looked civilized again, if not particularly

grand.

When she got to the nursery she returned Anna's smile and saw that

Harry was lying quietly in her arms, his eyes fluttering closed. Beyond

them Joy was lifting James off the rocking horse while Amy, Doris's

daughter, waited to be lifted on. George was doing something at the

table with two of Charlotte's children. James and the other children

rushed toward Emily, demanding to be entertained. She laughed and

obliged them. Soon Amy was scrambling down from the horse and

joining them.

Children readily accepted abnormalities, Emily had realized long

ago. Even the youngest of her nephews and nieces knew that they had

to thrust their faces almost against hers and talk with slow clarity if

she was to respond to their unceasing demands. They knew too that

she always didrespond. Soon she was crawling on all fours, hoops

notwithstanding, with two small infants drumming their heels against

her sides.

Luke had once told her that she was more foolishly indulgent of

infant tyranny than even he and Anna. It always pleased Luke to

pretend to be under the thumb of his children. In reality Emily knew

that a mere look from his cool gray eyes could quell inappropriately

high spirits, and that a mere lifting of his eyebrows could put an

instant end to incipient rebellion. Love there was in abundance in

Luke's family, but there was also total obedience.

Anna had just set a sleeping Harry down on his cot in an inner room

and left the nursery when the door opened to admit Lord Powell.

Emily felt hot and disheveled, but he smiled at her as she got to her

feet and checked that her hair was still confined by its pins and her

cap was still where it should be.

"Lady Emily," he said, "will you do me the honor of stepping out

into the garden with me?"

He had recovered from his frowns, she saw. She wondered if he had

any inkling of exactly what he had witnessed this morning—a deaf

woman in her own world, a world very different from his own. A

world of sensation and feeling and thought, though not quite as

people with hearing thought, perhaps. Did they think in words? She

wondered if Lord Powell understood that she did not. Probably not.

Probably he never would. But she would not feel hurt or angry. She

had decided to marry, to move into that other world. The burden of

adjustment was hers alone.

The children looked disconsolate. But ever resilient, they went in

search of Joy, the eldest, the substitute playmate now that Aunt Emily

was being taken away from them.

The sun was still shining. The air was considerably warmer than it

had been when Emily had left the house earlier with her easel. Lord

Powell led her down the steps onto the first terrace of the formal

gardens, and they strolled together along the graveled walk there, her

arm looped through his.

"I would make my apologies to you,'" he said, drawing her to a halt

at last and turning toward her. "You are in your own home. 'Twas

unpardonable of me to be critical here of your appearance and your

behavior. Forgive me?"

Critical here? Would he feel justified in being critical elsewhere,

then? In his own home, perhaps? But it was a point too complex to

be considered now. And it was a handsome apology. She nodded.

"You look remarkably lovely this morning," he said. "It pleased me

to see you playing with your nephews and nieces even at the risk of

the perfection of your appearance. It pleases me to imagine you

playing thus with your own children."

Your own children. Yes, the effort, the sacrifice would be

worthwhile. She ached with longing somewhere in the region of her

stomach. Your own children.

He had taken her hand in his. He raised it now to his lips.

"I would ask only," he said, "that when we are wed, Lady Emily, you

will appear as you did earlier this morning to no one but me. I would

not have my mother or sisters or—worse!—my brothers see you thus

and think you wanton. Or even mad." He smiled.

Mad. He had thought her mad. Merely because her dress had been

too short and her hair had been down her back. She felt a flaring of

anger again for a moment. But it was merely a word—mad. It meant

essentially the same thing as improper. And she would admit that her

appearance had definitely been that. She would not quarrel again over

a word.

"For myself," he said, "I could find your appearance thus almost

appealing. If the gown were but richer… But 'tis improper to indulge

such imaginings yet when we are merely betrothed."

She saw the look in his eyes—admiration? He found her attractive?

She wondered again what his lovemaking would be like. Would he,

even then, be concerned with what was right and proper? But she did

not know herself what was right and proper—or what was wrong and

improper, for that matter.

She just hoped there would be some—oh, some passion. The

thought took her quite by surprise.

"I know now," he said, smiling at her, "what I will give you as a

wedding gift. Something unusual, perhaps, but something I am sure

will please you. I shall engage the services of the best drawing master I

can find for you. I could see this morning that you very much wish to

paint but do not know how. I shall see to it that you learn how—

from an expert. And I will predict that before a year is out I shall be

replacing my sisters' paintings in my bedchamber with paintings of

my wife's."

She had watched intently. She had understood what he said. But he

had so totally notunderstood that she could only stand now and stare

at him. And feel the hurt and frustration again despite herself. What

was worse, he did not even realize that he did not understand. She

thought unwillingly of Ashley. He had understood instantly when she

had explained that there were both passion and meaning in that

wretched painting. And afterward he had put into words exactly what

she had been telling him with her hands and her body.

But Ashley had always understood. He had always known that there

was a person behind the silence—not just a person who listened with

her eyes and would have responded in similar words if she could

have, but one who inhabited a world of her own and lived in it quite

as richly as anyone in his world. With Ashley there had always been a

language. There had always been a way of giving him glimpses of

herself.

"I could see the anger in your painting," Lord Powell said. "The

impossibility you felt of ever painting what you wanted to paint, of

ever reproducing what you saw with your eyes. 'Tis something you

feel often?" His eyes were warm with sympathy.

She saw his words—and his intended kindness. He had entirely

misinterpreted the emotion that lay behind her painting. How could

she marry a man who knew her so little that he believed her unhappy

and frustrated, all locked up inside herself, wanting only to be able to

hear and to speak?

"Harndon told me you can read and write," he said. "When you are

in my home, Lady Emily, as my wife, I shall give instructions that

there are to be paper, ink, and quill pens in every room in the house.

You must write down what you wish to express. I would not have you

unhappy with suppressed anger and frustration. I would know what

you have to say. I would listen to you—to the writings of your

hand—as you listen to the motions of my lips."

But he was a kind man. He wanted to help unlock her from her

perceived misery. He was willing to give her a voice and to listen to

her. He could not know that when Emily wrote it was for merely

practical purposes, not for the revelation of self. She did not have

enough skill with language to translate her world into written words.

But he waskind. She smiled at him.

Their attention was distracted. Someone had come hurrying out of

the house and down the steps into the garden and almost collided

with them before he saw them. Ashley.

He stopped abruptly, said nothing, laughed, and skirted around

them to go scurrying on down through the terraces and over the low

hedge at the bottom to the lawn beyond. He was hatless.

"Strange," Lord Powell said, looking again at Emily. "Lord Ashley

Kendrick is rather peculiar. It must be the effect of a foreign clime."

Ashley had been different this morning, she thought. He had been as

friendly toward her as ever. He had listened to her and understood

what she had said to him. He had accepted her, both her appearance

and her painting. He had neither condemned nor covertly criticized.

But he had not talked to her as he used to do. He had spoken to her,

yes— even at some length. But it was more what he had not spoken

of than what he had actually said that had put the bitterness, the

tautness, the haunted suffering in his face. There was a great deal shut

up inside him. Once he would have sat there with her, time

forgotten, and poured out his whole heart to her. But no longer. He

had sent her away this morning. He had told her to go.

She was aware of him striding away down the lawn in the direction

of the stone bridge.

It was as well. This morning at the falls had been the end. The end

of everything that was past. This now was the beginning of

everything that was future. Perhaps she would not so easily be able to

put the past behind her, where it belonged, if she carried the burden

of Ashley's confidences in her heart.

Yet even now, knowing nothing, her heart ached for him. She had

seen him laugh just now, but the look on his face had not been one of

amusement. It had been a grimace. There had been wildness in it.

Lord Powell had both her hands in his, and she gave him her full and

determined attention. "I was very annoyed with him for forcing you

against your will to dance last evening," he said. "I was almost ready

to call him out, but I would not create a scene and embarrass you or

my host. If he had succeeded in drawing you into making a spectacle

of yourself, though, I believe I would not have been able to contain

my anger. But you acquitted yourself well. I was proud of you." He

squeezed her hands.

Against her will. He thought she had danced against her will. She

knew that she would never ever forget the exhilaration and the sheer

wonder of that half hour and that minuet. Her heart already ached

with the memory.

"I would have our betrothal announced today if you will," he said.

"Your family is almost all gathered here, and Lord and Lady

Severidge are to come from Wycherly later for dinner, I believe?"

Yes, it would be a good time for the announcement. Suddenly she

wanted it to be soon. She regretted that she had not allowed it last

evening. She wanted her future to be final and irrevocable.

Ashley, she was aware though she did not look in that direction, was

standing on the bridge.

"May I speak with Royce?" Lord Powell asked.

Victor would make the announcement at dinner. Everyone would be

pleased. Even Anna, who kept insisting that Emily did not have to

marry anyone.

She nodded and smiled and was rewarded by a wide smile in return.

"You have made me very happy, Lady Emily," he said. "The happiest

man in the world."

She had to share her news. Lord Powell had gone to the library to

write to his mother. Anna and Luke often spent a half hour or so

together in Anna's private sitting room in the middle of the morning,

between the hour they spent playing with the children or taking them

outside and the separate duties they busied themselves with for the

rest of the morning. The household was not following quite its

normal routine this week, of course, what with all the guests. And

Luke was supposed to be setting out for London this morning. But

perhaps he had not left yet.

She knocked on the door and after a decent pause opened it gingerly

and peered around it.

At first she was embarrassed. She thought she had walked in on a

very private moment. Luke and Anna were standing in the middle of

the room, clasped in each other's arms. But then she saw the pallor of

Luke's face and the shaking of Anna's shoulders.

"My dear." Luke held up a staying hand. "Do not go away, I beg of

you."

Anna lifted her head, apparently only just becoming aware of Emily's

presence. Her face was red from crying.

"Oh, Emmy," she said, "Emmy. Ashley's Alice and Thomas are

dead. They perished in a fire more than a year ago and we were not

there to comfort him. He has borne the burden entirely alone. And

the burden too of having been from home himself when it happened.

How he must blame himself. He has come home for comfort,

Emmy."

She saw every word, as if she really could hear and could not stop

hearing.

Luke, as was to be expected, was in command of himself, though

only just, Emily guessed as her eyes widened and turned to him.

"Emily," he said, "stay here with Anna, my dear. She has need of you

for a while. I must find my poor Ashley. He has offended my mother

by laughingas he told us about it, the foolish man. He is deeply,

deeply hurt. You will stay?"

There was a faintness in Emily's head, but she nodded as Luke

transferred Anna from his arms to hers and then hurried from the

room.

Ashley, she thought. Ah, Ashley. Why had he not told her? Had he

thought her arms not strong enough, her heart not big enough? Seven

years was an eternity after all. The distance between them had grown

vast. He had not told her.

Ah, Ashley.

As she sat down on the sofa with Anna, their hands clasped tightly

together, she forgot why she had come to the sitting room.

"Emmy," Anna said, her reddened face a mask of grief, "we are going

to have to be very gentle with him and very kind to him. Poor

Ashley."

Emily raised her sister's hands and set them against her cheeks.

Luke had come to stand beside him on the bridge. He said nothing,

as he rested his arms on the stone parapet and gazed down into the

water of the river flowing beneath. Ashley was throwing stones into

it, trying to skip them, but the angle was too sharp. They all sank

quite decisively.

"I suppose," he said, breaking the silence at last, "you left Anna and Doris in tears, and Mother notin tears?"

"Theo and Lady Sterne bore our mother off between them," Luke

said, "and I left Doris to Weims's care. Anna was in tears, yes."

"For something that happened more than a year ago," Ashley said,

throwing the next stone farther than the others. It still sank. "To

people she did not even know. 'Tis foolish. Ah, well. I noticed that

Powell had Emmy almost in an embrace in the garden a short while

ago. Anna must be in high hopes of having a summer wedding to

plan."

"Ash," Luke said, "you need to talk about it, my dear."

Ashley laughed. "Zounds," he said, "I remember how disconcerted

and indignant I was when you first called me that, Luke. You have

still not abandoned all your Parisian ways, I see. I noted your fan last

evening. 'Twas a glittering occasion, by the way. I am thankful I

came in time for it."

"You are as brittle as glass," his brother said quietly. "And I believe you could shatter into as many pieces."

Ashley tossed his last stone over the parapet into the water and

turned to rest one elbow on the wall. He looked at Luke with some

amusement in his eyes.

"No longer," he said. "Look at me, Luke. I am quite relaxed. 'Twas

merely the ghastly prospect of having to break the news to you all,

you see. I was sorry in my heart I had not written to you before

dashing off home. I knew very well that Anna and Doris would

dissolve into tenderhearted grief, that Mother would stiffen her upper

lip and accompany it with a face of stone, and that you would square

your shoulders and attempt to take my burdens upon them. You play

the part of head of the family exceedingly well."

"I did not come down here as head of the family, Ash," Luke said. "I

came as your brother. Who loves you. You are in pain."

"Am I?" Ashley smiled. "It was a long and a tedious voyage. I ate

poorly and slept worse. Both will be rectified now that I have my feet

on firm earth."

"You came home," Luke said. "Not just to England, Ash. You came

to Bowden. You might have stayed in London. You might have gone

to Penshurst—'tis yours, I assume? But you chose to come home.

Why? Just so that you might hold us at arm's length? So that you

might spurn help?"

"Help." Ashley laughed.

Luke turned his head and looked assessingly at him before directing

his gaze back at the water. "I have been trying to imagine," he said,

"how I would feel if 'twere Anna and one or all of my children. You

are right: There could be no help, no comfort. Not immediately.

Perhaps never. But I believe that after a year I might turn to my

family. Yet I can see that even then I might be afraid to allow them

inside the shell I would have constructed about myself."

"Damn you," Ashley said.

"I would be bitter and brittle. I might laugh from behind my shell."

"You know nothing," Ashley said. "You know nothing."

"No. I do not," Luke admitted. "Tell me, Ash. Tell me what

happened."

"I told you," Ashley said. "They died. They burned with the house. I

did not know until a friend came to fetch me. I came home to

smoking ashes. I had been away—at a business meeting."

"How did the fire start?" Luke asked. "Was the cause ever

determined?''

Ashley shrugged. "A candle caught the draperies," he said. "A lamp

was tipped over. Who knows? There was a war in progress. There had

been any number of sporadic and inexplicable atrocities."

"There was a suspicion of arson, then?" Luke asked.

"But no proof," Ashley said with another shrug.

"Did you have enemies?" Luke asked.

"A nationful," Ashley said with a laugh. "I am an Englishman, Luke.

Englishmen were at war with Frenchmen. And there were Indian

men fighting on both sides. 'Twas not a wise time to leave one's wife

and son alone at home.

"Anna said that you must be blaming yourself," Luke said. "She was

right. Were there no servants, Ash?"

"My valet was with me," Ashley said. "Alice had dismissed the other

servants for the night except her faithful nurse and companion, who

had been with her since she was a girl. She died with them."

"Only one servant." Luke frowned. "Why did she dismiss the others?

Was it customary? Even when you were from home?"

Ashley merely shrugged. "There were those, you know, who said I

did it," he said. "When a wife dies in inexplicable circumstances, the

husband is always suspect."

"Zounds," Luke said.

"They were, of course, wrong." Ashley laughed and drummed his

fingers on the parapet of the bridge. "I should not have come here,

Luke. I should have gone straight to Penshurst. Yes, 'tis mine. I was

penniless seven years ago, but I am now in possession of two sizable

fortunes, the one that I amassed for myself and the other that my wife

brought me. And I am free to enjoy both, unencumbered by wife or

child. What more could any man desire?"

"Stay here for a while," Luke said. "Let yourself be loved, Ash. Let

yourself be healed. I cannot know what you have suffered or what

you still suffer—'tis beyond imagining. But there is love to be had

here. And perhaps healing too if you will but give it a chance. If you

will give it time."

"I will stay for a few days," Ashley said with a shrug. "And then I will be on my way to Penshurst. To my new life. 'Tis the one I have

worked toward since joining the East India Company, Luke. And

now 'tis within my grasp. And so he lived happily ever after."

Luke turned his head to smile at him. "And perhaps 'twill do the

trick, too," he said. "But stay here for a while. Anna will want to fuss

over you. The children will wish to become acquainted with you and

discover how indulgent you can be when wheedled. And I have

missed you. Come back to the house with me? I will have toast and

coffee brought to the study, unless you wish for something stronger. I

noticed you ate almost no breakfast after all."

"Later," Ashley said. "I still revel in the coolness of English air. I would not willingly exchange it so soon for the indoors."

Luke nodded and after a moment turned to walk back to the house

alone. Emmy, Ashley noticed when he looked after him, was no

longer in the formal gardens with her beau.

He should have written to them a year ago. And when he returned to

England, he should have gone straight to Penshurst. He was a mature

man now, independent, confident, assertive, resourceful. He had

spent six years achieving that effect, overcoming the handicap of

having grown up as a dependent, irresponsible, bored younger son of

a duke. So he had lost a wife and a child. Every day men lost wives

and children.

He should have continued with the life he had made for himself and

by himself.

But he had resorted to instinct rather than to cool judgment and

good sense. He had come running home—home to Bowden and to

Luke. And, without consciously realizing it, to Emmy. To a wild and

happy child who no longer existed.

He should have told her this morning, he thought. It somehow hurt

to know that she would learn it from someone else. She would be sad

for him. He should have told her himself. But he knew that he could

not have done so. He could not have told her the bald facts as he had

to his family at breakfast. If he had said that much to Emmy, he

would have grabbed for her and poured out everything else too.

Somehow with Emmy words could never be used as a shield. She

seemed to know them for the inadequate vehicle of truth they were.

Emmy saw to the heart.

But he had no desire to use a woman as an emotional crutch.

He had a sudden unbidden image of Thomas with his soft down of

gingery hair. It was an image he often held behind his sleepless eyelids

when he lay down. Poor child. Poor innocent little baby. The sins of

the fathers… No! It had been an accident. A tragic accident. That

was all. No one, least of all God, would punish a child…

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Earl of Royce was delighted by his talk with Lord Powell. He

had begun to have doubts when nothing had been said after all last

evening during the ball. Now he was happy and relieved for his

youngest sister, whom he had not really expected to be able to settle

in life. And he was grateful to his brother-in-law, who had made such

efforts to find her a husband of suitable rank and fortune and one

who would be kind to her. Powell seemed genuinely fond of Emily.

The earl did, though, hesitate about making the announcement on

this particular day. It had not taken long for the news to spread

through the house, to those who had not been present at breakfast,

that Lord Ashley Kendrick's wife and child had perished in a fire a

year ago in India.

But the Duke of Harndon was pleased too to hear that the betrothal

had been agreed upon and that Powell was both ready and eager to

have it made public. The duke insisted that the gloom that had

descended on the house must be lifted and that his brother certainly

had no wish to wallow in it. The celebration of a betrothal in the

family would be just the thing to lighten everyone's spirits, he

maintained.

And so the announcement was made during tea, when everyone was

gathered in the drawing room, including the children. Even Lord

Harry Kendrick was there, asleep with open mouth against his

father's shoulder. Agnes and William had come from Wycherly Park

with their children. The mood of the gathering was subdued, or

rather determinedly cheerful, until Victor rose to his feet, cleared his

throat for silence, and informed them that Lord Powell had offered

for his sister, that Emily had accepted, and that there was no more to

be said on the matter except that making the announcement gave

him the greatest pleasure and that the nuptials would be celebrated

some time during the summer. And that really he was no great speech

maker.

There was general laughter.

Emily, standing beside her betrothed, watched her brother's face

intently and felt a sense of finality. A calm contentment. It had been

done now. The words had been spoken to all the people who

mattered most in her life. There was no going back now. Not that she

felt any wish to go back. She needed this marriage. She might be deaf,

she might be different, but she was a woman.

Lord Powell had taken her hand and was bowing over it in a

touchingly courtly manner and bringing it to his lips.

She could not hear the noise that the announcement aroused, but

she could see its effect. Everyone looked at her, and everyone looked

suddenly joyful. It had to be right, she thought, smiling. What she

had done had to be right. Her family and Luke's were happy for her;

they believed Lord Powell would make an excellent husband. But

there was no chance to think further. She was being engulfed in hugs.

And her betrothed, she saw when she was able, was receiving his fair

share as well. At the moment, Constance, Victor's wife, was

embracing him, tears in her eyes.

Yes, it had to be right. It feltright.

Ashley was sitting in a far corner of the room. He had sat there all

through tea, smiling, laughing, James on one knee, Amy on the other,

Joy beside him. But they had abandoned him now, Emily saw,

though she did not look directly his way, in order to join the general

bustle of excitement about herself and Lord Powell. He sat there

alone, still smiling.

"How can he smile and laugh?" she had seen Agnes say earlier to

Constance. "Has he no feelings?"

But Emily, even without looking directly at him, had been able to

feel the unbearable tension behind his smile. His wife and his son had

died. Between leaving for a meeting and returning, he had had his

whole family wiped out.

Ashley. She wished desperately that he had confided in her out at the

falls this morning. Though that was not quite true either. For if he

had told her, she would not have come back to change into pretty

clothes and listen to Lord Powell's apology and agree to have their

betrothal announced. She would have been caught up in a past that

would have overshadowed her present and her future. Besides, she

would have been unable to comfort him as she had used to do.

Nothing could comfort him for what had happened to him. It would

have hurt to know that she was powerless to ease his pain.

Ah, but she wished—with her heart she wished—that he had told

her.

And then while Jeremiah—the Reverend Jeremiah Hornsby,

Charlotte's husband—was congratulating her and Lord Powell and

hoping that they might do him the honor of asking him to conduct

their wedding service, Ashley touched Emily on the arm.

"Well, Emmy." He took her hands in his and kissed her on both

cheeks. "It seems I have returned home just in time to say good-bye

to you. You were always like a dear sister to me. I hope you will

continue to think of me as a kind of brother."

Like a dear sister. That was all she really saw. Yes, she had been that

to him. That was how he had seen her. Like a sister. It was good to

have been seen thus. Closer than a friend. A sister. And she was to

continue to think of him as a brother—yes, he had said that too. Oh,

Ashley. She smiled at him, but she squeezed his hands very tightly as

well and spoke to him with her eyes. He understood her. Of course

he understood. But lest he did not, she closed her hand into a fist and

pulsed it against her heart.

"Yes, I know," he said. "I know it makes you sad,Emmy. But I have

come home to give up sadness. Seeing you happy is good for me. Tis

hard to believe you are no longer the child you were when I went

away. You are all grown up. Be happy, little fawn. Promise me always

to be happy."

Yes. She smiled again. The child you were when I went away. Ah,

Ashley. Yes, she would promise. She would promise to try.

And then Joy was smiling sunnily up at her—she was so like Anna,

even in her smiles. "Aunt Emmy," she said, "may I be your

bridesmaid? I am seven and a half years old."

Emily laughed and touched the child's hair.

It had been a difficult evening. Agnes and William had stayed, toasts

had been drunk at dinner, everyone had gathered in the drawing

room afterward for conversation and cards and music—Constance

and Charlotte and Doris played the pianoforte, William and Jeremiah

sang. The tea tray was ordered later than usual and they all went to

bed late.

But none of them had known quite if they should be sober and

solemn out of respect for Ashley or bright and merry in celebration of

the betrothal they had toasted at dinner. The only one of them who

was unashamedly cheerful all through the evening—he had even

suggested that the carpet be rolled back for dancing—was Ashley.

Luke had said quite firmly that the carpet would stay where it was.

They had all had quite enough of dancing the evening before. And of

course they were all rather tired after the evening before, and thus it

was more difficult to keep up their spirits. At last, an hour after Agnes

and William had left for home, the dowager duchess got to her feet

and the rest of the party took her doing so as the signal to go to bed.

Emily changed into her nightgown without assistance and brushed

out her hair and was thankful that the day was finally at an end. It

had been an unbearably eventful day, and the evening had been

almost intolerable. Everyone talking. Everyone focusing on her,

expecting her to listen and understand. She had been unable to leave

early, to relax into her own solitude as she had longed to do. Her eyes

achedfrom such intent watching. And one foolishly insignificant fact

had dominated her thinking all evening: She still did not know his

name. She was to be his bride in two or three months' time, yet she

did not know his name. The thought struck her as funny, and she

laughed softly. It did not matter anyway. She could never speak his

name.

He knew hers. It was almost all he knew of her. Another foolish,

insignificant thought.

She was tired. She remembered suddenly that she had not slept at all

last night and had snatched only perhaps an hour's rest this afternoon

between tea and dinner. She was very tired, but she was not sleepy at

all. There was a difference, she thought, wandering from her dressing

room into her darkened bedchamber and standing before the

window, still absently brushing her hair.

She did not believe she would sleep even if she lay down. She was

betrothed, she thought, trying to feel different. She was going to be

married. There were going to be form and purpose to her life. A

totally new direction. Even her home and her companions would

change. She would spend her days with his mother and his younger

brothers and sisters. And with him.

He was going to have paper and pens and ink set in each room.

Without them she could not hope to communicate in the simplest

ways with all those strangers.

He was a stranger too, she thought. And she would never be able to

communicate with him. He would never know her. Such intimacy

but no communication, because words— even if she could speak or

write them—could never explain her world to him.

She rested one bent knee on the window seat. It was a lovely night,

bright with moonlight and starlight. It was a tempting night, one that

beckoned her. How lovely it would be to throw on a dress and a

cloak and to slip outside to wander. Down across the lawn, along by

the river. But it could not be done. She had made the decision. She

had no promised herself this morning. He would never understand a

wife who wandered outside alone at night. If she were to, he would

soon be echoing Luke's words, but in all seriousness. He would be

calling her a witch.

Emily sighed. Her new life was not going to be easy. But it was one

she had chosen deliberately.

She longed for it to begin. She looked back involuntarily at her bed.

She wanted that too. It was strange how her body had come to crave

it during the past couple of years or so, even while her head had been

unable to fix upon any man—until now—and her heart had been

faithful to an impossibility. Her body wanted to know…

She lifted her shoulders and turned her eyes back toward the window

and the shadowed lawns and trees beyond it. How she yearned to go

out there, to wander quietly, not doing anything in particular. Merely

being. That was the heart of the difference, she thought. In her world

she had learned to be. Other people seemed to gain their sense of

identity and worth from doing. They pitied her idleness, believing it

denoted emptiness, boredom. But now she had chosen to enter the

world of doing.

She wondered if it would disappear with time and perseverance, this

yearning to be free, to be a part of everything that was natural and

beautiful and timelessly turning with the days and the seasons.

And then her brush stilled against her head and she leaned forward,

her lips parting.

He was not strolling. He was not out there with any thought of

enjoying his surroundings or of merely taking the air before retiring

to bed. He was hurrying with purposeful strides, his head down. He

looked almost as if he thought himself pursued, though he did not

look back either.

He looked haunted.

He was going to the falls. Of course he was going there. He was close

to breaking. All last evening, all today, his smiles, his laughter, his

gaiety had scandalized some of the family and aroused the pity of

others.

"How very brave the poor boy is being, Theo," she had seen Aunt

Marjorie, Lady Sterne, say to Lord Quinn.

Emily had known that the gaiety had been no more than skin-deep.

She had known that the company of his family had not helped him at

all but had possibly had the opposite effect. She had known that he

was close to breaking and that he might very well break.

She could not help him. She leaned forward until her forehead was

against the glass of the window, and closed her eyes. Ashley. Ashley, I

cannot help you.

But she would not believe it. Nothing had really changed. She was

here and he was here. She could still listen to him. And he could still

talk to her. Luke had come back to Anna's sitting room this morning,

pale and weary, and said that he had tried to talk to Ashley, had tried

to assure him that there were love and healing to be had at Bowden

for the taking, but that he was not sure he had accomplished

anything. Ashley had built a wall about himself.

Luke had talkedto Ashley. Perhaps what Ashley really needed, as he

had more than seven years ago, was someone to listen. Someone who

could not give him verbal consolation or advice. Someone like herself.

Perhaps he would talk to her if they could be together at the falls

again, as they had so often used to be. As they had been this morning.

Perhaps he would feel some of the old magic return. Perhaps some of

the burden could be lifted from his soul. Perhaps he could be saved

from breaking apart.

She had been like a dear sister to him, he had said just this afternoon.

His words had hurt. They still hurt. He had been so much more to

her than a brother. But her feelings did not matter. Besides, she could

be no more to him any longer than a sister. And perhaps a friend.

But was she fooling herself? She kept her eyes closed and looked

honestly at the question. Could she go to him there, break the

promise she had made to herself just this morning, and not be deeply

hurt herself? Would she be going only for her own sake? Because she

wanted to go to him?

But she did not matter, she thought. It was Ashley who was hurting.

Even though she would allow her feelings for him to make no

difference in her life from now on, she was never going to deny to her

inmost self that he mattered to her more than anyone or anything else

in her life—herself included. If she was hurt, it did not matter. She

would heal, as she had healed before. And his pain was so much

worse than her own.

She wanted to go to him, she decided, because he needed her. If she

was mistaken, if he spurned her, then she would bear the humiliation.

But she did not believe she was wrong. There had always been an

extra sense where Ashley was concerned—almost as if it had been

given her in place of the sense of hearing. She knewthat he needed

her.

And so promises and propriety and common sense and the very real

possibility of being hurt mattered not one iota. Lord Powell, her

betrothal, were forgotten.

Ashley needed her.

She was hurrying after him, the direction he had gone, less than ten

minutes later, having donned a dress and a warm cloak. She was

wearing shoes against the chill of the night, and had tied her hair

back with a ribbon at the nape of her neck.

He stood for a while on the flat rock, looking down into the almost

black water beneath his feet as it spilled and bubbled over the stony

basin of the steep descent. He was enclosed by trees and night and the

rushing sound of water. He breathed deeply and remembered how he

had always been able to come here and feel that he had left the world

and its cares behind. But his cares had been insignificant things in

those days.

Even so it was good to be alone. He had been alone in his

bedchamber, of course, but it was not the same. He had felt

surrounded by people, by family, by those who cared for him. He had

felt suffocated by them. It had been a mistake to imagine that people

would be able to help him. Least of all his family.

He had felt the depth of Luke's love this morning and it had

weighed heavily on his heart and his conscience. He had felt the love

and concern of all of them. He had been unable to reach out and

wrap it about himself. It had felt more like a heavy burden pressing

down on him, stifling him.

But how could he feel otherwise? How could he take comfort from

his family when his wife and Thomas had died and he had not been

there? And when he had wished a hundred times for their deaths? No.

No, that was not true. He shook his head from side to side, denying

the terrible thought. He had never wished for Thomas's death.

Never. He must never burden himself with that untruth. And never

seriously for Alice's either.

But he had not come here to be plagued by memories or by guilt, he

thought, closing his eyes, listening to the soothing sound of the

water, trying to let it seep into his soul. He had come here for an

hour's forgetfulness. He wanted to be able to go back to the house

later to sleep.

If only he could sleep.

He had been wildly, passionately in love with Alice. As she "had

been with him. Two strangers, who had mistaken an initial attraction

for love. He had loved her because she had nursed him through a

lengthy illness. She had loved him because he had needed her

nursing. It had been almost inevitable. Neither could be blamed,

perhaps.

And she had married him for another reason too—one he had

discovered twenty-four hours after their wedding. After a difficult and

disappointing wedding night. The passion with which his bride had

responded to his kisses had changed to panic as soon as his hands

touched her body and to—it still made him shudder to remember—

to revulsion as he entered her. He had finished the consummation

quickly, unsatisfactorily.

And she had not been a virgin bride.

Her lover, she had told him when confronted the next morning, had

been left behind in England. She had even told Ashley his name—Sir

Henry Verney, a neighbor, her brother's closest friend. And yes, she

loved him still. She would always love him. Always. The fierce,

almost fanatical, light in her eyes had left Ashley in no doubt of the

truth of her words.

Ashley had been left wondering exactly why she had married him

and exactly how he was to make anything of this marriage.

She had answered the first question, though he had not put it into

words. He had reminded her of her lover, she had told him with

bitter defiance. She had thought he looked a little like him. She had

been mistaken—dreadfully mistaken. He had not feltlike the lover,

Ashley understood her to have meant.

Love had died an instant death on both sides.

It was the only time they had been together as man and wife, he and

Alice. Though fidelity to Verney was certainly not her reason, or

chastity its result. She had taken lovers and not even tried to hide her

infidelities from him, though she had been otherwise discreet. He had

tried to reason with her, to persuade her to give their marriage a

chance, since they were bound to it for life. But she had hated him

with a passion equal to the love she had shown him before their

marriage, perhaps because she had realized too late that her lost lover

could not be re-created in him. He asked why she had not married

Verney. Perhaps he was married already? She had refused to answer

his question.

He had thought she was with a lover on the night she died. She had

given her usual lame excuse, which she never even expected him to

believe—she and Thomas were to visit her friend, Mrs. Lucaster,

overnight. And she had left the house before he did. But inexplicably

both she and Thomas had been at home when…

And yes, numerous times he had wished her dead. He had imagined

the enormous relief he would feel to be free of her.

Ashley laughed harshly.

And then he turned his head sharply, some instinct warning him that

he was no longer alone. Devil take it, but he did not want company.

He had come here to be alone.

Emily was standing at the foot of the rocks, looking up at him. She

was wearing a long dark cloak. All he could really see of her was her

face and her fair hair, falling in thick waves down her back from the

ribbon that confined it at her neck.

Emmy. Part of him leapt with hope and with gladness. But the saner

part of him knew that she was the last person he wanted to see at this

moment. He was not in a mellow mood. However, there was little

point in saying anything. In the darkness and at this distance it was

unlikely that she would be able to read his lips.

She came up the rocks toward him, her eyes on him the whole time.

She stood in front of him, close to him, looking at him. She made no

attempt to say anything, as she could have done with her eyes and her

hands. He knew very well why she had come. It was why she had

always come. She had come to listen. She had come to give of herself.

"No, Emmy." He shook his head. "Go back to the house. Go back

to bed."

But she touched her fingertips to his chest and then to her own

heart. Speak to me. It was a gesture that had been part of their silent

language. Not just Talk, but Speak to me; tell me more than facts;

open your heart.

"There is nothing to say." He laughed harshly. "You heard it,

Emmy. They died and I blame myself. I am filled to the brim with

bitterness and self-pity and am no decent company for anyone. Least

of all you, on this of all days. The happiest day of your life. Go

away."

But she shook her head. She was watching his lips intently. She

touched them very briefly before beckoning with her fingers. Speak to

me. Tell me. She touched his heart with her fingertips again.

He felt a sudden, shocking, and quite unexpected stabbing of desire.

And realized fully the danger.

"Listen to me, Emmy." Desire converted quickly into anger—

annoyance against her dangerous innocence in coming to him alone

like this, in the middle of the night; fury against his unwanted

response to her. "We are out here alone together, a single man and a

single woman in the dead of night. The impropriety of it would be

obvious to an imbecile. The danger of it should be apparent even to

an innocent like you. Go home while you have the chance."

But being Emmy, she could see beyond his anger. Her eyes, gazing

deeply into his, told him so. Let me share it, she begged him without

having to use her hands at all. But then she did lift her hands to cup

his face gently in her palms. One of her thumbs brushed his lips.

Speak to me. This had never been part of their language. But it was

very eloquent.

She was incredibly, foolishly generous, as she had always been. This

surely must have been a deliriously happy day for her, and yet she had

made room in it for him. This morning and again now. For old

times' sake she was offering all her understanding and sympathy. She

was offering her deaf ears for his dark secrets. She was offering her

ability to probe beyond words. She wanted to soothe his pain.

And all he could do in return was—desire her. He felt himself

harden into uncomfortable arousal. He took her hands from his face

and held them tightly in the space between them.

"I have no use but one for you tonight, Emmy," he said harshly. "Go

away while you may. Go!" And yet he clung, without realizing it, to

her hands.

She raised their joined hands and set the backs of his against her

cheeks. Emmy. Dangerously innocent or dangerously courageous or

both. Feeling his need and not really caring how that need showed

itself. Prepared to give all that was needed to comfort him. Prepared

to give until there was nothing more to give. Emmy, his savior—the

forgetfulness and the peace he had sought single-mindedly since

leaving India, not knowing that it was she he sought.

He groped blindly for her mouth with his own, his eyes tightly shut.

Her lips were cool, closed, trembling, pushing back against his. He

pressed his tongue urgently against the seam of her lips and she

opened to him, so that he tasted all the warmth and moistness and

sweetness of the inside of her mouth. He withdrew his tongue and

thrust deeply inward again. Desire was one strong, insistent pulse in

him.

He was still gripping her hands. He had lowered them from her

cheeks and was using them to keep the rest of their bodies from

touching. He raised his head.

" 'Tis your ruin you have come to tonight, Emmy," he said. " 'Tis

the only use I have for you. Go away. Leave me." He felt unfamiliar

and unexpected tears spill down one cheek and then the other.

She removed her hands from his, but even as he felt a mingling of

panic and relief, expecting that she would turn and bound away

down the rocks, she stepped closer and set her arms around his waist.

She leaned lightly against him, turning her head to rest one side of it

against his shoulder. He could feel all the warmth of her generosity.

All her incredible foolishness. He wondered if she fully understood.

He drew a deep breath and wrapped his arms about her. He

shuddered.

"Damn you," he said, lowering his face to her hair. "Damn you,

Emmy. Damn you." He knew she could not hear him. He

swallowed—and swallowed again.

And then he had a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face so that she

would see his lips. So that there would be no doubt of her knowing.

"If you wish to give me comfort tonight, Emmy," he said, "it must

be as a woman. My need for you tonight is physical." He took her

hand in his, turned it palm out, and brought it against the front of

his breeches, beneath his cloak. He was trying desperately to shock

her. Her eyes widened, but there was no real alarm in them. "Go

now. Go while you still can. While I can still allow you to leave."

With all his mind he willed her to go. With his eyes he begged her to

stay. She heard only what his eyes had to say. And she had come to

give—whatever he needed. He knew that and did not have the

strength to reject her gift.

He scooped her up into his arms suddenly and strode downward

with her. Part of him—the cold, rational, intellectual part—could

still not believe that this was going to happen, that one of them

would not impose sanity on a dangerous situation before it was too

late. But his body burned for hers, with blind instinct he yearned for

her.

He set her down on her feet on the grassy bank beside the river,

removed his cloak and spread it on the ground, removed her cloak,

and laid her down.

"Emmy." He came down beside her, leaned over her, brushed his

lips lightly over hers, touched a warm, firm breast through her dress,

and tried to tell himself that it was still not too late. But it was. It was

far too late. He lifted her loose dress with both hands, and her shift

with it, then she raised her arms so that with one motion he could

remove the garments entirely. He dropped them above her head. She

was wearing nothing else; she had kicked off her shoes when he had

laid her down. Ah, rash, innocent Emmy.

He made love to her with urgent, ungentle hands and lips, touching,

stroking, pressing, sucking. She touched him with warm, gentle

hands and made strange low sounds in her throat. He had no time to

undress. Need was a pulse that drowned out even the sound of the

falls, and a pain that drove him onward to release and oblivion and

obliterated conscience. He undid the front of his breeches, his fingers

fumbling with the buttons.

He tried to mount her slowly. She was slick with wetness, but the

passage was tight and virgin. He felt the barrier. He felt it stretch and

thought it would never give and release her from pain. But then it

was gone, and he eased his full length inside her. He could hear

someone sobbing. Himself. She was crooning to him with

unknowing sounds.

He waited in an agony of patience, giving her time to adjust to the

hard and painful invasion of her body. He had his hands spread

beneath her in an unconscious attempt to cushion her against the

hardness of the ground. His face was buried in her hair, which had

come loose from its ribbon.

He tried to take her slowly, but she had lifted her legs and wrapped

them about his own, and pivoted her hips, so that his pain was

enclosed in a cradle of soft, warm womanhood. He drove into her, far

too deeply, far too fiercely, half aware that this was all wrong. It was

all give on her side, gentle, generous giving, and all take on his side,

harsh, selfish taking.

But she gave.

And he took.

He heard himself shout out as he burst and spilled into her. He

heard himself sobbing as one of her hands smoothed over his back

while the other softly played through his hair.

And then for a few blessed moments or minutes or hours he lost

himself. For a few moments he found what he had blindly sought for

a whole year and longer, and rested in it.

CHAPTER NINE

She gazed up at the stars, finding the formation that always reminded

her of a giant soup ladle with a slightly bent handle. She lay still and

quiet and uncomfortable, cradling his too-thin body with her arms

and legs while he slept. She would hold him all night if necessary.

She knew she had deceived herself. She knew she had come because

she loved him. She knew she had come to comfort him. She had

known and admitted those facts before she came. But she knew now

that she had come with the sole purpose of giving—of giving herself,

if that was what he needed. And she had known deep down that her

mere sympathetic presence would not be enough, as it had used to be.

She had known that the passing of the years would have made all the

difference. Even then, seven years ago, when he had been leaving her,

the change had been coming. He had begun to be aware of her as a

woman, and so the possibility of pure friendship had been

disappearing.

Of course, she had always loved him as a woman loves a man. Even

at the age of fourteen she had known that her love for him involved

the whole of her person, body as well as mind and emotions.

She had come tonight to give her body for his comfort if that was

what he needed.

And so she had betrayed the promise she had made to herself just

this morning. Worse—far worse—she had betrayed another promise.

She had involved another person in her betrayal. Other people. She

thought of her own family, and of Lord Powell's. He had written to

them this morning and sent the letter on its way.

Tomorrow she would know bitter remorse. She would live with guilt

and remorse for the rest of her life. She doubted she would ever

forgive herself.

It was all her fault. Entirely. He had been completely frank with her.

He had not only given her the chance to stop it and to escape to the

house, he had urged her to do so—more than once. And she did not

have the plea of innocence. She had known—deep down she had

known— almost from the first moment. Perhaps before the first

moment. Perhaps she had known it before she left her room.

It had been different from what she had expected. Not sweet union,

sweet romance. It had hurt. Constantly, from the first moment. From

the moment he had started to push into her. He had felt too big. She

was still sore. He was still inside her, though she was no longer

stretched painfully by his hardness. There had been no shared

emotion, no snared tenderness, as she had dreamed there would be in

such an intimate act. It had not been an act of love—not in the

romantic sense, anyway. She did not believe he had enjoyed it. But

then it had not been done for enjoyment.

She could not feel sorry. She could not feel the wrongness of it. She

could only thinkabout her own guilt and thinkabout her sorrow for

those innocent people she had wronged tonight. But she could not

feel sorry.

He was at peace. For these few moments at least he was at peace.

She thought of the kind of grief and guilt that could still torment

him so even after a year. Of the kind of love there must have been to

have left such a storm of darkness behind it. She was exquisitely

lovely, Emmy… Is it any wonder I tumbled head over ears in love

with her?

She stared upward at the stars, her fingertips still absently massaging

his head through his hair.

And then she knew that he was awake. There was tension in his

body, a vibration in his chest. He had said something. He drew free

of her body and lifted himself to one side of her, sliding an arm

beneath her neck and about her shoulders as he did so. Cool air

rushed at her naked body, but he reached over and drew his cloak

about her. She could see his face quite clearly in the moonlight.

He gazed at her for a long while before he spoke. "You have given a

great and reckless gift this night, Emmy," he said at last. "I cannot

condemn you. I am too touched by your enormous generosity. I can

only wish that I had had firmer control over my desires. I will forever

regret what I have just done to you."

No, not that. No regrets. It had happened. And it had happened

because he had had need of her and the need had shown itself in

physical form. She had come to bring him comfort, not more guilt.

No, not regret. Not forever. Forever was too long a time.

"No," he said, "I know you will never blame me, Emmy. You never

did. You never asked anything for yourself, did you? You encouraged

selfishness in me, and I readily took advantage of what you offered.

All those years ago and again tonight. Well, it will be my turn now.

My turn for the rest of my life."

Though she did not catch every word he spoke, she could see the

bitterness in his face. But he did not give her the chance to reply. He

set his mouth to hers, his lips closed, and kept it there for a long time,

one hand firm against the back of her head.

"I hurt you," he said when he finally put a little distance between

them.

She did not reply. It had been merely a physical thing. He had not

hurther.

He put a handkerchief into her hand, but she looked at him,

uncomprehending. And so he took it from her and used it himself,

setting it gently against her sore and throbbing flesh, cleansing away

what she guessed must be blood, folding it, and pressing it lightly but

firmly against her again, soothing her.

She turned her face in against his chest and closed her eyes. She was

soothed by the vibrations, though she did not know what he said. If it

had been important he would have lifted her chin so that she could

see his lips. His hand massaged her head as hers had done for him just

a few minutes before.

She wondered what the future would be like now that there had

been this between them. She wondered if it would be more or less

bearable than the past seven years had been. But suddenly she knew

she would be fooling herself if she imagined even for one moment

that it would be more bearable. She knew him now with her body as

well as her heart. She had loved him with her body. She had given

herself with the whole of her being, but it was her body he had taken,

coming inside her and using her as a woman.

She did not regret it. She knew that tomorrow and perhaps for the

rest of her life she would bitterly regret many aspects of what had

happened tonight. But she knew equally that she would never regret

loving Ashley. With her body as well as with every other part of

herself. She always had loved him. She always would.

Without even realizing that she was close to doing so, she slept.

She had slept, he guessed, for well over an hour. Perhaps two.

Deeply. As he might have expected Emmy to sleep, warm and relaxed

and trusting.

But finally she stirred and looked at him and smiled— how could

she smilewhen she had been so misused tonight?—and moved away

from him in order to sit up and pull on her shift and her dress. He

adjusted his own clothing, shook out their cloaks, set hers about her

shoulders and buttoned it at her throat, pulled his own about him,

and led the way through the trees back to the house.

He considered sending her on ahead of him when they came to the

open lawn and keeping an eye out for her safety—for her safety!—but

he rejected the idea. If they were seen together, what difference would

it make now anyway? Tomorrow everything must change. He walked

beside her, not touching her, not saying anything. He had not spoken

a word since she woke up.

He took her to the door of her room and opened it for her. But there

was not enough light for her to see his lips. He put his arms about her

and set his lips to hers. Without passion. Merely a good-night

embrace.

"Thank you, Emmy," he said afterward, though he knew she could

not hear him. "For what you tried to do and for what you did, thank

you. Good night, little fawn."

He took a step back and waited until she had closed the door

between them.

He spent most of the rest of the night standing fully clothed at his

window.

He had debauched Emmy.

Through all the darkness that had engulfed his life in the past three

years, he had finally touched the very heart of darkness. He had taken

sweet and bright innocence and destroyed it, pulling it into the

darkness with him.

And perhaps she did not even know it yet.

Emmy!

The Earl of Royce had walked with his wife and child and some of

his nieces and nephews out to the hill behind the house. Ashley was

strolling alone on the terrace when they returned. He declined the

children's eager invitation to play, and Constance, throwing him a

look of sympathetic apology, herded them into the house. Victor

would have followed them after nodding amiably, but Ashley stopped

him.

"I would have a word with you, Royce, if I might," he said.

"Certainly. 'Twould be my pleasure," Victor said, making to stroll

along the terrace instead of accompanying his wife and the children

indoors. He schooled his features to quiet sympathy.

"In greater privacy," Ashley said. "Luke is out riding. The study will be unoccupied."

"Certainly." Victor looked somewhat surprised, but he followed

Ashley willingly enough.

Ashley closed the door of the study behind them and half smiled as

he stood against it. "This is going to come as something of a shock to

you," he said. "Especially in light of some of yesterday's events. But I

must ask you for Emmy's hand."

Victor, who had been in the process of seating himself, changed his

mind. He stared blankly. "Emily," he said. "Her hand?"

"In marriage." Ashley clasped his hands behind him.

"In marriage." The earl still looked blank. "She is already betrothed.

To Powell."

"But 'tis me she will marry," Ashley said quietly. "She is of age. I do not need your permission except as a courtesy. But there is the matter

of a marriage settlement. I am well able to give her the sort of life the

daughter of an earl might expect."

Victor appeared to be recovering himself. He frowned. "Emily is

betrothed, Kendrick," he said. "The announcement was made

yesterday. You were there. A betrothal is as binding as a marriage.

Besides, you have been back at Bowden less than two days. You came

a little too late for such maneuverings, did you not?"

His manner had become stiffer, more disapproving. It was hard to

believe, Ashley thought, that Royce was younger than himself. The

responsibilities of his position and family life had put dignity and the

illusion of years on him.

"Her betrothal must be ended," Ashley said. "She will marry me."

"I am well aware," Victor said, now sounding downright irritable,

"that you have suffered a severe loss, Kendrick, that coming home

and having to break your news has put great stress upon you in the

past couple of days. But—"

"But she willmarry me," Ashley said. "She has no choice. Neither do

I."

The Earl of Royce went very still and looked at him fixedly for

several long moments before coming toward him.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" he asked.

"Just what you think I mean," Ashley said.

He saw it coming. He might quite easily have avoided it. He did not

move, even to the extent of taking his arms from behind him. The

back of his head crashed against the door, pain exploded in the right

side of his jaw, and his vision blackened for a few moments. He kept

his hands where they were.

"You swine!" There was fury and contempt in Royce's voice. "You

will meet me for this, Kendrick."

"If I must," Ashley said. "But perhaps it would be more rational to

talk business. If I lived through a duel, nothing would have changed.

If I died and there were… consequences for Emmy, she would be in

an impossible situation."

He watched the other man fight his fury as he considered the sense

of what had just been said. His nostrils flared.

"It was ravishment?" he asked.

Ashley did not immediately answer him. "If she says so," he said.

"You must ask Emmy. But her answer can change nothing. We will

marry."

"Powell may feel less concern than I about whether you live or die,"

Victor said.

Ashley inclined his head. "That will be his choice," he said. "I shall find him as soon as I have left here."

"No!" Victor said sharply. "You will leave that to me, Kendrick."

Ashley considered the matter and nodded. "Let us proceed to

business, then," he said, indicating the desk that faced him across the

room.

But Victor did not turn. "You will pardon me if we postpone this

discussion until later today," he said. "This matter is hard to digest.

And by my life, 'tis hard to accept. 'Tis not enough that you are

scarcely out of mourning for one wife, but you must be stealing

another from under the nose of a perfectly decent man?''

Ashley's head went back, but he said nothing.

"If you will excuse me," Victor said coldly.

Ashley stood away from the door, but he spoke again. "I would have

no harsh words spoken to Emmy," he said.

"She is under my protection now, and I will allow no one to upset

her."

The Earl of Royce paused with his hand on the doorknob. He did

not look away from it. "Zounds," he said, "but if you were a man,

Kendrick, you would have been there with your wife and child. You

would have saved them from the blaze or perished with them."

Ashley said nothing. His jaw was throbbing like a giant toothache.

He did not touch it.

Emily found Lord Powell in the morning room conversing with

Charlotte and Jeremiah. Emily smiled at all of them and beckoned

Lord Powell. He followed her from the room, looking half

embarrassed, while Charlotte looked archly at Emily and Jeremiah

looked somewhat disapproving.

Emily led the way to the library, opened the door before either Lord

Powell or a footman could get there to do it for her, and waited

inside to close it. Lord Powell looked decidedly uncomfortable by the

time she had done so.

"Good morning, my dear," he said, reaching out both hands for

hers. "How delightful to have a private greeting from you. But we

must not be too long alone. We are as yet only betrothed." He smiled

at her.

She did not smile back or take his hands. She reached through the

slit of her petticoat to the pockets taped about her waist and removed

the letter she had written this morning after she had woken up. She

had been enormously surprised to discover that she had slept—and

apparently for several hours. She awoke feeling sore and

uncomfortable and heavy of heart.

The remorse she had anticipated the night before had been there in

full force. Guilt and sorrow and shame—they had assailed her from

all directions. But she had refused to lie there and wallow in any of

them. She had known what she did. She had known what the

consequences would be. She had no right now to nurse her suffering.

She had no right to suffer.

And so she had written the letter. And then two more.

She handed the first letter to Lord Powell and noted with a stabbing

of pain that he looked pleased.

"For me?" he said. "You have writtento me, Lady Emily?''

She had not anticipated his expecting that it was some sort of love

letter she had written. She lowered her eyes for a moment, but she

would not give herself that comfort. She watched him as he unfolded

the paper and read, and then watched as his eyes moved up the page

so that he could read it again. There was no discernible expression on

his face.

"My lord," she had written. She could remember every word—she

had taken a whole hour to write it. Words— even written words—

did not come easily to her. "Forgive me if you ever can. I cannot

continue our betrothal. I cannot marry you. The fault is not yours. It

is all mine. I have written to my brother and to the Duke of Harndon

to tell them so. With regret, Emily Marlowe."

His eyes lifted and met hers and held them.

"Why?" he asked.

She could only stare mutely at him.

"Your promise has been given," he said. "The marriage papers have

been signed by both Royce and myself. The betrothal has been

announced to your family—and to my own."

She bit her lip.

"Is it fear?" he asked. "Fear of leaving here where you are loved and

understood? Fear that your affliction will cause insuperable problems

when you go to live among strangers? Is that it?''

No. She had felt that fear, but she had been willing to accept the

challenge. She shook her head.

"Why, then?" He was frowning now. "Two evenings ago the answer

was yes. Yesterday the answer was yes. Why is it suddenly no this

morning when 'tis too late for no? There must be a reason. Write it

for me." He looked about the library and strode toward the desk by

the window. He pulled a piece of paper to its edge, tested the nib of a

quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out to her.

She moved reluctantly toward him and took the pen from his hand.

What had he said so quickly and so angrily? What did he want of her?

How could she marshal thought and feeling into words? Writing was

almost as impossible to her as speech. Her mind did not think in

words.

"I cannot," she wrote. But he already knew that. He deserved more.

She wished she could explain, but she could not.

"Because of this?" he said. "Because you cannot speak? Because you

cannot hear? I knew these things before I came to Bowden Abbey. I

was prepared even before I met you to accept you as a bride. You are

eligible in every other way. Explain yourself."

She could see that the anger in his face was almost explosive now.

"I am sorry," she wrote after dipping the pen in the inkwell again.

She kept her gaze on the paper. She could not continue the

conversation—if conversation it was. As it was, she would see his

bewildered, angry face in her memory and feel his humiliation for

days and weeks to come. Perhaps longer. She had no illusions about

that.

What she had done to him was unforgivable. She would never

forgive herself. She did not even have the excuse of having been so

caught up by emotion that she had not thought of all the

implications and consequences of what she was doing.

She had known.

But he had not finished with the conversation. His hand came

beneath her chin and raised it and even turned her head to the light

from the window. It had started to rain, she saw. It had looked this

morning as if it might rain. Heavy clouds had covered the sky since

she had been lying outside, looking up at the stars.

"There is someone else," he said when her eyes came to rest

unwillingly on his lips. "There has to be. And it takes no genius to

discern who that someone must be. Lord Ashley Kendrick."

She frowned and closed her eyes and shook her head. But his hand

tightened on her jaw and lifted it higher so that her head was at an

uncomfortable angle. She opened her eyes again.

"He danced with you," he said. "You gave him the set you had

granted to me. You had nothing but smiles for him. He calls you

'Emmy.' There was the fondness of brother and sister between you, I

thought. I begin to believe I am a fool. But he will not marry you. He

is a duke's son. He is enormously wealthy, from all I have heard in

the past day or so. He is somewhat above my stamp, Lady Emily. He

will look for more in a bride than I am able to. Besides, he lost a wife

just over a year ago and has been devastated by her loss. Perhaps you

dream of comforting him and replacing her in his affection?"

It hurt her to see the sneer on his face. It was not a pleasant or a

becoming expression. And she had put it there. She could not grasp

what he was saying. She read only the hurt and humiliation behind

his words.

"Perhaps," he said, "he will take the comfort if you offer it blatantly enough. But he will not marry you. You will be sorry you did not

have me when you had the chance. I will take my leave of you. I will

be gone from this house before the day is out. Believe me, it cannot

be soon enough for me."

He had removed his hand from her chin at last. He made her now a

deep and mocking bow before hurrying past her. She did not turn to

watch him leave the room. She lowered her head and stared

downward for a long time, her eyes directed unseeing on the carpet

beneath her feet.

CHAPTER TEN

SHE WAS NOT AT THE falls, though he walked there in the rain

to look for her. She was not in the nursery, where the children played

with loud enthusiasm. He found her in the conservatory, seated

among the large potted plants, almost hidden from view. She did not

look up when he came into her line of vision.

He stood looking down at her, not even attempting for a while to

speak with her. Her hair was neatly dressed this morning. It was

smooth over her head and knotted at the back. She wore no cap. She

was wearing stays and small hoops beneath her simple, unadorned

open gown. Her face was pale and composed. The hands in her lap

were still.

He remembered the smiling, exuberant girl who used to bound

about outdoors like a young colt—or a little fawn. He remembered

the smiling, trusting eyes as she watched him speak. He remembered

her warm, responsive hand, her cheerful patience as she mended his

quill pens when he worked for Luke. Dear Emmy. Sweet child.

This was what she had come to, this pale, calm, beautiful woman.

This was what he had done to her. He could still scarcely believe how

all the tender brotherly feelings he had always had for her had been

converted into unbridled lust last night. He had tried to fight it, it

was true. He had urged her several times to leave. But the fault for

what had happened was entirely his. Emmy had had only two

faults— a vast innocence and an unbounded generosity. She had seen

him suffering and she had come to comfort him.

She had not understood that he could no longer take comfort from

her in the old way. And yet when she had realized it, she had not

taken fright. She had given anyway. She had given the ultimate gift.

And now her betrothal, her future, her life, were in ruins. There had

been a fondness—perhaps more—between herself and Powell.

He remembered with deep shame how he had used her the night

before. He remembered how she felt inside, how he had been less

than gentle there with her. How he had taken and taken and taken.

He did not want such memories of Emmy. He wanted her to be that

sweet child again. He did not want to remember how he had lusted

after her, how possessing her body had driven him wild with the

desire for release. He wanted the gentle memories, not the harsh

reality.

He went down on his haunches in front of her and looked into her

face. She gazed steadily enough back at him, though color crept into

her cheeks.

"Emmy," he said, "how are you?" Foolish question. How did he

thinkshe was?

Her mouth smiled fleetingly.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, realizing the ambiguity of his words even

as he spoke them. He had meant physically. He could remember the

seemingly endless moments of stretching before the virgin barrier had

broken. He could remember the involuntary vigor with which he had

worked to his climax soon after sheathing himself in her newly

opened depths.

She shook her head slightly. He felt a moment's relief about that at

least, but he could hardly expect her to admit to soreness or pain even

if she felt either, he supposed. If there was soreness, she should at least

have had the consolation of this being the morning after her wedding

night.

It should have been Powell…

"I will not insult you by asking for your forgiveness," he said. "What I did was unforgivable."

There was light in her eyes suddenly. She shook her head vigorously.

"I know," he said, "without having to ask you, that you consider

yourself equally guilty, Emmy. But you were not. You came to help

me. Even through your happiness yesterday, you saw that I was

unhappy. And so you came last night to comfort me—as you always

used to do when you were no more than a child. Your generosity was

boundless, and I was scoundrel enough to take advantage of it. And

so I have destroyed your happiness. You do not intend this morning

to continue with your betrothal?"

She frowned briefly in that characteristic way of hers when someone

was speaking too fast or too long. But she understood his final

question. She shook her head.

"You have already spoken with Powell?" he asked.

She nodded, her eyes huge and sad.

"Poor Emmy," he said. "I am so very sorry. How did you do it, I

wonder. But you can always make yourself understood when you

want to. I have spoken with your brother already."

Her eyes asked the question. She still did not understand, of course.

Her sense of honor had led her to breaking her betrothal, but she did

not fully understand. Perhaps she had thought she could retire quietly

into her old way of life.

"I shall wait to talk with a few other people today," he said, speaking

more slowly. "Luke. Your sister—your sisters. Your clergyman

brother-in-law, perhaps. And I shall stay to lend you some moral

support today. But I will leave at first light tomorrow. I should be

back the following day with a license. Our wedding can be

solemnized three days from now."

Her eyes were wide with bewilderment and then disbelief. She shook

her head.

He rested one knee on the floor. "Yes," he said. "Oh yes, Emmy. We

will marry."

She tried to get to her feet, but he was kneeling too close to her and

would not move. She sat down again. No, she told him. No, no, no.

Her eyes gave him no reason, only the adamant refusal.

His smile was somewhat twisted. "You loved him, Emmy?" he asked.

"You lovehim? And only yesterday you were facing a happily-ever-

after with him. 'Twas an evil day for you when I came home. But it

signifies nothing in what must now happen. In three days' time you

will be Lady Ashley Kendrick. You will be respectable again."

The very idea of Emmy's not being respectable was preposterous.

Innocence shone from her eyes despite last night's dark deed.

No, she told him again. But now her eyes and her expressive hands

said more. He did not needto do this. She had given freely. She

wanted and expected nothing in return. There was no need of this.

"Emmy," he said, and for the first time he touched her. He set his

fingertips against the back of one of her hands. "I had your

maidenhood last night. Your brother knows it this morning.

Everyone in this house and at Wycherly will know it before the day is

out. Thanks to my perfidy, you are a fallen woman today." The

absurdity of his words was clear to him—as was their truth. "You

must allow me to do what is honorable."

He saw her eyes move to his jaw, which was doubtless darkening into

a bruise. And he watched them fill with tears and knew that he must

wait. There could be no conversation, no communication while she

could not see. None of the tears spilled over.

She loved him, he knew. Only the deepest love could have prompted

her actions of last night. But it was not a sexual love, even though

paradoxically that was the form it had taken last night. She did not

love him as a woman loves a man. Her love was purer than that—and

he had sullied it. And now, he knew, he must forever shackle it to

himself, and perhaps destroy it and her in the process.

And so he had to destroy himself as well. He had been loved

unconditionally, and he had selfishly squeezed the life and the joy out

of that love. It was a heavy burden. The heaviest of all.

"Did you understand me?" he asked when he could see that her

vision had cleared. She had to understand that there was no choice

whatsoever. "We will marry. My seed might bear fruit."

He watched awareness come into her eyes and color to her cheeks.

He watched understanding dawn—that they had been together as

man and wife, that perhaps they had begotten a child. Even to him,

though he had thought of it before, the idea was dizzying.

Not Emmy. Not in Emmy.

He could not think of her so. He did not wantto think of her in

sexual terms. He did not want her as his wife, his woman. He loved

her too dearly. Sexual passion and marriage were foul things.

She lowered her head and looked at her hands for a long time. When

she looked up at him again, her eyes told him nothing. They were

unlike Emmy's eyes. There was a blankness in them, as if she had

shut herself away from him.

It was the worst moment of all.

But he guessed she had accepted the inevitable. He covered both her

hands with his own. "We will marry in three days' time, Emmy," he

said, smiling at her. " 'Twill not be so bad, you will see. I will devote

my life to your happiness."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes still blank.

"You think I should not so devote my life?" he asked her.

She shook her head again. But he knew now that she was not

answering his question.

"You will not marry me?" he asked her.

No, she told him quite firmly. She would not marry him. And she

motioned away from herself with her hands. She was telling him

something she had never told him before: Go away from me; leave

me.

Lord Powell was leaving. It had certainly not taken him long to have

his bags packed and to summon his carriage. Luke and Anna were

seeing him on his way—a grim-faced Luke and a tearful Anna. Ashley

was careful to stay well out of sight. He was the last person any of the

three of them would wish to see at that moment. He had half

expected a challenge from Powell, but it had not come. Perhaps he

did not know the truth behind his broken engagement after all.

But Luke and Anna surely did. He was standing in the stairway arch

when they came inside. Anna bit her upper lip when she saw him.

"Ashley," she said. "Oh, Ashley, what have you done?" There was no accusation in her eyes, only a huge misery.

"You will oblige me by going to your room, madam," Luke said,

"where you may have some peace. I will come to you there later. You

and I will walk outside, Ashley."

There was chill command in his voice. He was at that moment every

inch the Duke of Harndon, the man who had been respected and

feared for ten years in Paris for his prowess with sword and pistol.

Anna disappeared without another word.

They walked in silence through the rain, which had settled to a

steady and chilly drizzle. Luke wore a cloak. Ashley did not.

Dampness seeped into his skirted coat, into his embroidered

waistcoat and shirt, and into his hair, which was tied back and bagged

in silk. He did not even notice. They walked out behind the house,

past the hill, to the no-man's-land between it and the river. They

were out of sight of the house there.

Luke stopped and removed his cloak. He dropped it carelessly to the

grass and sent his coat to follow it—and then his waistcoat. Ashley

watched him, a half smile on his lips.

"Remove yours," Luke said, ice in his voice. "I am going to thrash

you."

"I'll not fight you," Ashley said quietly.

"As you would not fight Royce?" Luke said. "I suppose the bruise

comes courtesy of him. I noticed no matching sign of violence on his

face when he spoke to me a short while ago. Very well, then. You

may take your punishment without defending yourself, if that is your

choice."

Ashley fought only one fight during the minutes that followed. He

fought to stay on his feet, not to take the coward's way out and

crumple to the ground to avoid the punishing blows of his brother's

fists. His hands balled at his sides, but he did not use them. Luke's

strength had not diminished with age, Ashley quickly realized,

though he was well into his thirties.

Finally Luke took the edges of his coat in both hands and backed

him against the lone tree that stood in this barren place.

"She is my wife's sister, " he hissed. "She is here under my

protection. And yet under my very nose my brother has ravished her

and ruined her. Be thankful that you will escape this morning with

your life, Ashley. You do so only because now she needs

yourmiserable protection and because I would not deprive her of that

dubious comfort."

Ashley said nothing. He was concentrating on his physical pain,

which was a welcome relief from a far worse pain.

"But by my life I swear this, brother, " Luke said. "If you mistreat

her, if you give her one moment of anguish, your life is forfeit. I will

not ask if you understand me. You understand very well."

He released his hold on Ashley's coat as if he might contaminate

himself with such contact, then turned his back. He stooped down

for his discarded clothes and began to pull them back on.

"She says she will not marry me," Ashley said quietly.

Luke paused in the act of bending for his cloak. He turned to look

over his shoulder. "What?" he said.

"She says no," Ashley said. "She is quite adamant about it. I will

persist, of course, but somehow I do not believe she will be moved."

Luke walked toward him and stood examining his own handiwork.

Ashley did not avert his face or try to dab at the blood that was

dripping from his nose onto his cravat.

"Well, my dear," Luke said, "perhaps you will be justly punished.

Not in being forced to marry the woman you have ruined, but in

being forced notto marry her. I have always had great respect for

Emily. That respect has just increased tenfold."

He turned to stride away in the direction of the house, not pausing

to see if his brother would accompany him.

They all knew or would soon know. The whole family would know

why she had put an end to her betrothal just the day after it had been

announced. Because he had foolishly spoken to Victor and had

foolishly assumed that she would marry him. He might have asked

her first. They might have spared their families the sordid, painful

truth.

But perhaps not. Perhaps they would have suspected— Lord Powell

had—and questioned and cajoled. And then they would have

thought the worse of Ashley for keeping silence. They would have

thought, perhaps, that he was trying to avoid doing what was

honorable.

What was honorable! Emily, still in the conservatory, stared down at

her hands. She had given her promise two days ago. Yesterday she

had consented to a public announcement. And last night… She

sighed.

And she had been so very wrong. She had thought to give comfort.

When she had understood what he needed of her, she had gone ahead

anyway. She had sacrificed everything, including honor, in order to

give comfort. And she had failed miserably.

But she would not make matters even worse. She would not take the

coward's way out. She would not marry him. Ashley. She spread her

hands on her lap. There was not a part of her that did not ache, she

thought. Even her fingers. Even her heart. Especially her heart.

Anna was the first to find her, a long time later or five minutes

later—time meant nothing to Emily this morning. Her sister drew up

a chair and sat down beside her. It was tempting not to look up, to

remain hidden inside her very private and silent life. And she did not

look up for a while. But she could not hurt Anna more than she

already must be hurt, Emily told herself. Anna had been a mother to

her. She raised her eyes.

Anna's face still showed the red marks of dried tears. "Emmy," she

said. "Oh, Emmy."

Emily reached across and touched her hand. But it was too late to be

offering anyone comfort.

"Lord Powell was so stiff and angry on the outside, so hurt on the

inside," Anna said. "But you did the right thing meeting him face-to-

face instead of having Victor do it for you. I must admire you for

that."

Dear Anna. Always so reluctant to condemn. Always looking for

good, even when there was none. Emily patted her hand.

"Luke just came to me," Anna said. "He told me you will not marry

Ashley. Is it true, Emmy? And is it true that…" She shrugged her

shoulders and color flooded into her cheeks. "But that is none of my

concern. He told Luke that he will ask you again. Will you not have

him?"

Emily shook her head.

"But you love him." Anna had taken her sister's hand in both of

hers. "You always have. Even during the years he was away. Even

after he married and after his son was born. That is the only

explanation for—for what perhaps happened last night. It must have

been dreadful for you to have watched the suffering he tried so very

valiantly yesterday to hide from us. Now you could marry him,

Emmy. Indeed, many people would say you have no choice but to

marry him."

Emily shook her head.

Anna squeezed her hand tightly. "Then I will support you in your

decision," she said. "I will not allow anyone to bully you. I have

always told you that you need not marry anyone, that you may

remain here for the rest of your life. You are my sister, but you have

always felt like one of my own children. You were just a child when

Mama was so ill, and even when she died. I love you like one of my

own, Emmy. You are as dear to me as Joy or any of the boys."

That was the trouble, Emily thought. Oh, that was the trouble. She

would have no choice but to stay here, a burden for the rest of her life

on people who had lives of their own to live. Ashley's own brother.

There would be no escaping now. She had lost her chance with Lord

Powell. She had refused her chance with Ashley. And there could be

no other man.

"Come and have something to eat," Anna said. "I would guess that

you have not eaten all day."

She shook her head. She could not eat. Even less could she go back

into the house and face other people. They would all know by now.

They would all look at her, perhaps with condemnation, perhaps

with pity, perhaps with embarrassment. They would all know that

last night she had lain with Ashley. How very public it had become,

what they had done together at the falls. Ashley, she thought, would

have the additional embarrassment of having it known that she had

refused to allow him to retrieve his honor.

And she had thought to comfort him!

Anna left her, but had a tray of food sent in a short while later.

Emily ate an apple and sipped on a cup of tea.

"She will have to be made to see reason," Charlotte said. "The

trouble with Emily is that she has always been allowed to do whatever

she wishes because of her affliction. No one has ever taught her any

sense of duty. Perhaps you would explain it to her, Jeremiah. Perhaps

she will listen to you, considering the fact that you are—"

"I hardly think, my love—," the Reverend Jeremiah Hornsby began.

"If anyone is to speak to Emily," the Earl of Royce said sharply, "

'twill be me."

Everyone, with the exception of Emily and Ashley, was gathered in

the dining room, though very little food was being consumed. A

family conference was in progress.

"No one will speak to Emily," Anna said. "She has made up her

mind. We would do well to remember that she is of age, that she is

no longer a child."

"Pox on it," Lord Quinn said. "My own nephy is the villain of this

piece. As I live, I would draw his cork for him this very minute if he

were to walk through that door."

"There are ladies present, Theo," Luke said.

"Lud, Theo," Lady Sterne said, "have you not noticed what Luke is

hiding beneath the table by keeping his hands in his lap?"

Luke pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. "My dear," he said, "I

have already explained. I skinned my knuckles while playing roughly

with my sons and nephews and even a niece or two this morning."

"Pshaw!" Lady Sterne said.

"You must talk to Emily, then, Victor," Charlotte said. "But you

must be firm with her."

"Lookee here," Lord Quinn said, wagging a finger about the table.

His brows were knit together in a ferocious frown, marring his

usually good-humored expression. " 'Tis my nephy who must be firm

with her. And I shall tell him so the next time I see him. Egad, she is

such a sweet little gel, and with such speaking eyes. He has doubtless

frightened her to death. He has to be made to convince her that he

has put behind him grief for that unfortunate wife of his and will

devote himself to her comfort. Did he do that this morning, eh? I will

wager not, as I live."

" 'Tis a dreadful thing," the Reverend Hornsby said, "and a

reflection on the honor of the whole family. Broken vows, seduction,

a refusal to accept the consequences of sin. Pardon me, my love and

Anna, but the blame must be put squarely on Emily's shoulders. It

does not signify how Lord Ashley expressed himself this morning,

Lord Quinn. The fact is that he didexpress himself and did offer to

do the honorable thing."

"Perhaps," Lady Sterne said, "she will change her mind. Ladies like

to be persuaded. Perhaps Lord Ashley forgot this morning to mention

the fact that he is fond of her. Faith, but 'twould be a disastrous

omission."

"Perhaps," Luke said, sounding infinitely bored, "we should eat the

food that has been set before us. Perhaps we should allow the two

people most central to our discussion to order their own lives as they

see fit." He held up a staying hand when Charlotte opened her

mouth and drew audible breath. For a moment everyone had a

shockingly clear view of the raw knuckles he had skinned while

playing with the children. "I shall speak with Emily myself before the

day is out. I believe I have some influence with her."

"Luke—," Anna said, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Madam." He turned his steady gaze on her. "Will you have some

cold beef with your bread? Or would you prefer the chicken?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EMILY HAD CHANGED into the very old dress that had so

shocked Lord Powell only the day before. She had taken the pins out

of her hair and shaken it loose down her back. She had kicked off her

shoes and removed her silk stockings. It looked wet and dreary

outside, though the rain had stopped. She did not care. She slipped

down the servants' stairs at the back of the house and out through a

side door.

She would not go to the falls. She was not sure she would ever be

able to go back there, to the place where she had made the biggest

mistake of her life. All of her memories of Ashley would be tied up in

that one spot—all of them. Culminating in the memory of how she

had hung herself about his neck like a millstone just at the time when

she had been trying to free him from suffering.

Gifts were dangerous things, she thought. Sometimes one succeeded

only in taking far more than one gave.

She ran lightly in the other direction, across wet and chilly lawns,

amongst trees whose branches dripped large drops of water onto her

head and face and arms, and through to the meadow beyond. She

had always loved this place—for the opposite reason to her love of the

falls. The falls closed her into a small and private world; the meadow

opened the world before her in a long and wide vista across fields and

distant rolling countryside.

She stood for a long time and gazed at the world beyond herself. At

order and beauty and peace. The grass was wet beneath her feet. But

she would not be deterred by it. She went down on her knees and

then lay facedown on the ground, her head tilted back so that she

could gaze across the meadow almost from ground level. She saw the

grass and the wildflowers as they would see themselves, rooted to

earth and growing upward toward light and rain. She could see

droplets of water on individual blades of grass and petals of flowers.

Then she rested her forehead on her arms. Her hands were flat

against the ground, her fingers spread. She could feel the world

spinning with her. She could feel the pulse of the universe against her

own heartbeat. She lay still and relaxed, feeling the connection.

She felt no alarm, no unease when she realized that she was not

alone. She did not even move for some time. She knew who it was.

He would not disturb her or go away. She turned her head eventually

and looked at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass a short

distance from her. His elegant brown skirted coat and the breeches

beneath were going to be soaked, she thought. She studied his

battered face—one eye swollen half shut, both cheeks red and raw-

looking, a swollen, cut lip. Victor had given him the bruise beneath

his jaw. Who was responsible for the rest? Lord Powell? Luke?

"Luke," he said, almost as if she had asked the question out loud.

She sat up and noticed how her dress was dark with wetness and

clinging to her all the way down the front. It did not matter. She

raised her knees and clasped her arms about them.

"I saw you from my window," he said, startling her by signing the

words with his hands in the private language they had started to

devise long ago, "and followed you. There is no peace for you today,

is there?" He smiled at her and then winced before touching a finger

gingerly to his lip.

She wondered if Luke looked as bad. Why was it, she thought, that

no one had come to beat her? She deserved a beating more than

Ashley.

"We need to talk, Emmy," he said, still signing the words. "It never

even entered my head that you would refuse me. And so I nobly

blurted out the whole truth to Royce and he spread the glad tidings

to everyone else in the house. Doubtless it did not enter his head

either. I have put you in a very awkward position—to put the matter

mildly."

She wished he would stop taking responsibility for her. What she

had done she had done freely. He had offered her respectability and

she had refused. He owed her nothing else. He owed her nothing at

all. She wanted to smooth her fingers very, very gently over his hurt

cheeks and lip.

"Ah, those eyes," he said. "They speak volumes, but sometimes even

I cannot translate the language. And we never did invent enough

signs for deeper thoughts and feelings. 'Tis not fair that all the burden

of listening and understanding be on you. I remember once telling

you that I would come back to teach you to read and write. Do you

remember?"

He had said it when he was leaving. On that most painful of all

mornings—even more painful than this morning.

"Perhaps," he said, "I should remain here for a while, Emmy, and

teach you. Forget about last night. Forget about this morning. And

just be dear friends again. Brother and sister, as we used to be."

She smiled sadly. But she pointed to herself, spread her palms flat

before her, and read them as if she were reading a book. Then she

dipped an imaginary quill pen into an imaginary inkwell and wrote

an imaginary word with a flourish. She looked back at him.

"You can already read and write," he said. "Who taught you, Emmy?

Luke?"

Yes, Luke.

"Damn him," he said.

She lifted her shoulders.

"And so there is nothing I can do for you, is there?" he said. "Strong, self-sufficient Emmy. You were always the same. It was always a

ridiculous fallacy to believe you weak and vulnerable because you

could not hear or speak, yet many people believed it. And probably

still do. Perhaps I should ask what I can learn from you. We always

think of teaching you, Emmy. Teaching you to communicate.

Perhaps we should do the learning—and learn notto communicate,

or to do it in a different way. Now there is a thought. Perhaps we

could learn your peace if we could share your silence. What is it like?

Tis not a dreadful affliction to you, is it? You have found meaning in

silence. You are almost like a different being. You have perhaps the

strongest character of anyone I have ever known."

He had stopped signing. And he had spoken at great length, as he

had always used to do. She had always understood him, perhaps

because she had loved to gaze at him. She felt anything but strong. At

this moment she almost wished she had given in this morning and let

life happen to her for the rest of her days. She would have had

Ashley—for the rest of her life. As her companion, her lover, her

husband. No! No, she would never have had him. Even if she had

agreed to marry him, she could never have him. Ashley's heart was

given, buried with his dead wife. She could never be happy with just

what was left—especially when it was offered out of a sense of

obligation, an obligation she had placed him under.

"Perhaps one day I will learn silence," he said, and his one good eye

smiled gently at her, making him look like the old Ashley despite the

mutilation of the rest of his face. "But in the meantime perhaps I

should teach you to speak, Emmy. Now that might be a gift worth

giving."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

"Have you ever tried?" he asked. He leaned slightly forward toward

her. "I suppose 'twould not be impossible. You make sounds, you

know, Emmy, especially when you laugh. You could probably speak

if you could only hear. Have you ever tried?"

When I was a small child, she told him with busy and eager hands, I

did speak a little.

He gazed at her. "You?" he said. "You could speak? You could hear,

Emmy? What happened?"

I had a fever, she told him as best she could. And then I could not

hear.

"Zounds," he said, "I did not know that. Do you remember sound,

Emmy? Do you remember speech?"

No, she told him sadly. No. I was very small.

"You should be able to speak again then, Emmy." He had leaned

forward, looking eager and almost boyish despite his battered face. "

Haveyou tried?"

She had often sat before a looking glass forming with her mouth the

words she read on other people's lips. She had even tried making

sound. But she had no way of knowing if the resulting effort was

speech. She had never tried it out on anyone. And she could not

remember how it felt to speak.

"Zounds, you have." He smiled broadly and then fingered his lip

again. "Admit it."

She nodded, feeling embarrassed.

"Say yes," he said. "Let me hear you."

She felt breathless, as if she had been running for five miles without

stopping. She should never have admitted the truth. But he would

have known.

"Say yesto me." His smile had softened.

She drew breath and moved her lips in careful formation of the

word. At the same time she forced what she thought was sound. Then

she hid her face in her hands.

There was laughter in his face when she gathered enough courage to

remove her hands and peep up at him. He had been laughing. "The

word was correctly formed," he said, "and there was sound. But there

was no communion between the two, Emmy. I believe you blocked

the sound— perhaps with the back of your tongue? It came through

your nose."

She bit her lip, horribly mortified. What had happened to his idea of

learning silence? Would shelaugh at himif he got it wrong?

"Try again," he told her. "Let the sound come through your mouth.

Let the air come through your lips."

She did not know how. She could not remember. Say the word to

me, she demanded with one hand. But when he did so, she still did

not know how. She wriggled closer to him until their knees almost

touched. Again, she commanded.

"Yes," he said while she stretched out one hand and set her fingertips

lightly against his throat. She could feel the vibrations. Again, she

motioned, frowning in concentration.

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

She set her fingers against her own throat and tried to make

vibrations. He had told her to let the air out through her mouth. She

set the other hand before it. She could feel the air—and then the

vibrations. She darted a look up at him.

"You have it, by my life," he said. "Sound, Emmy, coming through

your lips. Now say yes."

"Yyaaahhhzzz," she said.

The gleam in his good eye was not exactly amusement. It was…

triumph. The type of look she had seen in Luke's eyes when Joy took

her first step.

"Yes-s-s," he said, stretching his swollen, cut lips and showing her

that the final sound was a more violent one than the one she had

produced.

"Zzzzsssss," she said.

He was enjoying himself. The old Ashley, though somewhat

battered. But she was concentrating too hard for the thought to be

conscious.

"Yes," he said.

"Yyaazzss."

"Yes-s-s."

"Yyaassss."

"Yes."

"Yyass."

"Yes."

"Yass."

He was laughing. "Yes, Emmy, yes," he said, and he opened his arms

to her.

She was laughing too, helplessly, excitedly, like a child with a hard-

won prize. She could speak! She could form words and make sound

and be understood. She could speak all of one word. She could not

stop laughing. She swayed forward a couple of inches—and stopped.

The laughter went from his face even as she felt it drain from hers.

His arms dropped back to his knees.

"Emmy," he said, "marry me. Marry me and make me laugh again.

Marry me and teach me your silence, your serenity. Marry me and let

me teach you to speak—to hold a whole conversation. To drive

people distracted with your constant chattering. Marry me."

The temptation was almost overwhelming. For a few minutes seven

years had fallen away and they had been purely happy together as

they had always used to be. In a rare two-way communication he had

stepped into her world as surely as she had stepped into his. The

temptation to believe that those few minutes could be expanded to a

lifetime was powerful indeed.

She shook her head.

He had sat looking at her for a long time before she gave in to a

small temptation. She lifted one of his arms from his knee, nestled

her cheek against the back of his hand, and turned her head to kiss it.

Then she set his arm back over his knee.

"Yes, I know," he said when she looked into his face again. "You love

him, Emmy. And there have been Alice and Thomas in my life. Our

fondness for each other will not overcome those barriers. Have it your

way then."

She smiled at him.

"But Emmy," he said, and he was signing again, "if there is a child—

and there may be a child—you must marry me. You must. Do you

understand? 'Twould not be just you and me then. There would be

someone else, more important than you or me. Children are so very

fragile, and so very innocent. Protecting them must always come

before any other consideration. Promise me?''

She could see in his face the rawness of memory. The knowledge that

there had been one child—his own son— whom he had been unable

to protect. His hands made a baby seem a tender, precious being.

She nodded. "Yass," she said.

"Thank you." He reached across and took both her hands in his. He

raised them one at a time to his lips. "If you do not catch a chill,

Emmy, in that soaked dress, there is no justice in this world. Come

back to the house with me."

"Yass," she said, getting to her feet and grimacing as her dress clung

wetly to her. She walked beside him, glad that he did not offer his

arm. When they reached the lawn, she smiled at him, gathered her

wet skirts about her, and ran off alone in the direction of the side

door.

A maid answered the bell she had rung, and she signaled to the girl

that she wanted hot water. When the maid returned, she carried a

large jug of steaming water and a message.

"His grace wishes to see you in the study at your earliest

convenience, my lady," she said, bobbing a curtsy.

Emily felt a fluttering in her stomach. Of all of them, Luke was the

one she most dreaded having to face. Not that he had ever been harsh

with her. He had never chastised her—or any of his own children.

But then Luke never needed to use either harsh words or violence in

order to impose his will on his household. His very presence was

enough. His eyes were worse. The study! It was a formal summons,

then. And her "earliest convenience" meant now, or sooner than now.

She washed quickly, pulled on a clean, dry gown over small hoops,

dressed her hair in a hasty knot, and drew a few steadying breaths.

A footman opened the study door for her. Luke was seated behind

his desk, writing. He neither looked up nor got to his feet for the

whole of one minute. Emily stood silently facing him across the desk.

This was deliberate, she knew. She was being made to feel like a

recalcitrant servant about to be disciplined.

He set his pen down at last and looked up. As she had expected, his

eyes were cold. Also as she had expected, he did not speak for so long

that she had to make a conscious effort not to squirm and not to drop

her eyes—she, who did not deal in words, was suddenly cowed by

their absence. He did not invite her to be seated.

"Well, Emily," he said, "you have made a young man very unhappy

and very angry today. You have humiliated him in the eyes of your

family and his own. 'Twas not well done."

She swallowed.

"You have made your family very unhappy," he said. "Including

Anna. Anna's happiness means more to me than anyone else's in this

world. I do not feel kindly disposed toward you."

She had glanced down briefly as he had lowered his pen. She had

seen his knuckles. There were no marks of violence on his face. It had

been punishment pure and simple, then. Ashley had not fought back.

Just as she would not fight back now.

"I would ask one question," he said. "What exactly you did with my

brother last night and how it came about is a matter for the two of

you alone. I am without curiosity. But I would know if it was by

mutual consent, Emily. Were you in any way coerced?"

No. Oh no, she told him. They would never be allowed to think that

of Ashley. Had he asked Ashley if hehad been coerced?

"Thank you," Luke said. "I did not believe so, but I felt it necessary to ask. And so, Emily, you have freely and rashly given what you had

no business giving, and now you choose not to allow Ashley to make

restitution. Is that correct?"

She nodded.

"And there is no chance that you do not fully understand? That

when you do you will change your mind? That we may prepare for a

wedding within the next week?''

Only if she was with child. But she would not know that within a

week. She shook her head.

Luke set his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers.

"Then you have won back a modicum of my respect," he surprised

her by saying. "It takes character to refuse a man you love more

dearly than life merely because marrying him would be the wrong

thing to do."

She had been prepared to stand stony-faced through a scolding and

through an argument to allow Ashley to do the proper thing. She felt

a rush of tears to her eyes at Luke's unexpected approval.

He waited for her eyes to clear.

"You are dismissed," he said, nodding curtly, and he lifted his pen

and lowered his head again.

On the whole, she thought, stepping from the room and closing the

door behind her, she felt almost as if she had been severely punished.

Her legs trembled beneath her and her palms felt clammy. It was a

strangely comforting feeling.

It was no longer pleasant to be at Bowden with his family, Ashley

discovered. And that was stating the case very mildly indeed. He

wandered into the drawing room, where his mother, his uncle, the

Hornsbys, the Severidges, and Lady Sterne were taking tea, and felt

that he had collided with a wall of frosty silence. He wandered out

again. He climbed to the nursery, where all the children with the

exception of the Hornsbys' newest, who was sleeping, and young

Harry, who was taking his private tea with Anna in an inner room,

were ecstatic at seeing a potential new playmate and were instantly

buzzing with questions about his face. But Doris made him feel

decidedly unwelcome, and even Weims merely raised his eyebrows

and turned away to deal with a tug at his coat skirts from a tiny son,

who clearly wished to be picked up. Ashley smiled at the children,

drew roars of delight from them by telling them he had run into an

angry bull, which now looked infinitely worse than he did, raised a

hand in farewell, and withdrew. He would stay, he had decided while

walking back to the house with Emily, and help her somehow to face

down the terrible scandal that had erupted during the day. At least it

had been confined to the family. He doubted that Powell had been

treated to the full truth—unless Emmy had been rashly honest with

him. He would stay, Ashley thought, and court her more slowly.

Given time, she would realize that she had no alternative but to

marry him. There could be no other husband for her now.

He would stay and teach her to speak. He would do something

useful with his life for a change. It seemed an eternity since he had

last done that. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered how

very busy and how very happy he had been during most of his years

with the East India Company. Learning to speak would be

wonderfully liberating for Emmy. And with one word, slightly

mispronounced and spoken in a strange little contralto voice, she had

shown him that it was possible.

Staying, teaching her to speak, courting her, would be good for him

too. They would take his mind off a past that could not be remedied

and could not be atoned for. Perhaps. And perhaps too he would stay

and learn from her. There was at least as much to learn as there was

to be taught, he suspected.

But soon after returning to the house, he changed his mind. Emmy

had set her own course today. She had broken off her betrothal with

Powell, and she had refused his marriage offer—twice, even though

he had tried, and he was sure other members of her family had tried,

to explain to her the inevitability of their marrying. She would not

change her mind. Emmy was someone who never took the easy

course if it was not the course she wished to take. She recognized the

inevitability of nothing.

One could only respect her—and wish sometimes to shake the living

daylights out of her. He smiled despite himself. He was fonder of

Emmy than of anyone else in his life, strange as the thought might

be, especially considering the fact that he had almost completely

forgotten about her while he was away. Though he was no longer so

sure of that—there had been that urgent, quite irrational urge to

come home to Bowden. However it was, his fondness for Emmy was

the main problem today. He did not want to marry her, if the truth

were known. He was as relieved by her stubbornness as he was

alarmed by it.

He hated to think of Emmy as a wife, a lover. He remembered her

warm, soft, shapely body, naked beneath his own. He remembered

her tight virginity. He remembered the urgency of his need driving

into her. And he felt something that was definitely not revulsion, but

was… a great sadness. A deep shame. He had known what he had no

wish to know. He had known her as a woman. Yet he wanted to

know her only as the sprite he had seen yesterday morning, when she

had stood on the rock at the falls, refusing to listen to Powell. And he

wanted to remember her as his little fawn of seven years ago.

"Where may I find his grace?" he asked a footman in the hall,

looking him directly in the eye, scorning to try to hide his face in the

shadows. One could be very sure that what the family knew

abovestairs the servants knew in even greater detail belowstairs. That

was in the nature of life in a great house. The servants probably knew

exactly how many punches Luke had thrown, even though Ashley

himself had not kept count.

"He is in the study, my lord," the footman informed him.

"Ask him if Lord Ashley Kendrick may have a word with him,"

Ashley said formally, and waited in the hall until the footman

reappeared and beckoned him.

Luke was seated behind his desk. He looked up coolly when his

brother came inside but neither rose to his feet nor offered Ashley a

chair. Ashley recognized the tactic, which had always been damnably

effective. Seated behind his desk, Luke was the Duke of Harndon,

undisputed master of Bowden and all its properties, undisputed head

of his family. Eight years ago, as a wild, rebellious young man who

had been going nowhere in life except to possible ruin, Ashley had

stood thus before Luke's desk more than once. Now he felt like that

young man again. He had become an independent, successful, highly

respected businessman in India. But he had let his life fall apart, and

it had continued its decline in the few days since his return home. It

was time he did something about it. The resolve he had made within

the past half hour was strengthened.

"You wished to speak to me?" Luke asked.

"I will not ask if she may stay here," Ashley said. " 'Twould be an

insult to the love you and Anna have always shown her. I would ask

only that you ensure she is left in peace. There are to be no

recriminations, no insults, no coldness. She is blameless."

"And yet, my dear," Luke said, "she has assured me that she was not

coerced."

Ashley's jaw tightened. "She was blameless," he said. "You will

promise me something, Luke."

"I will?" No one looked more haughty than Luke with raised

eyebrows.

"You will send for me," Ashley said, "if she is with child. I will come immediately, bringing a license with me."

"You are going somewhere?" The eyebrows were still up.

"Where I should have gone as soon as I set foot in England," Ashley

said. "To Penshurst. To Alice's home. My home. There will be work

to do there. A steward has been running the estate single-handed for

over four years, since the death of Alice's brother. 'Tis time I took the

reins into my own hands."

"Yes," Luke said. "You were always good at that."

"I will leave at first light tomorrow," Ashley said. "But 'tis not far.

Only in Kent. I can come back here quickly."

"Yes." Luke nodded.

"I am fond of her," Ashley said. "I want you to know that. 'Twas

not—ugly. I am fond of her."

"Yes." Luke's eyes coolly examined his face. "You always were, Ash.

Fond of her. Sit and have a drink with me. When my eyes alighted

on you in the ballroom two evenings ago, and when I had convinced

myself that they did not deceive me, I was more delighted than I can

possibly express in words. My brother—my only surviving brother

had come home. I pictured myself having long conversations with

you, taking long walks and rides with you, while our wives and

children became acquainted. Tis a picture that has been dashed into a

thousand pieces since then."

He came around the desk, set a hand on Ashley's shoulder, and

indicated two chairs by the fireplace.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ashley was leaving.

He was going to Penshurst, the estate in Kent he had inherited

through his wife. It was not as far away as India. Indeed, it was only a

day's drive away. Closer than Victor's or Charlotte's. But Emily knew

as she sat on the window seat in her room, hugging her knees, the

side of her head resting against the cold glass of the window, that it

was as far away as India. Farther. When he had gone to India, there

had been the hope, however faint, that he would come back some

day. This time there was no such hope.

He would not come back to Bowden. Not while she was there.

It was altogether probable that she would never see him again.

She gazed out over lawns and trees. It was a day very similar to the

one on which he had left before. Gray and blustery. She could not see

the front of the house or the stables or carriage house. She did not

know if he had left yet. She remembered the feeling of panic that had

clawed at her stomach the last time. It had driven her finally to rush

outside and down to the driveway so that she might hide among the

trees and see his carriage pass. She felt the same panic now. But this

time she could do nothing about it.

She lowered her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes. This time

his leaving had been entirely of her own choosing. And if she had the

choice to make again—if he came now to ask her one more time—

she would not change it. He was going because she would not have

him. Because she loved him.

She wondered if her suffering was sufficient to atone for what she

had done to Lord Powell. She did not feel sorry for herself: she

deserved this feeling of black despair. She hoped Lord Powell would

find someone else. She hoped he would be happy. She hoped he

would look back at some future date and be fervently glad that she

had rejected him. She concentrated her mind on him, picturing the

dark handsome face with its heavy eyebrows and rather large nose and

slightly crooked teeth. She tried to analyze why it was that

handsomeness did not always require perfection of features. She tried

to distract her mind.

Ashley was leaving.

She would never see him again. And if she did, seeing him would

make no difference to anything. It would only make her feel worse.

No, there was no worse way to feel.

She had not gone down to dinner last evening. Nor had she joined

the family in the drawing room afterward. Anna had come to her

later, after she had been to the nursery to feed Harry, and had told

her that Ashley was leaving.

"Everyone will be returning home soon, Emmy," she had said,

taking her sister's hands in hers and smiling her sunny smile.

"Everything will be back to normal again. There will be just Luke and

me and the children and you— the way I like it best. Even Mother is

going, with Doris and Andrew. You can live your life as you wish

again. You can paint again. You can be at peace again. You will be

happy, Emmy, once the rawness of these few days has passed. Lord

Powell was pleasant, but he would not have understood you as Luke

and I do or loved you half as much. You did the right thing."

Dear Anna. No mention of Ashley or of what had caused her to

break off her betrothal.

And so today he was leaving. Had left. There had been more than an

hour of daylight already. Anna had said he was to leave at first light.

He was gone. He was an hour on his way. Emily's arms tightened

about her legs and she squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. Shutting

herself in— totally.

The rest of her life had begun. So be it, then. And she would not

cower in her room forever or escape outside merely for the sake of

escape. She was going to dress respectably, just as she had almost

every day since Lord Powell had first arrived, and she was going to go

down to breakfast. There was the danger, of course, that everyone

would be there. It did not matter. She would go anyway.

"Yass," she said, getting determinedly to her feet and crossing to her

dressing room.

She stood in front of her looking glass. "Yass," she said. No, it was

not quite right. Her lower jaw dropped too far. He should have told

her yesterday, as he had told her about the .s- sound. This was the

way the mouth and jaw should look. "E-e-e," she said. "Yess." That looked better. She would scold him for not scolding her. She smiled

at her image.

And then her face crumpled before her eyes. She dropped her face

into her hands and sobbed with unabashed self-pity.

"Emily will come home with Constance and me," Victor said. His

face was unsmiling, almost grim. " 'Tis only fitting. I am her brother,

head of her family. Elm Court is where she belongs. I will be able to

keep an eye on her there."

"And Charlotte and Jeremiah will be close by," Constance said. "

'Twill be a consolation to her to be close to the church."

Jeremiah added, "I have always said—have I not, my love?—I have

always said that an unmarried daughter's place is in the home of her

birth with whoever is head of that home. Emily can be taught to be

useful at Elm Court.And Charlotte will help Constance to provide

moral guidance."

"La, it sounds almost," Doris said, "as if Luke is not considered a

responsible guardian."

The Earl of Weims laid a hand over hers on the table and she

subsided into silence.

"Emily would probably be happier away from here," the Dowager

Duchess of Harndon said. "With her own family and away from all

members of mine."

"Emmy will stay where she belongs," Anna said, her cheeks flushed

with color. "Where she has always been happy and loved. She will not

go with you, Victor, to be made to feel that she is somehow a child

who needs to be disciplined."

Luke did to Anna what the earl had just done to Doris. He set a

hand over hers. "You need not upset yourself, my dear," he said.

"If truth were known," Victor said, "Luke will be only too glad to be

rid of Emily, Anna. It cannot be comfortable for him to know that

his brother was the one to dishonor her or that our sister was the one

who refused to allow Lord Ashley to retrieve his honor."

" Tis true, Anna," Constance said, looking as if she was on the verge

of tears.

Anna already was in tears.

"And you must consider your husband's feelings before your own or

Emily's, Anna," Jeremiah added. "He is your lord and master."

" 'Tis remarkable, by my life," Luke said, his eyebrows raised

haughtily, though the eyes beneath them looked more lazy than cold,

"to find that so many people are privy to my inmost thoughts and

feelings and choose to speak for me."

He had not finished. But Emily, who had been sitting at the

breakfast table, watching herself being spoken of in the third person,

watching her future being decided for her, though she had kept her

eyes determinedly on her plate for much of the time, did not wait for

the rest. She got to her feet, folded her napkin and set it neatly beside

her plate, and left the room. She resisted the urge to run.

There was nowhere torun. There was nowhere to go. Whether she

wished it or not, they would decide for her. She was now and forever

the spinster member of the family, a burden on them all whether or

not they ever admitted it, even in the privacy of their own minds. It

was the desire to avoid that very situation that had made her decide

upon marriage. Better an unexciting marriage in which there was no

deep love, she had decided, than dependence upon her relatives for

the rest of her life.

Now she had no alternative to dependence.

And worse now was the fact that she was not even a maidenrelative

dependent upon them. She was a fallen woman. Perhaps they would

never describe her as such, but every word that had been spoken at

the breakfast table this morning had presupposed that fact. And the

fact that she was subnormal, incapable of managing her own life.

How weary she was of the sight of sound—too weary even to be

amused by the thought. Sound, it seemed—voices— ruled the world.

It was the only sanity.

She went upstairs for a cloak and then walked outside. She walked all

the way down through the terraces of the formal gardens and across

the lawn below them. She crossed the bridge and walked down the

driveway into the trees. Strangely, in seven years she had never come

back to that particular tree. But she knew it unerringly. She stood

against it as she had stood that morning. She set her head back

against the trunk and closed her eyes. Shutting herself in again.

This morning she was several hours too late.

Luke waited for Emily to leave. He curled his fingers about Anna's

hand. Like Emily, she had remarkable control over her emotions.

Rarely did she become openly and publicly upset.

" Twould seem to me," Luke said, "that two important facts have

been ignored both yesterday and today. Perhaps three. First, Emily is

a person, with intelligence and a will of her own. Second, she is an

adult—two-and-twenty years of age. Thirdly, she has already taken

responsibility for her own questionable actions of two nights ago and

has already decided her course. Perhaps discussing her future among

ourselves, especially in her presence, is not the right thing to do.

Perhaps we should consult Emily's wishes."

"Bravo, my lad,'" Lord Quinn said.

"Emmy will wish to stay here, Luke," Anna said.

"Emily must learn that she gave up her right to choose yesterday,"

Victor said.

"Emily needs to learn that she must be ruled by the men in her life,"

Jeremiah said. "In this case, by Victor."

"I shall offer Emily a choice that has not been mentioned yet," Lady

Sterne said, entering the discussion for the first time. "I shall offer it,

not dictate it. And I would remind anyone who speaks of the men in

a woman's life"—she looked severely at the Reverend Hornsby—

"that some women manage very nicely without such a disagreeable

watchdog. Harndon has already reminded us that Emily is of age. If

she chooses, she may return to London with me. 'Tis the Season,

when all the fashionable world will be assembled for enjoyment. I

shall take her about and have the happiest spring since I had Anna

and Agnes to bring out. Tis time that Emily was no longer coddled.

She is deaf, not a mindless infant."

"Bravo, Marj, m'dear," Lord Quinn said.

Luke pursed his lips and looked amused.

"Aunt Marjorie," Anna said. "Oh, Aunt Marjorie, you are a dear."

"Impossible, madam," the Reverend Hornsby said. "I would remind

you that Emily is a fall—"

"Complete that thought, lad," Lord Quinn said in perfectly

agreeable tones, "and you will be licking up the blood from your

nose."

"Theodore!" The dowager glared coldly at her brother.

"Might I suggest the weather as a topic of conversation?" Lady Sterne

said, getting to her feet and gesturing with both hands to indicate

that she did not expect the gentlemen to scramble to theirs. " 'Tis

dull but invariably safe. I shall go and search for Emily. Faith, but the

coming spring begins to looks brighter to me already. If I can but

persuade her."

Luke patted his wife's hand.

"The clouds are low and heavy, egad," Lord Quinn said. "But they

are white rather than black. Or perhaps gray, to be strictly accurate.

Will it rain, d'ye think? Hornsby?"

Lady Sterne watched from the lowest terrace of the formal gardens as

Emily trudged, head down, up the sloping lawn from the bridge. She

was not wearing stays beneath her gown this morning, but even

without she had a trim and pleasing figure. Her hoops were small,

but then large hoops were falling out of fashion. She was not wearing

a hat, and her lace cap had slipped so far to the back of her head that

it was hardly visible from the front. There was, of course, all that

glorious hair, which might have been described as either golden or

blond without too much stretching of the truth.

And then, of course, there were her eyes, by far her best feature. Men

would fall in love with her eyes alone, Lady Sterne mused, even if the

surrounding package were but moderately pleasing. And Emily was

more than moderately lovely.

She dressed up to look quite superb. The older lady recalled how she

had looked for the ball just three nights ago.

Lud, but she would do very nicely indeed, Lady Sterne thought,

feeling her spirits lifting by the minute. She had begun on occasion to

catch herself feeling old. At the grand age of fifty. That was what had

done it, of course. Fifty sounded a whole decade older than nine-and-

forty. She needed something to keep her young. There was Theo, of

course, but he felt more like a dear old habit than a force of

rejuvenation.

If she could but take Emily to London with her. If she could but be

given the challenge of bringing the girl into fashion despite her

affliction. No, becauseof it. Much could be made of the novelty of a

beauty who could neither hear nor speak—except with those eyes.

As for virgin brides… Pshaw! Lady Sterne thought. If truth were

told, any man would be thankful to avoid blood and skittishness on

his wedding night

Emily had seen her, had realized that it was too late to take a

different course and avoid the encounter, and came onward, smiling.

Lady Sterne came face-to-face with her across the low hedge that

separated the terrace from the lawn.

" Tis like this, Emily, my love," she said slowly and distinctly. "They would divide you up like a bone if they could and take you in a dozen

different directions. Each for your own good, of course. Lud, men

and their ideas of what is for a woman's own good! 'Tis time more

women stood up to them as you did yesterday to Lord Ashley and

demanded to decide for themselves what was in their own best

interest." She forced herself to slow down again when she saw the

slight frown on the girl's face. "Become a bone if 'tis your wish, child.

Or take your life in your own hands and bring it to London with me.

We will enjoy the Season together. We will have every man in the

kingdom groveling at your feet. What do you say?"

Emily looked gravely at her for such a long time that Lady Sterne felt

her dream fading. The girl had not understood. And how could she

possibly function in London, where all was noise and conversation

and music and dancing? It was madness to have imagined… But then

Emily smiled, first with her eyes and then with the rest of her face.

She began to laugh in her strange, rather ungainly way, tipping back

her head and looking more vividly lovely to Lady Sterne than she had

ever appeared before. There were wildness and recklessness and

animation and sheer beauty in her face. She was a true original. Yes,

that would be the secret of her success. She was an original.

Every man in the kingdom? Lady Sterne thought. Nay, but it was no

exaggeration.

She joined in Emily's laughter. It was madness. But madness felt

good. It felt… youthful.

Penshurst was situated in a pleasant valley, rounded and wooded hills

behind, the park with its sloping lawns and copses in front. A wide

river flowed to the east of the house. On the opposite bank was the

village, clustered about a church with a tall spire. The house was

squarely classical, set between a smaller matching stable block to one

side and an office block to the other. It all looked still new and rather

splendid.

Ashley drew his horse to a halt on the road, which afforded a wide

view across the park to the house and the village and the hills—his

carriage with his valet and his baggage were coming behind him. It

was all very beautiful and very peaceful. He felt sad for Sir Alexander

Kersey, who had purchased the land, pulled down the old house, and

built this one. He had built it with the fortune he had made with the

East India Company. He had intended to retire here, set up his

dynasty here. But the dynasty had ended very soon after him. His son

had died before him. Alice soon after, and Thomas with her. So

already Penshurst had passed into new hands—his.

And he did not want it. Grand and lovely as it was, much as he had

always wanted to settle on an estate of his own here in England, it

had come to him in the wrong way and too late. Throughout his

voyage home and in the days since, he had several times thought of

selling it, going somewhere else, starting fresh. If Emmy had married

him, perhaps he would have done so. He would not have wanted to

bring her here.

Emmy. He felt a sinking of the heart whenever he thought of her—

and she was constantly in the back of his thoughts, no matter how

much he tried to concentrate his mind on the challenge ahead of him.

He had ruined her life; he did not believe he was overdramatizing,

especially since there was still the chance that he had got her with

child.

But he could not think of that now. He nudged at his horse and

continued on his way. Each time he had thought of it, he had realized

that he could not sell Penshurst. Not yet, anyway. He had to go

there, see the place where she had lived, where she had grown up. For

her sake and her father's he had to see that the estate was well run. He

felt somehow tied to it, like a millstone about his neck.

He remembered something his friend Major Roderick Cunningham

had said to him in India when he had announced his intention of

resigning from his post and returning to England. Roderick had

advised him to come back, to marry and have children, to put the

past behind him. But finally he had set a hand on his friend's

shoulder and squeezed hard.

"But you will not, Ash," he had said. "You will go to Penshurst and

you will find her there and punish yourself with memories. You will

make it the best-run estate in England as a kind of penance and you

will be miserable. Well, do it. But not forever. Forgive yourself at last,

sell the place, go somewhere else, and get on with the business of

living the rest of your life."

Rod had been right—at least on everything except that last point.

Ashley did not know how he would ever be able to forgive himself.

But self-pity would serve no purpose. Look where self-pity had got

him in Bowden. He winced at the memory of how Emmy had found

him just when his spirits had been at their very lowest ebb, when he

had touched the very bottom of despair.

He had grasped for peace and had shattered it.

Ashley smiled and touched his hat to several people he passed in the

village. It was a pretty place. At the far end of the main street a

humpbacked stone bridge crossed the river. At the far side of it was a

cottage, somewhat larger than those in the village itself. And beyond

that were the high gates leading into the park. They stood open.

But he paused beside the cottage. A young child was swinging on the

gate leading into the well-kept garden. He stared at Ashley with large

blue eyes. His dark hair was short and curly.

"Good day to you, lad," Ashley said. "And who might you be?"

"I am Eric Smith," the boy said. "Who are you?"

"Eric!" a voice called from behind him. A woman stood in the open

doorway of the house. She was dressed plainly but decently. She was

young and rather lovely. Ashley thought she must be the child's

mother, though her hair was lighter.

"Madam." He touched the brim of his three-cornered hat. ' "Good

day to you. May I present myself? Lord Ashley Kendrick of

Penshurst."

She half inclined her head to him, though she did not curtsy as he

had expected she would. Her face, which had looked embarrassed

when she first called out to her son, was now expressionless.

But before Ashley could ride on, someone else appeared in the

doorway, an older man, who stepped around the woman and came

walking down the path toward the gate. He was smiling, though he

looked at Ashley with shrewd, perhaps wary eyes.

"You are expected at the house, my lord," he said. "Ned Binchley at

your service. My grandson, Eric." He set his hands on the shoulders

of the child and stopped his gate-swinging, then turned his head to

look back at the doorway, which was now empty. "My daughter,

Mrs. Katherine Smith."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Ashley said. The man was

dressed as a gentleman, even if his coat and breeches had seen better

days. He also spoke as a gentleman.

"I was Sir Alexander Kersey's steward for fifteen years," Mr. Binchley

explained. "I have an interest in the estate, my lord. If there is

anything in which I can assist you, I am here."

"But you are no longer the steward?" Ashley asked.

"I retired," Mr. Binchley said, "almost five years ago, after young Mr.

Kersey died."

Ashley nodded, touched his hat again, winked at Eric, and rode on.

The Kersey name had been mentioned. This was where they had

belonged, where they had been known. This was where she had lived.

She had ridden and walked along this driveway perhaps a thousand

times. And she had lived in the house that was coming into view

again. There would be signs of her inside. Unless decisions had been

made after Alice's death without his having been consulted, many of

her possessions would remain in the house. He could almost feel her

presence already. He shivered.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lady Sterne and Emily had agreed between them during the carriage

journey to London—though Lady Sterne did all the talking, of

course—that for the first week they would stay at home preparing to

launch themselves into all the busy activities of the Season.

And so Lady Sterne had all the delight of summoning her mantua

maker and of spending two long days having Emily's measurements

taken and choosing patterns and fabrics with her and convincing her

that she needed many more clothes than Emily had first thought.

She had the delight too of spreading the word that the sister of the

Earl of Royce, the sister-in-law of the Duke of Harndon, was in town

to take in the Season. She made a particular point of having it known

that Lady Emily Marlowe was totally deaf and without speech but

that she could read lips. And that her beauty surpassed even that of

her sisters, who were remembered as great beauties. Had not one of

them snared Harndon, the most handsome, the most discriminating,

the most eligible bachelor of his time?

"Egad, but you are happy, Marj," Lord Quinn said to her when the

week was almost over. "I have not seen you so happy in a long while."

"Of course I am happy," she said, smiling sleepily at him. " Tis the

effect you always have on me, Theo. And it has been three whole

weeks. An eternity. You were especially good today, dear."

Discretion and the strictest of good manners had kept them apart at

Bowden, but now that both had returned to London, they had

resumed the weekly trysts that had brought them together for years.

They were lying in each other's arms, lazy after lovemaking.

Lord Quinn chuckled. "Only because you were happy and especially

eager, Marj," he said. " Tis the gel. You are enjoying having her. How

the devil you are to launch her when she is stone deaf and has none of

the pretty conversation the bucks all enjoy, I do not know. But the

very impossibility has you enjoying yourself immensely, by my life."

He kissed her lips.

" 'Tis one last chance," she said. "I thought 'twas lost, Theo, when

she was to marry Lord Powell. And I was glad for Anna's sake that all

was settled. But I cannot pretend to be sorry that I could bring her

with me. She is going to have all the young blades prostrate at her

feet."

Lord Quinn chuckled again. "I'll not forget," he said, "how we

schemed to bring my nephy together with your goddaughter eight

years ago, Marj. They were married within a week, and as I predicted

then, she was brought to bed exactly nine months later."

"With a daughter," she said. "You said 'twould be a boy, Theo. But

we did do rather well, did we not? Dear Anna. She is still happy with

him. And the boy came later—boys. Three of them." She sighed and

wriggled a little closer to him.

"By my life, Marj," Lord Quinn said, "I believe we should try it

again."

Her head went back and she looked into his face.

"With that scamp of a younger nephy of mine and your little gel,"

Lord Quinn said.

Lady Sterne looked at him consideringly for a long time. "Why did it

happen, Theo?" she asked at last. " 'Twas not ravishment, I am happy

to say for Lord Ashley's sake. But why, then? She seemed fond

enough of Lord Powell."

"Marj, m'dear," he said, "I thought 'twas women who were the

romantics."

She looked at him long and hard again. "Do you believe so?" she

said. "Do you really believe so?"

"Egad," he said, "but only one thing bothers me. If she loves the lad, why would she not have him? Perhaps I am wrong."

"Oh, pshaw!" Lady Sterne said. "That should be as plain as the nose

on your face, Theo. And as plain as the nose on mine. I would have

seen it sooner if I had but crossed my eyes. Why else would she refuse

him? Of course she loves him. Why else would she have said no?"

"There it is," Lord Quinn said, his brows knitted into a frown.

"Female logic. I never could get the hang of it, by my life. But you

agree with me, Marj?"

"Faith, but you have deflated all my hopes," she said. "I brought her

here to find her a husband, Theo, despite all the odds. But if she loves

Lord Ashley and will not have him, she will doubtless not have

anyone else either." She sighed.

"Then perhaps, m'dear," he said, "we had better do what we did

before. We had better bring them together."

"Lud, but how?" she said. "He has offered and she has said no. He

has gone off to Penshurst and she has come to town. How can we

bring them together? With Luke and Anna 'twas easy. They were to

attend the same ball; all we had to do was arrange it so that they took

a good look at each other."

"Egad, but 'twas more than that," he said. "There was Luke swearing

he would never marry. There was Anna swearing that shenever

would. But marry they did. We have to get the boy to London,

Marj."

"How?" she said. "He has just gone to Penshurst, nursing a broken

heart over that poor dead wife of his. Doubtless he is also nursing a

sense of shame over Emily. Does he love her, do you suppose, Theo?"

"He will," Lord Quinn said. "But we have to bring him here to see

her enslaving all the other young bucks, Marj. I can think of one sure

way."

She gazed at him. '"You are looking positively sheepish, Theo," she

said. "'Whatever are you plotting?"

" 'Tis like this, Marj," he said. "I believe "tis time I made an honest woman of you, m'dear."

Lady Sterne stared at him with incredulity for a few moments, and

then she tipped back her head and laughed. "Theo," she said when

she was able, "you have been making a sinner of me for longer than

twenty years. We have agreed on a number of occasions that 'tis

better so, that neither of us fancies the shackles of matrimony."

"If we were to get shackled, Marj—in St. George's, of course, with

all the fashionable world in attendance—my nephy would have little

choice but to come too."

"We would marry," she said, "merely to bring Lord Ashley to town,

Theo? 'Twould be the most eccentric reason for marrying I have ever

heard."

He tightened his arm about her and kissed her hard. "The fact is,

Marj," he said, "I have been a bachelor all my life and have never

thought of loneliness—till recently. But with the creeping of the

years, I find myself with a hankering to have someone to wake up to

in the nights and in the mornings. And someone in the chair on the

other side of my hearth in the mornings and the evenings."

"You have been eyeing the crop of young girls this Season," she said.

But she was blinking her eyes hard to keep the tears at bay.

Lord Quinn chuckled. "I am old enough to value comfort, Marj," he

said. "I am comfortable with you, m'dear."

"Comfortable?" Her eyebrows shot up.

"Egad," he said, " 'twas not well expressed, by my life. You know I

love you, Marj. I loved you in those days when you were married to

Sterne. I loved you after you were widowed. I still love you. There has

never been another woman for me. Never will be."

She turned her face in to his shoulder. "But to marry in order to

promote another match, Theo," she said. "You must mean soon, do

you?"

"We could have the banns read for the first time next Sunday," he

said. "You see, Marj, I have thought of how you will be after the gel

has gone. She willbe gone, y'know, either back to Bowden or off to

Elm Court when summer comes. Or else she will marry someone,

though I cannot see it happening. But the gel is not my main

concern. You are. You will be unhappy, m'dear. You will be lonely.

Again. You think I have not noticed in the last year or two that some

of the sparkle has gone out of you? Perhaps you need a new life, a

new challenge, one that will be a little more permanent than finding a

husband for Anna's young sister. I'll be a challenge. I promise to be a

challenge."

"Oh, Theo," she said, her face still against his shoulder. "Lud, but I am tempted. Tis ridiculous."

"After the Season is over," he said, "I would be able to take you to

France, Marj, and to Italy and Austria and all the other places you

always say you would visit if you but had the chance. Harkee, we

could be young again, m'dear. Not in years—I have no wish to be

young in years again. But young in hope. Egad, I like the sound of it.

Marry me, woman."

"And Lord Ashley will come to town for the wedding, and we will

convince him that he loves Emily," Lady Sterne said, laughing, "and

convince Emily that he loves her. And then we will attend their

wedding. 'Tis the wildest of wild schemes, Theo."

"We will do it," he said, raising himself on one elbow and leaning

over her. "Now say yes, Marj, and kiss me. Without any more delay.

There is still time to have each other again at our leisure. You know I

hate to be rushed. Let us waste no more time, then."

She sighed audibly. "Yes, then," she said. And she raised her head to

meet his lips with her own.

Emily had never had any desire to go to London, to enter society.

She might have done so with Anna and Luke, who occasionally went

to town. She had always shuddered at the thought of being away

from the countryside, of being forced to dress and behave as a lady all

day and every day, of having to be in company with people who

would look on her as a kind of freak. She had made sure before

deciding to take Lord Powell's courtship seriously that he was the sort

of man who spent most of his time on his own estate. Luke had

understood that when choosing her suitors.

But now she found herself in London, preparing to enter society

with Aunt Marjorie, subjecting herself to long sessions with a mantua

maker and lengthy shopping expeditions to purchase shoes and hats

and caps and fans and a dizzying array of other frivolities. It was the

Season in London and she knew that they would attend fashionable

entertainments every day, sometimes more than once a day. She

would meet polite society. Soon—just one week after her arrival.

It was madness. It was impossible.

She faced it all with a sort of wild excitement. All of her carefully

planned future had been thrown to the winds in exchange for a

moment of foolish indiscretion out at the falls. The seemingly

inevitable consequences had been defied and denied when she had

refused to marry Ashley. And the stifling net that had been about to

fall over her head in family plans for the remainder of her life had

been avoided at the last moment—she had not been forced to go to

Victor's or Charlotte's.

She felt incredibly free. She felt as if the whole world, the whole of

life was awaiting her. She felt as if she had not lived thus far in her

two-and-twenty years. She felt as if she had a great deal of living to do

and as if at last she had all the opportunity in the world to do it.

She would not look ahead. Had she done so, she would have known

that the Season would come to an end, that she could not live with

Lady Sterne for the rest of her life, that eventually she was going to

have to be dependent again on her family, and that perhaps she

would not be allowed to determine her own very limited fate. She

refused to think about it. She had not gone to London with any

intention of finding herself a husband, though she knew that Lady

Sterne had hopes of her doing so. She would never marry. Partly it

was because she could not. She was no longer a virgin, and she knew

that virginity was a man's primary requirement in a bride. But mainly

it was because she had no wish to marry. She had given herself once

to Ashley. She would never give herself again.

Yet even the fact that she was not in search of a husband was freeing

and exhilarating. There was no ulterior motive to her coming to

London for the Season. She had come merely to enjoy herself. She

had no idea how that was to be accomplished, but she did not much

care. She reveled in every moment of the week of preparation.

"I have never known a young lady more patient or more docile

through such lengthy fittings, my lady, I declare," Madame

Delacroix, the mantua maker, said to Lady Sterne while Emily

watched her lips.

But Emily wanted to be transformed. She wanted to be as

fashionable, as beautiful as she could be. She wanted to forget

everything else—her deafness, her differentness, her guilt, the mess

she had made of her life. She wanted to be a new person. A

normalperson. She wanted to forget the world in which she had

always been trapped.

"And I have never known one more beautiful," Madame Delacroix

added.

Doubtless she said the same things to every young lady client of hers,

Emily thought, smiling at her image in the glass. But it was

impossible not to be warmed by the compliment.

"Let me look at you." Lady Sterne had stood up when Emily entered

her drawing room, and now she clasped her hands to her bosom.

"Lud, I thought you lovely, child, on the evening of Harndon's ball.

You are ten times lovelier now. What say you, Theo?"

"Egad," Lord Quinn said. "If my head does not swell to twice its size

tonight with two such lovely ladies to escort, 'twill be a wonder."

Emily pirouetted slowly. They were to attend Mrs. Cadoux's ball on

Berkeley Square. It seemed madness that her first appearance should

be there when she was deaf and would be unable to hear the music or

dance—she tried to forget the one occasion when she had been

foolhardy enough to try it. But she had readily agreed to attend when

Lady Sterne had held the invitation aloft and said she thought it

might be the perfect start.

Her gown was blue, the sack dress, fitted tightly at the front and

flowing loosely behind, opened down the front and trimmed with

elaborately ruched robings. The petticoat, of a slightly darker blue

and worn over large hoops, was well covered with flounces and

furbelows. Her stomacher was trimmed with fashionable ribbon bows

of diminishing size. There was lace at her bosom and elbows. Her

hair, dressed rather high in front and elaborately curled at the back,

was carefully powdered. A lace confection of a cap had been pinned

to the back of it, its lappets fluttering freely to her waist. For the first

time she wore cosmetics—rouge and coloring for her eyelashes—and

a small black heart-shaped patch on one cheek, a frivolous concession

to fashion.

She opened her silver silk fan and plied it gently before her mouth,

laughing over the top of it at Aunt Marjorie and Lord Quinn.

"Lud, child," Lady Sterne said. "Those eyes are deadly-weapons."

'There will not be a gentleman present who will not be slain by

them, by my life," Lord Quinn said. "Ladies?" He offered them each

an arm after making them an elegant bow.

In truth, Emily found a scant half hour later, as their carriage inched

its way forward for a chance to deposit its occupants before the well-

lit doors of the house on Berkeley Square, this was not going to be

quite as easy as she had anticipated. Her heart was beating painfully

with excitement and fear. How could she meet a whole

ballroomful—a whole houseful—of strangers? But it was too late now

to turn back.

She looked about with wide eyes when she entered the house on

Lord Quinn's arm and ascended the stairs slowly to the ballroom and

the receiving line. And she had thought the ball at Bowden a crowded

and splendid affair! This ballroom, she discovered when she was

finally inside it, was surely too crowded to allow for dancing. There

were people conversing in groups, couples promenading about the

edge of the space kept clear for dancing, people— mostly

gentlemen—standing and looking. She felt dizzy and frightened. This

was more than madness.

And soon there were people converging on her own small group—

ladies come to greet Lady Sterne, gentlemen come to wish Lord

Quinn a good evening. And gentlemen come with the express

purpose of being presented to her, Emily suspected after the first few

moments of surprise that it had been arranged thus, that both Lady

Sterne and Lord Quinn had been busy ahead of time seeing to it that

she would have partners, if not for dancing, then at least for strolling

and conversing. Certainly none of the gentlemen who came seemed

surprised to find that she could not speak and could hear them only

when she could see their lips.

Emily smiled and nodded and shook her head in appropriate places

and even laughed. She plied her fan against the heat of the ballroom

and smiled over the top of it. And when a young gentleman came and

talked with Lord Quinn and was then presented to her and showed

surprise at her handicap, she knew that finally she had attracted

someone who had not been persuaded ahead of time to take notice of

her. She smiled all the more brightly.

Viscount Burdett secured her hand for the first set and directed her

toward a sofa that was just being vacated by a couple who intended to

dance.

It was the beginning of a strange, delirious sort of evening. The sofa

became the place from which she conducted her court, to use the

phrase that Lord Quinn used in the carriage on the way home. She

did not know quite what the attraction was, but gentlemen sat beside

her, stood beside her, hovered in her vicinity. All had secured

introductions through either Aunt Marjorie or Lord Quinn.

They talked with one another. Sometimes they talked to her, using

such precise lip movements that she laughed at them. They seemed

amazed when she nodded or shook her head at appropriate times and

they realized that she really had understood. She suspected that they

saw her as some sort of amusing curiosity. She did not care, theywere

amusing curiosities. She was amused. She was wildly happy—or

wildly enjoying herself at least.

" Tis hardly to be wondered at that you are a success, child," Aunt

Marjorie said in the carriage, patting her hand. "You were not only

beautiful, child—you sparkled, I do declare. And gentlemen can

never resist sparkle. All those poor girls who are instructed to look

bored lest they be accused of rustic enthusiasm are badly advised."

"Egad," Lord Quinn said, " 'twould be strange indeed, m'dear, if you

did not acquire a large and permanent court. Burdett asked if you

and Marj intend to be at home tomorrow afternoon. And a dozen

other young bucks listened avidly to the answer."

Emily laughed.

"Theo," Aunt Marjorie said, leaning forward to set a hand on his

knee, "shall we tell Emily?"

Emily looked across the carriage at him. She was still smiling.

"You will be the first to know, m'dear," he said, catching Aunt

Marjorie's hand as she was about to remove it and bringing it back to

his knee. "Marj here has done me the great honor of accepting my

marriage offer. We are to be married, here in London, as soon as the

banns have been called. At St. George's, with half the world present."

Emily bit her lower lip. She did not know which one of them to hug

first. She looked from one to the other with shining eyes. She had

known them both for a long time and loved them both. And she had

always thought that there was a fondness between them stronger than

mere friendship.

"I daresay all your family will come to town for the occasion," Aunt

Marjorie said. "My only relationship to any of you is as Anna's

godmother, but you have all been kind enough to call me aunt. I

want you all present when I marry."

She would see Anna, Emily thought. And Anna would see how

happy she was. She had been so worried that London was not at all

the place for her youngest sister.

"And all my family too" Lord Quinn said. "Doris and my sister are

already in town. Luke will come from Bow-den and Ashley will come

from Penshurst."

Emily's insides performed a complete and uncomfortable somersault.

"You may think it quite unseemly at the age of fifty, Emily," Aunt

Marjorie said, patting Emily's arm with her free hand, "'but 'tis going

to be the happiest day of my life."

Ashley would come from Penshurst. As soon as the banns had been

called. For the wedding. Within a month. She would see him again.

Ashley would come.

Emily closed her eyes and rested her head against the cushions. Her

eyes ached. Did other people's ears ache from incessant conversation

the way her eyes sometimes did? She longed suddenly for solitude and

the sweet, undemanding companionship of nature.

But she had stepped out of that life into the real world. She had

come to enjoy herself. She wasenjoying herself.

She opened her eyes determinedly and smiled, first at Lord Quinn

and then at Aunt Marjorie, both of whom were regarding her silently

but rather intently.

Ashley would come.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There was no separate breakfast parlor at Penshurst. All meals were

taken in the huge dining room, with its gilded paneled walls and its

coved and painted ceiling. The massive oak table had been made

especially for the room.

Ashley sat in lone state at the head of the table, eating his breakfast

and reading his mail. There was nothing from Bowden. He had

leafed through the pile first to ascertain that. Of course, the news, if

and when it came, might not come from Bowden. She had gone to

London with Lady Sterne. Luke had already mentioned that in an

earlier letter. Emmy in London, with the very sociable Lady Sterne. It

was difficult to imagine. Poor Emmy!

He had been at Penshurst for almost three weeks. She would

probably know by now, or at least suspect. Would she tell anyone

immediately? Would she even understand? Emmy was such a curious

mixture of wisdom and innocence that it was impossible to know.

But the suspense was weighing heavily on him. And he could not at

all decide if he wanted it to be so or not. Emmy with child—with his

child—and forced after all to marry him.

Part of him hoped fervently that it would not happen. He did not

want her in that way, and he did not want her forced into doing

something she so clearly did not want to do. But part of him wished

that she would be forced into allowing him to do the decent thing.

And part of him longed just for her, for her closeness, her

companionship, her unconventionality, her—but he could never put

into words exactly what it was about her that he longed for.

And part of him longed for a child. Son or daughter—it would not

matter. A child of his own body. His first.

There was a letter from London, but it was from his uncle Theo and

not from Lady Sterne. Theo would hardly be the one elected to send

for him. Sometimes he considered going on his own. To London. It

was the Season. He was newly returned to England. It would be easy

to excuse his going there for a week or two. Just to see that she was in

good health and good spirits. Just to see if she needed him.

He had always been the one to need her, not the other way around,

he realized. It was quite the contrary to what an outside observer

might have been led to believe. Emmy had always been the strong

one, the independent one. Right to the end.

He looked down at his uncle's bold handwriting when he had

broken the seal of the letter. He read the short note twice and then

smiled and chuckled. The old rogue! It was an open family secret that

Theo and Lady Sterne had been lovers for as far back as Ashley could

remember. Finally they were to be married. And they were not going

to creep quietly off to the nearest clergyman with a special license.

They were going to have a grand wedding at that most fashionable of

all London churches, St. George's, in the presence of as many

members of the fashionable world as could be packed within its pews.

He wished them well. He had no doubt that they would be happy

together. They knew each other well enough—in all possible ways,

Ashley did not doubt. It would never be said of them that they had

rushed into marriage after a mere few weeks of acquaintance. The

smile faded from Ashley's face.

And then the implication of what he had read struck him.

The letter was more than an announcement. It was an invitation.

Ashley folded the paper and set it down. He drummed his fingers

slowly on it. He had told himself that he would not go to London.

She would not wish to see him. There was work to do here—he was

still in the process of getting to know his new estate and of gradually

taking charge of its administration. And there were invitations to

honor from the neighbors who had been calling on him.

But the temptation to go had been strong even before the arrival of

Theo's invitation. He found the house oppressive despite its still very

new splendor. It was a feminine house. There were signs of Alice in

every flounced drapery and every frilled cushion, in every delicate

landscape painting and in every porcelain ornament. He was

reminded powerfully of how she had transformed his own very

comfortable home in India and of how she had raged against his

habit of leaving books and garments and snuffboxes lying around.

And here at Penshurst there was one particular set of rooms that drew

him like a magnet though he hated setting foot inside them. And yet

he found himself unable to give the order to have them cleared out.

Alice's rooms, still full of her personal possessions, still with the

distinctive perfume she had always worn clinging to the clothes in the

wardrobes.

If only she had died naturally, he had thought one day, standing in

the middle of her sitting room, his eyes tightly closed, or if only she

had died in an accident for which he could not possibly feel personal

blame, perhaps he would not feel so fettered by all this. She had been

no wife to him. She had never even tried to deny that she had lovers.

She had given birth to a red-haired child fourteen months after the

only time she could possibly have conceived the child with him. She

had told him they would be from home the night of the fire.

But nothing he had been able to say to himself in more than a year

of mental torment had ever been able to convince him that he must

not blame himself. While they were at home alone, dying in that fire,

he had been taking re-heated and delighted pleasure in the bed of a

married woman—ironically his only foray into adultery.

And so, as Roderick Cunningham had predicted, he punished

himself with the house which almost breathed her presence—and

longed for an excuse to be away from it.

There was another reason for wanting to be in London. An illogical

reason, perhaps merely the exchange of one form of self-punishment

for another. Lady Verney, his closest neighbor, had called on him

with a couple of other neighbors. She was a lady of late middle age.

She talked of her son and daughter, both of whom were in London

for the Season. She referred to them several times as Henry and

Barbara. He had dreaded meeting Sir Henry Verney— Alice's lover,

the man she had loved almost fanatically, Verney, Ashley believed,

had blighted her life. If she had not loved him, if he had not for some

reason abandoned her, perhaps she would not have been so driven by

self-hatred. For that was what had motivated Alice. He was convinced

of it. Though he had often hated her, he had pitied her too.

He did not want to meet Verney, he had thought. And yet now,

finding the man absent, he discovered that part of his reason for

coming here must have been to see Verney, to try to piece together

exactly what had happened here five years or so ago, to try to wrest

some meaning out of the turbulent events of the past three years. He

was still seeking that peace he had blindly sought on his return, he

realized, though with his rational mind he knew that he would never

find it. He was too wrapped about with his own sin and guilt.

His steward was doing a quite capable job on the estate, even though

Ashley had his own ideas for change and improvement. And the

housekeeper and butler were managing the house perfectly well. His

neighbors would understand his reason for canceling or postponing

his promised visits. There was no reason not to go to Theo's

wedding.

And if he went, he would escape the house for a while. He would be

able to call upon the Verneys. And he would see Emmy.

He would see Emmy. He rested his hand flat on his uncle's letter

and closed his eyes. He could picture her sitting cross-legged on the

soaked grass at Bowden, the front of her dress dark with wetness and

clinging to her, her bare feet covered with grass, her hair loose and

untidy and damp and brushing the ground behind her. She was

frowning in concentration and touching her fingertips to his throat.

He could hear her strange, low, curiously attractive voice saying yass.

Emmy. He would see her if he went to London— whenhe went.

There was really nothing to decide. He could not possibly absent

himself from the wedding. And he had no wish to do so.

He would see her again.

It was a warm night, fortunately. She had hoped for it for all of the

week past, a week during which the weather had been cloudy and

somewhat chilly. But tonight was perfect. There were moonlight and

starlight to sparkle off the surface of the River Thames as they crossed

it by boat. She raised her face to the light for a few moments and was

aware of the vast mystery of the universe.

And then they stepped out of the boat—Viscount Burdett took her

hand and held it firmly and smiled at her while Lord Quinn helped

Aunt Marjorie and the Earl of Weims helped Doris. A few moments

later they were standing inside the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens, and

she was looking around at the place she had been told about and had

dreamed of seeing. The famous pleasure gardens, the great rival of

Ranelagh Gardens, which she also longed to see. Both were said to be

magical by night.

To their right, extending away into the distance, was a long

colonnade with an arched, Gothic roof, hung with golden and red

lamps. Ahead were the trees she had heard about, the grove, and the

numerous shady walks. The trees were hung with festoons of lamps.

Along the wide central path, farther in among the trees, she could see

a brighter blaze of light. That would be the rotunda, the place where

orchestras played and famous singers performed and people danced,

the place where the more wealthy patrons sat in boxes and ate and

drank while they enjoyed the spectacles around them. Viscount

Burdett had hired a box there to-night.

"Lady Emily." Her arm was resting on his satin sleeve. He touched

his fingers briefly to hers. "Do you find it pleasing?"

It was magical, spectacular. It was hard to believe that this was a

park, with trees and grass, with sky above. She wondered briefly what

it must be like in the daytime, when there would be no lamplight to

mask reality, or what it would be like with the lamps unlit and all the

crowding masses gone. But she pushed the thought aside. She did not

want to know.

She smiled dazzlingly at the man who had conversed with her at

several balls during the past weeks and had called upon her at Aunt

Marjorie's and walked with her in the Mall of St. James's Park. He

was the most constant among a startlingly large number of gentlemen

who paid her attention wherever she went. She did not know what

the attraction was, unless perhaps there was novelty in paying court to

a woman who could only smile and nod no matter how outrageous

their compliments or how tedious their conversation. Almost always

there was a group of them, who spoke with one another and did not

therefore find her silence tedious. The crowds also released her from

the necessity of concentrating every moment of every evening on

other people's lips.

Lord Quinn said the attraction was that she was the loveliest young

lady in London—or in England, for that matter. Emily laughed at

him. Aunt Marjorie said it was that she sparkled and doubled her

beauty with each smile. Emily laughed at her.

The almost reckless sense of freedom and gaiety that had taken her in

its grip as soon as Aunt Marjorie had made her unexpected

proposition in the garden at Bowden had not released her in the

weeks since. She had not lived until now, she told herself. She was

happy. And she knew now that she would never have to relinquish

that freedom and that happiness. She had been a little afraid for

herself when she learned that Aunt Marjorie was to marry Lord

Quinn. But both had assured her that they had every intention of

staying in London until the end of the Season and that then they

would probably travel and wanted her to go with them. A lady

needed more company than a man could provide, Lord Quinn had

said. Gentlemen needed sometimes to be alone, Aunt Marjorie had

said, as did ladies. But ladies did not have the freedom that men did

to be quite alone. They needed companions. She would need Emily.

They were sitting in their box at the rotunda a few minutes after

their arrival. They were just in time to watch the ballet, the viscount

explained. He had deliberately chosen a night when there would be

visual entertainment for Lady Emily as well as just music. She smiled

at him. But before the ballet began, some gentlemen called at their

box to pay their respects to her and to try to guess what message she

was sending tonight by the design and positioning of the black patch

she wore on one cheek. There had been much hilarity last night over

the small heart she had worn close to the corner of her mouth.

Tonight she wore a star high on her cheekbone, near the outer corner

of her eye. There was no message, of course, but it amused her to see

how inventive the gentlemen could be and how much they enjoyed

themselves at her expense. She always laughed with them. Sometimes

she even stopped listening and looked about her instead. They did

not seem to notice her inattention. None of them, she realized,

though she never dwelled on the thought, were really interested in

her. None of them knew her or realized they did not. She did not

care.

She was laughing and tapping Mr. Maddox on one arm after he

suggested that she was Venus and was rivaling the stars in brightness

when someone else joined the group. Someone who made her insides

jump even before she looked at him. She had known he was coming

to London, of course, but she had not known that he had arrived.

Still, she told herself, she should have been prepared.

Fortunately she was locked safely inside the mask she had chosen to

wear since her arrival in London. She turned her dazzling smile on

him.

Unlike every other man present, he wore no wig. Neither was his

hair powdered, as hers was. His hair, correctly rolled at the sides,

neatly tied back, and bagged in black silk behind, looked startlingly

dark. His face was still thinner than it should have been, angular,

ascetic, handsome. He was dressed in dark blue velvet, a contrast to

the pastel-shaded silks and satins of the other gentlemen.

It had been less than a month. It seemed an eternity. It was difficult

to believe that those events at Bowden had really happened. She had

come to feel that they had happened to a different person, someone

who was no longer herself.

"Hello, Emmy," he said. His eyes were soft on her, though he did

not really smile.

She raised her fan to her nose and kept her eyes sparkling. He turned

to greet his sister and the other occupants of the box, then accepted

an invitation to step inside and seated himself between Aunt Marjorie

and Lord Quinn.

"Egad," one of her followers said just as she turned her eyes on him,

"someone who has been granted the privilege of addressing you

familiarly. Shall I call him out, Lady Emily? Or shall I put a bullet

through my brain?"

Emily tapped him sharply on the arm.

"Do you not know Lord Ashley Kendrick, Max?" Viscount Burdett

said. "Harndon's brother?"

"Ah," the other young man said. "Merely family. I will live on to

hope, then." He held one hand theatrically over his heart.

But there were too many participating in the conversation. It was too

dizzying to try to watch the right one. And they had nothing

important to say. Emily smiled brightly and looked around her—

everywhere except at him.

"If you will pardon us," Viscount Burdett said, taking Emily's hand

and setting it on his sleeve again, "the ballet is about to begin. I

would appreciate it if my invited guests could watch the dancing

unobstructed."

The other gentlemen all grumbled good-naturedly and moved off.

Emily looked at Lord Burdett, who pointed at the orchestra. They

were tuning their instruments. She had never seen ballet, and had

been looking forward to it. She directed her eyes at the stage and

resisted the urge to remove her hand from the viscount's arm.

Ashley had moved to Aunt Marjorie's other side, so that he was in

the far corner of the box. He leaned back in his chair rather than

forward as most people were doing as they waited for the

performance to begin. He was watching her. She did not turn her

head by even a fraction of an inch, but she had felt his every move.

And she felt his eyes.

Something inside her threatened to crumble. Everything that she had

built so determinedly and so eagerly during the past weeks. She was

not going to let it happen. It was herself she had created since coming

to London—her free and happy self. She refused to crawl back into

misery and slavery to a love that had held her in thrall for eight years

and had brought her precious few moments of happiness. She was

happy with this new life. More than happy.

She realized suddenly, with something of a jolt, that the ballet was in

progress and had been for some time. Her eyes had watched it but

had seen nothing at all. She thought for one moment that her smile

had slipped, but it had not. She turned it briefly on the viscount and

he returned it and touched her hand again with his free one.

The visual spectacle of the ballet was magnificent. It was music for

the eyes. The dancers moved with precision and grace to a silent

melody. For a short while she felt the same connection she did when

she was alone with nature.

But she also felt Ashley watching her.

He had arrived in London late in the morning and had called upon

his uncle just an hour later. Ashley was staying at Harndon House,

which had been opened in imminent expectation of the duke's arrival

with his family. Luke had written to invite him to stay there, and

after a brief hesitation he had accepted. He would not cower from his

family like a whipped schoolboy. What was past was past—as far as

his relations with his family were concerned, anyway.

His uncle had pumped his hand and slapped his shoulder and shown

every sign of being delighted to see him. Ashley had wondered if the

invitation had been a mere courtesy, if perhaps they would have

preferred it if he had refused. He must pay his respects to Lady Sterne

without delay, he was told, but the gels—his uncle's quite

inappropriate word for his betrothed and Emmy—were to attend a

private garden party during the afternoon. They were all going to

Vauxhall that evening, though, as guests of Viscount Burdett. Ashley

must come too—his uncle would send around to Burdett's to make

the arrangements.

A note was delivered to Harndon House later in the day expressing

the viscount's wish that Lord Ashley Kendrick would honor him by

being one of his guests for the evening.

Who the devil was Viscount Burdett? Ashley wondered. And he

wondered too if Emmy was one of his guests. But she must be, he

reasoned, if Lady Sterne was to be there. Poor Emmy. He did not like

the thought of her being dragged about to all the social

entertainments. She would not like them.

He found himself aching to see her again. To see what he had done

to her. She must have felt obliged to take herself away from Bowden

and away from her brother and sisters for a while, he mused, and so

she had come here, to exactly the wrong place for someone like

Emmy. He expected to find her lost and wan and listless. Perhaps she

would be ready to listen to another marriage offer. He was not

particularly happy at Penshurst, but he could offer her countryside

there, hills, a river, trees.

He went alone to Vauxhall and found his way to Viscount Burdett's

box. He was not the first to arrive. He spotted Doris and Weims. The

other occupants were blocked from his view by the press of men in

front of the box. It was only as he drew closer that he saw what the

attraction was—-or who.

She looked much as she had looked at Luke's ball— fashionable,

elegant, and quite extraordinarily beautiful. Except that there she had

not worn cosmetics. Or a small black patch placed just where it

would draw attention to her eyes. And there, though she had smiled

and shone with delight at the occasion and at her first minuet, she

had not been exuberant and laughing and—coquettish. She was

tapping some foppish-looking gentleman in lavender on the arm and

drawing to herself all the foolery of flattery and mindless gallantry.

Burdett—it must be he, Ashley figured—who sat beside her, looked

like the cat who had drunk the cream or caught the canary or some

such cliche. Emmy was flirting with the lot of them.

Ashley's first instinct, thankfully contained, was to lash about him

with his fists.

She became aware of him. He expected her smile to soften on him.

She had refused to marry him, but they had parted on affectionate

terms. He remembered that last hour they had spent together, both

rashly sitting on the soaked grass, almost knee to knee, while she

learned to speak her first word. And he remembered too that at the

ball he had known as soon as he looked into her eyes that she was

Emmy.

Her eyes—her very shallow eyes—continued to sparkle as she smiled

at him and raised her fan to her nose. She looked wonderfully happy.

But her smile chilled him. She did not look like Emmy. He was sorry

he had come. To Vauxhall. To London.

He entered the box and sat between his uncle and Lady Sterne after

nodding to Doris and Weims and exchanging a few pleasantries with

them. He congratulated Lady Sterne on her betrothal, kissed her

hand, concentrated all his attention on her. But just as all the

gentlemen clustered outside the box began to move away and the

orchestra began to tune their instruments so that the ballet might

begin, Lady Sterne leaned toward him and tapped him on the knee.

"I will change places with you if I may, dear boy," she said, "and sit next to Theo."

Ashley was briefly amused. The two of them had been lovers for

twenty years or more and had always behaved with perfect good

breeding in public, and yet it was important to them now to sit next

to each other? He almost expected to see them linking hands. But his

amusement soon waned. From the chair that Lady Sterne had

occupied, he had no choice but to look across the box and see Emmy.

He might have turned his head, of course, to watch the ballet—it

was rude to stare at one of the box's occupants. But he could not stop

himself from doing just that.

She was watching the ballet, but she did not look absorbed, with the

look of wonder he would have expected to see in her eyes. She still

had the smile on her face, the coquettish smile that was not Emmy's

at all. And her hand lay along Burdett's arm, her fingers splayed on

his wide cuff. Her chin was lifted in a gesture of pride.

Was this what he had done to her?

He remembered—it was when he was dancing with her at

Bowden—asking her if it was a disguise she wore or if that was what

they had done to her. Have they tamed you and your heart has not

cried out for the wild? he had asked her. Do they have you singing

prettily here, like a linnet in a cage?

No, they had not done that to her. She had still been free. The next

morning she had been out at the falls, painting, looking like his little

fawn. She had painted the life force, bursting passionately through

every living thing and out into the universe itself. It was he who had

now done it to her. He had tamed her spirit and caged it.

There was an ache in his chest and his throat. He felt like crying.

Viscount Burdett rose and bowed over her hand and took her

walking along one of the lamp-lit paths after the ballet was over. Lady

Sterne looked at Doris and raised her eyebrows, and she and Weims

followed them to offer chaperonage. Ashley stayed where he was.

Soon, he saw, there were other gentlemen walking with Burdett and

Emmy.

"Lud," Lady Sterne said, "but 'twas the best thing I ever did to bring Emily to town, Theo. She is enjoying herself immensely and has

almost the largest court of any lady here this Season. I am in daily

expectation of offers for her hand."

""Twould not surprise me, Marj," Lord Quinn said.

"She is the loveliest gel here, and she has those speaking eyes. Burdett

has been marked in his attentions. A viscount too, egad. She could do

worse."

Ashley clamped his teeth together and said nothing, though the

conversation continued on the same subject for a while longer-—

almost as if the newly betrothed couple had forgotten both his

presence and the fact that if Emmy was ever to marry, he was the only

possible candidate for her hand.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She had been shopping all morning on Oxford Street and Bond

Street with Lady Sterne. She had spent money quite unnecessarily on

a cornflower-trimmed straw hat. She had enough hats already to wear

for a month without wearing the same one twice, she was sure. She

also had scarcely slept the night before—for the first time since she

came to London. And there was a connection between the purchase

of the hat and the sleepless night. Ashley was going to take her

walking during the afternoon in the Mall.

He had not spoken a word to her at Vauxhall after his initial

greeting, not until he took his leave, early, before the rest of them.

She had just returned from her stroll with Viscount Burdett, Doris,

and Andrew. He had bowed over her hand after standing and

speaking with the others first. She had thought he was going to leave

without speaking to her at all. But he had.

"I have asked Lady Sterne if she will be at home tomorrow

afternoon, Emmy," he had said. "I will call and take you walking in

St. James's Park, if I may?"

She had smiled and nodded. In that moment there had been only

Ashley and no consideration at all of the wisdom of being close to

him. He had left before she saw the annoyance on Viscount Burdett's

face. But he had no reason to be annoyed. She did not belong to him

and did not intend to. Besides, she walked and drove with other

gentlemen. She liked it that way.

"Lord Ashley Kendrick is a member of your family, Lady Emily?" he

had asked her, leaning toward her so that, she guessed, no one else in

the box would hear what he was saying. "A type of brother?"

She had smiled, opening her fan and cooling her face with it.

"Then I take it unkindly in a mere brother to monopolize your time

for a whole afternoon, madam," he had said. "How will I live with

the disappointment?"

She had laughed at his foolish gallantry and stretched out her arm to

fan his face for a few moments.

But she had slept very little all night. Less than a month ago she had

expected never to see him again. And then Aunt Marjorie and Lord

Quinn had decided to marry, and she had known that Ashley would

come for the wedding. She had been dismayed. She had not wanted

him to come to London, just as a little more than a month ago she

had not wanted him to come home to Bowden. Her life had to be

lived without Ashley, and it was just too painful to see him.

Especially now. All last evening, after he had joined Viscount

Burdett's party, although she had not once looked at him until he

took his leave of her, she had felt him with every part of herself. Not

just with her heart. Not even just with aching arms and yearning lips.

She had felt him with a throbbing in her womb and lower, where his

body had known hers. It had been not so much desire she had felt

as—knowledge.

He should not have asked her to walk with him. It was unfair. He

wanted to resume the relationship with her that had always been

comfortable for him. He wanted to be her brother, her friend. Did he

not know now, as she had always known, that such a relationship was

impossible? Would he be a friend and a brother during their walk? Or

would he try again to persuade her to marry him? But surely not that.

He must have seen at Vauxhall how happy she was, how much she

was enjoying the Season and the company of other gentlemen. He

should not have asked her. And so she tossed and turned more than

she slept during the night. And so too she went shopping during the

morning and bought a new straw hat.

Before going to Lady Sterne's, Ashley had a call to make on South

Audley Street. It was one he had told himself all the way to London

and again all morning that he need not make and should not make.

Even though Lady Verney had given him her son's address when she

knew he was going to London and had urged him to leave his card

there— Henry and Barbara would be honored by such a marked

courtesy, she had told him—there was really no compulsion on him

to call on complete strangers.

But curiosity got the better of him. He wanted—no, it was almost as

if he neededto see the man Alice had loved and lain with before she

went to India. Perhaps if he could understand that relationship, he

thought foolishly, he would somehow be able to put to rest the

terrible memories.

He would see if Sir Henry and Miss Verney were at home, the butler

told him after he knocked on the door at South Audley Street and

deposited his card on a silver tray. Ashley almost hoped that they

were not, or that they would choose not to be. Verney might well

wish to avoid him, after all. But the butler returned within a couple

of minutes, bowed, and asked if his lordship would follow him up to

the drawing room.

A man and a woman were rising to their feet as Ashley followed the

butler's announcement into the room. The man came striding toward

him, right hand extended. He was a powerful-looking man of about

his own age, Ashley guessed. He was not as tall as Ashley, but he was

broad-shouldered and wide-chested and gave the impression of size

though he was not in any way portly. He was fashionably, though not

foppishly, dressed. He wore his own fair hair, tied neatly at the neck.

His face was good-humored and smiling.

"Lord Ashley Kendrick,'' he said. "What an honor this is. I had

heard from my mother that you had returned from India and taken

up residence at Penshurst. I was sorry to be from home and unable to

call on you to pay my respects. And so you have called upon me

instead. May I present my sister, Barbara?"

Ashley shook the offered hand and bowed to the lady, who curtsied

and smiled at him. She was somewhat darker than her brother in

coloring, but she shared his quiet elegance and air of good humor.

She was not pretty, but then she was not quite plain either.

"Madam," he said. "Verney. You will be pleased to hear that I left

Lady Verney in good health. She sends her affectionate regards."

"How kind of you to bring them. Do have a seat, my lord," Barbara

Verney said. "I have given directions for the tea tray to be sent up."

Ashley sat. The suffocating hatred he had begun to feel had taken

him completely by surprise. He had expected a dark, brooding,

morose-looking man, the sort of man one could easily imagine to

have seduced and abandoned a woman who was besotted with him.

He had not expected this smiling, genial man, who would perhaps be

attractive to women more for his personality than for his looks. He

could almost have forgiven wariness and surliness. He could only hate

the warm hospitality.

"It must be admitted," Sir Henry said, seating himself after his sister

had settled into a chair across from Ashley's, "that we have been

curious to meet the man Alice married. Have we not, Barbara? We

were devastated, by the way, when news reached us a few months ago

of the tragedy that befell her and your son. We wrote to you

immediately, not realizing that you were on your way to England.

May we express our heartfelt condolences now?"

"Yes, indeed," Miss Verney said.

If he could have throttled the man and remained civilized, Ashley

thought, he would have done so. There was not a flicker of shame or

guilt on his face. "Thank you," he said. But he was curious. He

addressed himself to the sister. "You knew my wife well?"

"We grew up together," she said, "Alice, Gregory—her brother, you

know—Henry, and I."

"And Katherine Binchley," Sir Henry added. "Daughter of Kersey's

steward. You may have met her, though she is Katherine Smith now."

"Yes, and Katherine too," Miss Verney said. "We were all close as

children. But we grew up and grew apart. 'Twas inevitable, I suppose.

Though Henry and Gregory remained close friends. But Gregory

died and Alice went to India and Katherine went away to marry Mr.

Smith—all within a few months. Everything was changed."

"But you wanted to hear about your wife as she was before you met

her," Sir Henry said. "She was always beautiful, was she not, Barbara,

even as a child? Small and dainty and exquisite. By the time she was

sixteen she had the whole of the county on its knees to her. The fact

never went to her head. She favored no man. She was very

discriminating." He smiled.

Very discriminating. Because she had ignored the attentions of all

the young men in the county except those of Verney himself?

Barbara Verney was pouring the tea. She smiled as she handed

Ashley a cup. "I do believe Mama had hopes at one time that Alice

and Henry would make a match of it," she said. "Happily for you, it

did not happen."

"But then," Sir Henry said with a laugh, "neither did you make a

match with Gregory, Barbara. Sometimes, Kendrick, as you may

know from personal experience, mothers have tidy visions of their

children's lives that in no way match what their children want for

themselves. I was pleased when I heard that Alice had married you, a

man with impressive connections and a respected colleague of her

father's. She was a very unhappy young lady when she left

Penshurst."

He had no feelings of regret or guilt at all, Ashley decided. He had

been gladto hear of her marriage to someone else. Would hefeel glad

to hear of Emmy's marriage to another man? Would he be able to

look the other man in the eye some years in the future and tell him he

had been pleased to hear of her marriage? When he himself had had

carnal knowledge of her? And did Verney wonder if he knew? Did his

smile hide a certain contempt for the man who had taken his

leavings? But he did not wish to think of Alice like that. He had not

loved her; indeed, he had in many ways hated her. But she had been a

person, and a desperately unhappy person.

"Yes," Ashley said. "She had recently lost her only brother. I gather

they were close, though she rarely talked about him. I understood it

was too painful for her to do so."

Brother and sister exchanged glances. "Yes," Sir Henry said. "They

were close. His death was a dreadful shock to her, as it was to all of

us."

Gregory Kersey had been shot in a hunting accident. That much

Ashley had learned from Sir Alexander Kersey, long before he met

Alice. She herself had almost never mentioned her brother.

"How did it happen?" Ashley asked.

For the first time Verney looked uncomfortable. He scratched his

head and looked at his sister.

" 'Twas early in the morning," she said. "He was out shooting with

several other gentlemen from the neighborhood."

"Myself among them," Sir Henry added.

"Yes," she said. "They had decided to finish for the day, and were all beginning to make their separate ways home when there was a shot."

"None of us paid it any heed," Sir Henry offered. "Someone had

seen a bird and had been unable to resist one more shot, we all

thought. 'Twould not have been unusual. Binchley found the body at

noon. Alice had sent him to discover why Gregory had not come

home from hunting."

"No one remembered having fired that late shot," Barbara Verney

said.

"Or no one would admit it," her brother added. "Doubtless it was an

accidental shooting. Greg had no enemies. But 'twould be difficult to

face the fact—and to admit publiclyto it—that one had shot and

killed a fellow human."

"Where?" Ashley asked. "Where was he shot?"

"In the hills north of Penshurst," Sir Henry said. "Inside the park."

"Through the head," Miss Verney added quietly. " 'Twas what his

lordship meant, Henry. 'Twas dreadful. Suspicion attached to almost

every man in the neighborhood. Henry included. Henry was his

closest friend."

Had Gregory Kersey found out about his closest friend and his sister?

Ashley wondered unwillingly. He pushed the thought aside. He had

not intended to wade into waters as deep as this.

"Hearing about Alice and her son—your son—was like a

nightmare," Sir Henry said. "It seemed almost as if that family had

been doomed. But we become morbid. I am sure you have done

enough grieving in the past year and more to last you a lifetime. You

have come to town to take in part of the Season?" He smiled.

"For that reason," Ashley said, "and to attend the marriage of my

uncle."

The conversation proceeded into comfortable, impersonal topics.

They talked about weddings and fashions and entertainments and

even the weather.

Sir Henry Verney was a man who had taken pleasure but felt no

guilt, Ashley thought as he left South Audley Street a half hour after

arriving there. An essentially shallow man. It was difficult to

understand why Alice had been so fanatically attached to him. But

then love was difficult to understand. It was not always a rational

thing.

It seemed almost as if that family had been doomed.

The remembered words were chilling. And yet, Ashley thought,

there could not possibly have been any connection between the tragic

accident that had taken Gregory Kersey's life and the one that had

taken Alice's four years later. It was merely a disturbing coincidence.

But he could not shake those words from his mind.

It seemed almost as if that family had been doomed.

She was wearing her new blue and white striped silk open gown.

Beneath it, in the newest fashion, she wore not hoops but a white silk

quilted petticoat. Her hair was braided and coiled at the back of her

head. The coils were covered with a lace cap. Over all she wore her

new straw hat, tipped forward to shade her eyes, secured with a

ribbon bow at the back of her neck.

She wondered if he would like her appearance. It did not matter

except that she wanted him to see how she had changed, how very

happy she was. If he had come with any sense of guilt still remaining,

with any lingering conviction that he owed her marriage, she wished

to reassure him. He had done her a favor, she thought. If he had not

come home, she would have married Lord Powell and spent the rest

of her life in the country fighting to assert herself over his mother—

probably an impossibility. She would not have discovered, at the very

elderly age of two-and-twenty, how much life had to offer even a deaf

woman.

Emily leaned forward and looked closely at herself in the glass of her

dressing room. She would smile at him and he would know that she

did not need him at all. Yet when she caught her eye in the glass, she

looked away quickly, concentrating on every part of her appearance

except her eyes.

He was waiting in the hallway with Aunt Marjorie when she went

downstairs. He was early. He wore a dark green skirted coat,

fashionably pleated at the back with a matching waistcoat beneath,

and buff breeches. His hair, as usual, was unpowdered. He held his

three-cornered hat beneath one arm. His blue eyes smiled at her. She

was becoming accustomed to his thin face. It made him look quite

impossibly handsome.

"Emmy." He made her a formal bow. "You look quite lovely."

She gave him the full force of her dazzling smile.

"Lud," Aunt Marjorie said, "you will quite turn her head, Lord

Ashley. I have heard nothing but compliments for Emily since I

brought her to town. You will be fortunate indeed if you find time

for any private conversation in the park with her."

He smiled at Emily while Aunt Marjorie spoke, but she had looked

to see what was being said about her. She blushed. Not that her head

had been turned, she thought. All those silly compliments—those

that she bothered to watch being spoken—meant nothing to her.

Except that they amused her and kept her mind firmly off—no, on.

They kept her mind on her newfound happiness.

She looked about her during the drive to the park, watching the

people they passed, the elegant pedestrians, the hawkers, who were

clearly yelling out news of their wares, the darting children, two dogs

on leashes. It struck her suddenly that it could be very frightening

indeed to be alone in such a setting—very different from the

countryside, where she was rarely if ever afraid. But she had never

been alone here. She was not alone now. She smiled and felt Ashley's

eyes on her. She would not look to see if he had anything to say.

Ashley. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she

fought it with every ounce of her being.

He offered his arm when they had descended from the open carriage

and begun to walk. She loved the straight, tree-lined Mall, with its

crowds of strollers and groups of people in conversation together.

Sometimes she liked to look up to see the branches and the leaves

against the sky. But more often she preferred to watch the people and

to feel at one with them. Today she could seem to feel only the

muscles in Ashley's arm and the warmth of him. Finally she looked

up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. He was looking at her,

that smile in his eyes. A smile that did not touch his lips.

"You are happy, Emmy?" he asked her.

She told him with sparkling eyes how happy she was. She gestured

about her. How could she not be happy?

"Penshurst is rather lovely," he told her. " 'Tis in a valley with a

broad park stretching from the house to the road. Between the house

and the village to one side of it there is a broad river with a river walk

inside the park, which was constructed for maximum beauty and

seclusion. And behind the house are wooded hills, mostly quiet and

shady but with the occasional and unexpected prospect over miles of

quiet countryside. There is a summer house up there. 'Tis even

furnished, though it has not been touched in years, I believe."

Penshurst. It was where he lived. Where he belonged. Where Alice

had lived. Where he would have lived with her and their son if they

had not died.

"You would like it, Emmy." He had bent his head closer to her and

touched his hand to hers. "I wish you could see it."

For a moment she felt dizzy with yearning. But for only a moment.

No, she told him. She laughed and indicated with one arm again the

formal elegance of the walk ahead of them and the fashionable

splendor of their fellow strollers. This was where she wanted to be.

This was where she belonged.

He brought her eyes back to his face. "Do you speak the truth?" he

asked her. They were both signing, she realized, with one hand each.

"It makes me sad to see—"

But she did not catch the rest of his sentence. She did not learn what

it was that made him sad. Two gentlemen had stopped before them

and were smiling and making their bows to her. Two gentlemen who

were part of her usual group. They complimented her on her

appearance, asked her if they would see her at this evening's ball,

bowed to a silent Ashley, and proceeded on their way. She smiled

brightly at Ashley.

"I do not wonder at your success," he said. "But is it what you want,

Emmy?"

Of course it was. Could he not see it? She told him so with her free

hand and her smiles. Then she thought of something else. "Yess," she

said, her eyes sparkling into his. Her one and only word. Her full

repertoire.

"I could have taught you the rest of the dictionary, Emmy," he said.

"I still could. And you could have taught me—"

But Mr. Maddox, a young lady on his arm, was making his bow to

her and asking her how she had enjoyed the ballet last evening.

She would not look at Ashley after they moved on. She could not.

She could feel her defenses, like a very thin veneer, in danger of

crumbling. She had not even admitted to herself until now that they

were just defenses, that she was not really enjoying herself at all. That

her heart was all broken up inside her. And she knew too that Ashley

had found no peace since she had last seen him, and probably never

would. He did not need to use words or sign language to tell her that.

He touched her hand again and squeezed it, and she had no choice

but to look up at him. "I felt sorry for Powell," he said, "that

morning out at the falls when you would not look at him, Emmy.

Now you are doing it to me."

She gazed at him and realized with some surprise that her mask had

not deserted her. She was smiling.

"Emmy." He bent his head very close. She guessed that though he

was moving his lips he was making no sound at all. "Is there still a

chance that you are with child? Areyou with child?"

She was not. She had been late, and then she had found her hands

shaking out of control with relief when she had discovered she was

not. And later, after she had tended to herself, she had thrown herself

across her bed and cried. But not necessarily with relief.

Her smile had gone. No, she told him. There would be no child.

Any obligation he still felt toward her was over. He was free to think

of her merely as a sister again. But she could not tell how relieved he

was. His eyes merely gazed back into hers until she lowered her own

to his cravat. Yes, there had been the possibility. For two days she had

thought… But it had not been so.

And she had been sorry. How foolish and irrational emotions could

be. If she had been with child, she would have had to marry him. To

marry the man who was dearer to her than her own heart while she

was merely a dear sister in his eyes. It would have been intolerable.

Far more intolerable than this was.

She raised her eyes and smiled at him.

And then she was distracted by another couple who had stopped

before them. She turned to look, but she did not know them. They

were both smiling at Ashley.

"We meet again so soon," the man said while the woman laughed.

Emily looked at Ashley. He was nodding in acknowledgment of

them. She saw his hesitation, but then he looked down at her.

"Emmy,'" he said, "may I present my neighbors at Penshurst, Sir

Henry Verney and Miss Verney?" He looked at them. "Lady Emily

Marlowe, sister of the Earl of Royce and of the Duchess of

Harndon."

She smiled brightly at them. His new friends, part of his new life.

And she liked them. It was foolish, perhaps, to make such snap

judgments, but they both looked thoroughly amiable. Miss Verney

merely smiled back. Sir Henry made her a bow.

"Of Bowden Abbey," he said. "I saw it once during my travels. A

beautiful place."

Yes, she told him with a nod. Home. It was more home than Elm

Court had ever been, she mused.

"Ah, is that so?" Sir Henry said to Ashley, to whom his eyes had

moved for a moment. "Yes, I can tell that you read lips, Lady Emily. I

could see that you heard my comment about Bowden Abbey and

agreed with it."

"It must be a strain upon your powers of observation," Miss Verney

said. "But 'tis said that any affliction can be used to strengthen

character if one is willing to accept it as a challenge. Would you

agree, Lady Emily?"

She was not sure that her deafness had strengthened her character.

She was not even sure she had met a challenge. A silent world was as

natural to her as a noisy one must be to them, she reflected. But

people tended to assume that deaf persons could function as people

only if they learned to conform to a world of sound. What about the

challenge of silence? Very few people of hearing ever accepted it or

even knew that there was a challenge there. People of hearing feared

silence, she suspected. But she could not explain all that. Miss Verney

was being kind, friendly. Emily smiled, then turned in time to see

what Ashley said.

"Emmy is very modest about her accomplishments," he said. "She is

going to dance with me at tonight's ball."

Emily laughed.

Am I? she asked him with raised eyebrows when they moved on a

minute or so later.

"Now, on what matter am I being interrogated?" he asked her. "My

presumption in presenting you to strangers? Or my presumption in

telling you rather than asking that you will dance with me?"

Yes, that, she told him with a signing hand. Am I going to dance?

"But you will, Emmy," he said, laughing. All the austerity went from

his face when he laughed. It would not be good for her to see him

thus too often, she warned herself. "Because you love to dance,

remember? Because you have always wanted to dance. And because

only I am reckless enough to accept the challenge."

She laughed again.

"Will you?" he asked her with his hand and his eyes as well as with

his lips. "Dance with me? Will you, Emmy?"

Yes, she would. Even in front of all the fashionable world. Of course

she would.

It was only as he handed her back into his carriage and she arranged

her skirts while he came around to the other side and climbed in that

she realized something had changed. She was smiling, laughing,

bubbling with happiness—as she had been for a month. But there

was a difference. The mask had slipped and had been replaced, for

the moment at least, by the real thing.

It was a frightening thought.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"You were quite right."

Sir Henry Verney said to his sister as they continued their stroll

along the Mall. "There is quite a marked resemblance. I am surprised

I did not notice when he called earlier."

"He is a little taller and more slender," Barbara Verney said.

"Perhaps not quite as dark. And considerably more handsome, I

believe. But undeniably like. We were both surprised to hear that

Alice had married, and wondered what manner of man had

persuaded her into it. Now we have our answer."

"I wonder," he said, "how happy she was. One cannot somehow

imagine Alice being happy. Not surprisingly, I suppose. There must

have been—"

But his sister cut him off. " 'Tis better not to discuss it," she said. "I am sorry I aroused old memories by commenting on the likeness. She

came to a terrible end, poor woman. One can only hope she is now at

peace. But poor Lord Ashley lost a son as well. 'Tis no wonder that

there is a somewhat haunted look about him. Did you find him

charming, Henry?"

"A trifle reserved," he said. "I read a certain coldness in his eyes. But I suppose that making the acquaintance of people who grew up with

his wife must have put a strain upon him. It must have taken some

courage to call on us. It was a courtesy I appreciate."

"A coldness?" she said. "I think not, Henry. He has the most soulful

blue eyes. But no, you need not look at me like that. I have not

conceived a passion for Lord Ashley Kendrick or for anyone else. Did

you admire Lady Emily Marlowe?''

"She is a beauty of the first order," he said, "and has a sparkle that makes her quite irresistibly charming."

Barbara laughed. "You do not find her inability to converse a

deterrent?'' she asked.

"On the contrary," he said. "Any man would consider it an

exhilarating challenge to keep those fine eyes concentrated on his lips

and to keep that dazzling smile focused on himself."

"Henry." She laughed again and squeezed his arm. "You are straying,

I do declare."

"Not so," he said, chuckling too. But he sobered and sighed. "No,

absolutely not, Barbara. I could only wish there were something

definite from which not to stray. Am I foolish to be so constant to a

dream? But enough of that. Tonight's ball that Kendrick referred to is

Lady Bryant's, do you think? Perhaps I will try to engage Lady Emily

for a set—if she is willing to lower her gaze to a mere baronet, of

course."

"Any lady should consider herself fortunate," she said.

Ashley was somewhat later than he intended at Lady Bryant's ball.

Luke and Anna and their children had arrived at Harndon House

early in the evening, and he was caught up in all the bustle of greeting

them and of adjudicating a fight between young George and James

and then wrestling with both the boys, who had united against him

while Luke was attempting to soothe a very cross and red-faced Harry

and bend an ear to Joy's advice at the same time and Anna and the

nurse were inspecting the nursery rooms with the housekeeper to see

that all was in order.

He felt almost cheerful as he stood in the doorway of the ballroom

and looked about. He saw Emily immediately.

The music was between sets, and she stood close to Lady Sterne,

surrounded by gentlemen, as she had been at Vauxhall last evening.

She was laughing and plying her fan, flirting with her eyes over the

top of it. As had been so last evening, her hair was elaborately styled

and powdered and her face was painted with cosmetics. She wore a

patch close to one corner of her mouth. She looked quite magnificent

in a gown that appeared to be all silver. Only her fan was a different

color. It was crimson.

He did not like to see her thus. He remembered his initial reaction

to her at Luke's ball, when he had singled her out as the loveliest lady

in the room before he had known who she was. It had been one tenth

admiration he had felt, and nine tenths pure lust. And when he

looked at her now, it was hard to see past the outer appearance to the

reality within. It was hard to see her as Emmy. He did not like the

stirring of desire he felt when he saw her like this. And yet, he

thought before he could push the memory away, she had not looked

like this when he had possessed her. She had been Emmy then, his

wild, reckless sprite.

But he was feeling almost cheerful. She was not with child. She had

quite firmly rejected his marriage offers at Bowden. That episode,

then, could and must be put behind him. He could safely return to

the old relationship with her. It gladdened him that they no longer

needed to dread seeing each other. It cheered him to think that he

could actively seek her out as he had always done—though only to

keep her on the periphery of his life, instead of at its center as he had

done when she was a girl. He would avoid drawing her again into his

darkness.

He watched her laugh at something one of her followers said to her.

And there was pain again—yes, definitely, even though everyone else

in the room might look at her and wonder at her total and vivid

gaiety. He would have preferred to see Emmy where she belonged, to

be who she really was. He smiled slightly and remembered the quite

inexplicable disappointment that had warred with relief in him this

afternoon. That she was not with child by him.

That she would not be forced into marrying him. Relief had won—

relief for both their sakes.

And then her eyes met his across the room. He had not been in her

direct line of vision, but she had sensed his presence. She smiled her

coquettish smile at him, then the fingers of the hand that was not

holding her fan beckoned in a gesture that probably only he noticed.

She was surrounded by admirers, but for the moment she was

ignoring them.

Do join me, she was telling him.

And then she touched her fingertips to her heart.

I really want you to.

Ah, Emmy.

"Lud, but 'tis working, Theo," Lady Sterne said, touching her

betrothed's arm and patting it. "He did not like it at all when he

discovered that she was engaged for the next two sets after his arrival.

He went slinking off to lick his wounds until this set began."

"He went to the card room and watched young Heyward lose a small

fortune," Lord Quinn said. "Looking as cool and as disapproving as

Luke himself can appear, Marj. He has changed from the days of his

wild and reckless youth, I warrant you. He has eyes for no one but

the gel now."

"And did you have a word with him this afternoon as you

promised?" Lady Sterne asked. "I did think of mentioning the matter

myself when he came to escort Emily to the park, but I thought

'twould seem too contrived if you then gave him the same hint."

"Egad, but it felt wicked, Marj," he said, "after we have assured the

gel that our marrying will make no difference to her prospects. But

the more I think of it, the more I like the idea for myself."

She tapped him on the arm with her closed fan. "The thought of a

private wedding trip to the Lakes for two weeks has an irresistible

appeal," she said. "But why should we not do it, Theo, and enjoy it

too? The idea was not conceived selfishly, after all. 'Twas designed for

dear Emily and Lord Ashley's sake."

" 'Tis not sure yet, though, Marj," Lord Quinn said with a sigh. "I

merely dropped the hint. Luke and Anna are not far from Kent now

that they have come to town from Bowden, I said. Anna must hope

to spend a week or two with her sister after being away from her for a

month, I said after taking time to discuss the weather. I sighed,

m'dear, after talking about my visits to White's this morning, and

remarked that a short wedding trip would have been pleasant if it had

not been the middle of the Season and if you had not taken on the

duty of bringing out dear Lady Emily—not that you consider it a

duty, of course, I hastened to add. But even so… And then I sighed

piteously. One can only hope now that my nephy will conceive the

idea, entirely on his own, you understand—of inviting Luke and

Anna and Emily out to Penshurst for a week or two."

"Lud, 'twill be the very thing," Lady Sterne said. "Look at them,

Theo. The very best-looking couple at the ball, and dancing the

minuet as if they were unaware of anyone else's existence. Who

would guess that she is deaf, except for the fact that she dances almost

tooperfectly? Dear Emily."

"If the lad has not had her to the altar by the end of the summer and

had her brought to bed of a boy before the beginning of next

summer," Lord Quinn said, "he is no nephy of mine, by my life."

He was not quite sure how she did it. He tried to imagine having to

perform the steps of the minuet if he could not hear the music. It

seemed impossible. But she danced perfectly in time to the music.

More even than just that. She danced with grace and a sense of

rhythm, as if she held the music inside herself, as if it was the other

side of silence.

He smiled at her as he performed the elegant steps with her, and she

smiled back. Emmy's smile, happy, exuberant, and yet serene too. No

longer coquettish.

And that was it, he thought. She did have music inside her, and

beauty and peace and harmony. There were levels on which their two

worlds could converge, and strangely, this was one of them. There

was the music he could hear and the silent music she could feel. He

remembered her painting and her explanation of the feeling of life

and exaltation she had tried to reproduce with her brush and her

paints. There was a beauty and richness of character and experience

about Emmy far deeper than the powdered hair and the rouged

cheeks and the provocatively placed heart-shaped patch she wore

close to her lips.

An idea flashed into his mind—a desire to see Emmy in the hills

behind Penshurst and on the shady walk beside the river. More than

a desire—almost a yearning.

Despite his pleasure at once again being so near to Emmy, Ashley

was not able to fully enjoy the dance. When he had returned from the

card room to claim this set, he had found Emmy surrounded by the

usual group of young men—plus Sir Henry Verney and his sister.

Miss Verney had been talking with Lady Sterne until she was led

away by a gentleman into the set that was forming. Verney himself

had been talking with Emmy—and had been soliciting her company

for the set following the minuet.

The thought of Verney, of all people, so much as touching Emmy

made Ashley want to scoop her up into his arms and carry her

forcefully off to a place of safety. Verney had better not consider

becoming a regular member of her court, Ashley thought angrily; not

if he knew what was good for him. And yet Ashley's mind could not

refrain from making the parallel. Ruined and abandoned—Alice by

Verney, Emmy by himself. But there was a difference, he told

himself. Alice had loved Verney passionately. His abandonment had

destroyed all hope of future happiness for her. Emmy had not really

been abandoned—he must not add that burden to his conscience.

She had abandoned him.

"Thank you," he said, bowing over her hand when the minuet was at

an end and offering his arm to escort her back to Lady Sterne's side.

The wedding was only a few days off. Once it was over, he would

have no further excuse to remain in town. There was work to be done

at Penshurst. And yet the thought of returning there was chilling.

That large and empty house was too new to give off any sense of

history, but held only the presence of its most recent occupants. Alice

was everywhere in that house. If he could fill it with guests… even

perhaps with children… If Emmy were there…

He was forced to stand and make conversation with Verney, who

had come early to claim his time with Emmy. He was forced to watch

the two of them smile at each other and apparently like what they

saw. And after a few minutes he was forced to watch Verney lead her

away, presumably to find a couple of chairs or a sofa to sit upon. His

eyes followed them all the way to the French doors, which stood open

onto a veranda. It was bright with lamplight. He could see them

strolling back and forth outside the doors for a couple of minutes,

then could see them no more.

Verney had taken her down the steps into the garden, which had

been made available to guests. There were lanterns among the trees,

and seats. Ashley had been out there earlier while waiting for his set

with Emmy—only now did it strike him as strange that he had not

considered dancing with any other lady.

Certainly there was no reason why a man should not take his partner

into the garden for a stroll. The night was warm and the ballroom

almost uncomfortably hot. But Verney was not any man. And Emmy

was not any partner. Ashley could feel the tension building inside

himself, and then the anger. His uncle and Viscount Burdett were

standing on either side of him, making conversation. But fury became

like a steady hammer blow against Ashley's eardrums, blocking out

both the sound and the sense of what they were saying. He excused

himself after five minutes had passed and made his way toward the

French doors.

She liked Sir Henry Verney and felt she could relax in his company.

Unlike most of the gentlemen who crowded about her almost

wherever she went, he did not ply her constantly with compliments

and meaningless gallantries. With him she did not feel the constant

necessity to smile dazzlingly and to flutter her fan.

Smiles seemed to come easily to Sir Henry Verney, as if they were his

natural expression. Looking at his wide-spaced gray eyes, she thought

that before many more years had passed, he would have permanent

wrinkles at their outer corners. But they would be attractive. They

would be laugh lines. He was an attractive man, large and solid, with

a pleasant face. He was a man to be comfortable with. A man to trust,

she thought, though she did not know him at all.

" Tis hot in the ballroom," he said, "and you have been dancing.

Would you care for a stroll outdoors, Lady Emily? The garden is

lighted and there are other people there. I have Lady Sterne's

permission to take you strolling—if 'tis what you wish."

He was making sure that she would not feel uneasy about agreeing to

something that sounded so heavenly, Emily reflected. He had even

spoken with Aunt Marjorie. She smiled and nodded and set her arm

along his very solid one. She would be glad to go outside, where it

would be darker and less crowded and cooler—and where she would

not see Ashley. Her mind and her heart were still in an

uncomfortable turmoil after their dance. There had been the wild

exhilaration of dancing again, of feeling form and rhythm and

movement. And part of the wildness and of the exhilaration had been

the sight of Ashley, tall and slender and more than usually elegant in

a wine-colored velvet skirted coat with silver embroidered waistcoat

and gray knee breeches and sparkling white linen and lace. In

addition, his hair was powdered tonight.

She would have suffocated if she had had to remain in the ballroom,

she thought.

He lived near Penshurst in Kent, Sir Henry told her as they strolled

on the veranda. He lived with his mother and his sister, though he

often came to London for a few weeks at a time. His sister liked to

shop and visit here and they both enjoyed the entertainments of the

Season. He liked to travel more extensively too, he told her as he led

her down the steps into the garden, though most of the time now he

stayed in the British Isles so that he would not be too far from his

mother if she had need of him. He had made the Grand Tour of

Europe, of course, as a very young man.

Emily smiled at him and invited him to tell her more. He was not a

talkative man. There had been welcome silences between the things

he had told her. He seemed to realize that silences were not as

awkward to her as they seemed to be to most people, that sometimes

she appreciated moments without conversation so that she could turn

her head from looking at her companion's lips in order to look about

her and relax. The garden was pretty, its trees and lawns intersected

with several paths, all converging on a central fountain which spouted

water that looked multicolored in the light of the lanterns.

They arrived at the fountain and stood gazing into the spray for a

whole minute. Emily could smell the water. Although none of the

spray touched her, she could feel the dampness and knew that the

merest breath of a breeze could send droplets against her face and

hands. She half closed her eyes and saw the lantern light filtered

through a million drops of water. She could almost imagine herself

back in the country. But Sir Henry leaned slightly toward her and she

turned her eyes to his lips.

"I always think there is no sound more soothing than that of flowing

water," he said.

She smiled, allowing amusement to show in her face.

"Zounds. Pardon me," he said, looking stricken. "That was

unbelievably tactless of me."

But she laughed and pointed to her eyes. She indicated her nose and

breathed in, and rubbed her fingertips over her thumbs.

"You use your other senses and find them just as soothing," he said.

"And I am forgiven. Lady Emily?"

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as she nodded, to indicate

that there was nothing to forgive. The ballroom had become

uncomfortable with the heat of so many people. She had felt the

discomfort. Did it also become uncomfortable with the noise of so

many people? she wondered. If so, then she had been spared that

annoyance. She set her arm along Sir Henry's again so that they

might resume their stroll.

But before they could do so, before she could turn her head to

concentrate on his account of his Grand Tour, she had that familiar

feeling again. He was close by. Closer than the ballroom or even the

veranda. Her eyes found him standing some distance away, slightly to

one side of the foot of the steps down into the garden. He was alone.

Why had he come? she wondered. Was he merely hot and in need of

air? Lonely? Unhappy?

But her partner had been about to speak. She turned her head and

her attention determinedly toward him.

"I was away from England for longer than a year," Sir Henry said,

"completing my education. That is the polite way of saying that I

enjoyed myself enormously, Lady Emily, doing all that was wild and

extravagant. But perhaps I was learning too. 'Tis through wildness

and extravagance that we learn the value of steadiness and

moderation, I often believe. Are you sure you wish me to bore you

with the tale of my adventures?"

She nodded, but she laughed to tell him that it would be no bore.

He must have been to Paris, where Luke had lived for ten years. He

must have been to Italy and seen all the riches of architecture and

painting and sculpture, and to Switzerland and seen the mountains

and the lakes. He must have been… She did not know of any other

places. She knew so little.

She watched his lips intently and lived his experiences in her

imagination. And yet all the time she knew that Ashley was not

leaving the garden. He stayed at the foot of the steps for a while and

then strolled the paths. He stood at the fountain, leaning back against

the stone wall that surrounded it. He watched them. She was sure he

was watching them, though he did not come close or so much as lift a

hand in greeting.

"Ah," Sir Henry said at last, raising one hand and cocking his head

in a listening gesture, "the music draws to an end. 'Tis the end of the

set and I must return you to the ballroom. You are an excellent

listener, Lady Emily." This time he did not apologize, though he did

wince when he realized what he had said. He laughed, and Emily

joined him. "I have enjoyed our half hour together. Perhaps we may

repeat it some time?"

She nodded as he led her to the steps and up onto the veranda and

into the ballroom. She did not turn her head. She did not need to.

She knew that Ashley had remained at the fountain.

There had been nothing to worry about. Not as far as Emmy's

physical safety was concerned anyway. But Verney had touched her,

taking her arm along his. He had bent his head toward her as they

walked. He had talked to her, smiled at her, laughed with her. She

had given him her attention, her smiles. She had looked as if she

enjoyed his company, as if she understood what he said.

And all the time Ashley had visualized him with Alice. Seduction?

Rape? Had it been that? No, hardly. She had loved him, been

obsessed with him. He would have used that smiling charm he was

now using with Emmy. In order to win her love, in order to seduce

her. He had had all the time in the world—they had been neighbors

all their lives. And then he had abandoned her, the daughter of his

neighbor, sister of the man he had called friend. And that friend had

died in circumstances that were mysterious if not downright

suspicious. Had there been a confrontation after the other hunters

had dispersed that morning?

Ashley watched them return to the ballroom when the interminable

set finally came to an end. He dropped his head and closed his eyes.

If Verney was going to start taking an interest in Emmy, then there

was another reason to—

A sudden crunching of gravel caused him to lift his head to see who

was approaching.

"I feel compelled to ask," Sir Henry Verney said to him, "though

perhaps it is impolitic to do so—was I being watched during the past

half hour?"

Ashley considered his reply. He had not quite made up his mind to

have a confrontation. But he supposed it was inevitable.

"Yes," he said.

Sir Henry was silent for a while, apparently expecting an

explanation. "Might I be permitted to know why?" he asked at last.

"Lady Emily Marlowe, despite her age, is innocent in the ways of the

world," Ashley said. "And she has no voice with which to draw

attention to herself."

The amiable face of his neighbor tightened with noticeable anger,

though he kept it well under control. His right hand, though, Ashley

noticed, moved and came to rest on the hilt of his dress sword.

"I find that explanation insulting," he said. "I must remember,

however, that you stand somewhat in the nature of a brother to Lady

Emily and that her affliction has perhaps made her family

overprotective of her. I am a gentleman, Kendrick. In future, if I seek

out the company of the lady, with her chaperon's permission, and if

the lady herself chooses to accept my company, I would expect you to

refrain from appointing yourself her watchdog."

So he was going to start paying court to Emmy. Probably

deliberately so, now that he knew his attentions would annoy the

man who had married Alice.

"I know about you," Ashley said quietly.

Sir Henry stood motionless. His hand was still on the hilt of his

sword, though he did not grip it.

"Did you think my wife would have told me nothing?' Ashley said.

In fact, she had told him almost nothing, but Verney did not need to

know that. He knew all that was essential to know. Verney had to

understand his fears for Emmy. "She told me everything."

Sir Henry said nothing for a long time, though his hand fell away

from his sword. "Ah," he said at last. "I wondered, of course. You

must have loved her very dearly. You do not wish to see Lady Emily

acquainted with someone who was involved with that ugliness. I

believe I can understand that. But I will say nothing, you know, to

sully Alice's name. I never have and I never will. I am glad you know,

though. I would always have wondered and would always have felt

somewhat awkward in your company."

Somewhat awkward? But he would not feel it now? "Zounds!"

Ashley came up to a full standing position from the fountain wall

against which he had been half reclined. His hand clapped on to the

hilt of his own sword. "You will say nothing to sully her name?

Youwill say nothing, sir?"

In another moment he would have scraped his sword free of its

scabbard. In another moment Sir Henry Verney would have done

likewise, his hand having returned to his sword hilt. But someone

laughed not far off, someone who was strolling along one of the paths

with a companion. And Ashley, facing toward the house and the

ballroom, became aware of his surroundings again—and of the fact

that Emily was standing at the foot of the steps to the veranda.

"If you wish to meet me," Sir Henry said, letting his hand drop to

his side once more, "perhaps we should go through the proper

channels, Kendrick. I see no reason for a meeting, but I will not cry

off if you wish to make a formal challenge."

"No," Ashley said, concentrating on letting the tension flow out of

his body. "No, 'twould be ridiculous. The events to which we refer

happened long before I met Alice. But I would make it clear that I

will protect Lady Emily Marlowe's honor with my life, if necessary."

Sir Henry made him a half bow. "I abhor violence," he said. "I

choose to read no personal insult into those last words. Lady Emily's

honor is perfectly safe with me. But I see now that I misunderstood

the true nature of your concern for the lady. Good evening,

Kendrick."

He turned and strode away in the direction of the ballroom. Emily,

Ashley saw, was no longer standing at the bottom of the steps. She

had moved to one side and was hidden to Verney's view behind a

tree. She stood where she was after he had disappeared into the

ballroom.

Like Verney, she had come out to talk with him, Ashley realized.

And talk she would, with her hands and with those eyes of hers. He

was not sure he was equal to looking into them.

I see now that I have misunderstood the true nature of your concern

for the lady.

He walked toward her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SHE HAD NOT SEEN SlR Henry Verney go back outside. But she

had not seen Ashley come inside either, and she wondered what he

was doing in the garden, why he had gone there, why he had been

alone. She shook off her followers by smiling at Lady Sterne and

making her way pointedly toward the ladies' withdrawing room. But

she did not go there. She went out onto the veranda instead and

down the steps into the garden.

And she found that he was still at the fountain, talking with Sir

Henry. Quarreling with him. She was not close enough to read lips,

but she could see Ashley's face and she did not fail to notice how his

hand went to his sword. For one heart-stopping moment she

expected to see him draw it. She instinctively hid herself a few

moments later when Sir Henry came striding along the path toward

the steps.

But Ashley had seen her. He came toward her, a curious half smile

on his lips.

"Come, Emmy," he said when he was close enough for her to read

his signing hands. "Walk with me." And he took her hand and drew

it through his arm and held it firmly against his side.

She would not look at him while they walked. Had they been

quarreling over her? But why? For once she wished desperately for

speech. At one side of the garden there was a small rose arbor,

separated from the rest of the garden by a trellis over which the plants

had been trained. There was a wrought-iron seat inside and lanterns

hanging from the trellises. There was no one else there. He led her

inside and indicated the seat. She sat down and he took the place

beside her. She turned to look at him.

"Emmy." He took one of her hands between both of his. "You came

out here to scold me, as he did? For acting as a watchdog? I ask your

pardon. I remember, you see, how someone took advantage of your

innocence just a month ago when you were out of doors alone with

him. I feared for you."

She snatched her hand away and stared at him incredulously. He

made it seem— sordid, what had happened between them. And how

dared he suggest…

He reached for her hand again and held it tightly while he closed his

eyes and dropped his head.

"I feared for you," he said again when he lifted his head. She could

see torment in his eyes. "Emmy, stay away from him. Anyone but

him. Stay away from him—for my sake?''

From Sir Henry Verney? But why? she asked with her free hand. He

was such a very amiable gentleman. She liked him better than any of

the other gentlemen who partnered her and conversed with her. She

frowned.

"Zounds," he said, "you will not be deceived by a lie and you will

not accept an appeal without a full and truthful explanation, will you?

Sometimes I wish you were as other women are. Do you see more

deeply because you are un-distracted by sound, Emmy?" He raised

her hand briefly to his cheek.

No, she would not be lied to. She would always know if he lied.

"My wife was once fond of him," he said. "No, more than fond,

Emmy. She loved him. He encouraged her and then cruelly rejected

her. She never quite recovered her spirits."

Ah. For a while her mind did not quite grasp what she had just been

told about Sir Henry Verney—her heart was too fully occupied. Alice

had never fully returned Ashley's love, then. She had always pined for

a lost love. And now Ashley had been forced to meet that man.

"And so you see," he said, "why I fear for you, Emmy. He has the

sort of looks and charm that I can imagine might be attractive to

many women. But he is a cruel man. Stay away from him. Promise

me?"

But she was frowning again. Sir Henry Verney deliberately cruel?

Taking pleasure out of luring a woman into loving him only to dash

her hopes and turn away from her? Oh no, she could not believe it.

There had to be some other explanation. Unrequited love, for

example. He and Alice must have known each other for a long time.

They had probably grown up together. And he wasan attractive man.

Perhaps she had fallen in love with him but he had been unable to

return her feelings. Perhaps she had exaggerated the truth when

telling Ashley—and why, for that matter, hadshe told him? How

could she have been so cruel? That must surely be the explanation,

though. After all, she herself knew all about unrequited love. But she

would never have given Lord Powell reason to suspect the truth if she

had married him.

"You do not believe me," Ashley said. "You must believe me, Emmy.

He can hurt you."

No. She shook her head. Sir Henry Verney could not hurt her even

if what Ashley said about him was true. Her heart could never be hurt

by Sir Henry. Or by any other man. It was that fact that had enabled

her to enjoy the past month so well—except for the past day. It was

hard now to realize that Ashley had come only last evening. No, she

told him with her hands. I am happy. I am me. She was not

vulnerable the way he feared.

He gave up. He sat back on the seat beside her and drew her arm

through his again. The evening was almost chilly when one was

sitting still. She felt the warmth of his arm and side against her arm

and of his shoulder touching hers. She ached to let her head fall

sideways to rest against his shoulder. A long time ago she might have

done just that, but no longer. She had a sudden memory of lying

naked against his clothed body, his cloak snugly about her. She

remembered the intense tiredness that had succeeded the shock of

what had happened to her just before that. She remembered sleeping

in his arms. Yet now she could not even put her head on his shoulder.

He moved then, turning slightly toward her and setting an arm

about her shoulders. "You are chilly," he said.

She shook her head. She did not want this moment to end, even

though she knew she should go back to the ballroom. Aunt Marjorie

would wonder where she was. But stillness and silence were so

important to her, and there had been little of the former lately. She

had reveled in busyness—just as if the gap really could be bridged, as

if she really wished it to be. Did she? Did she want to be like others

but inferior because of her deafness?

He sat still and silent with her for a long time, as if he felt her need,

or perhaps even shared it. But he spoke at last, touching his fingers

lightly to her chin so that she would look.

"Emmy," he said, "after the wedding, Luke and Anna will be coming

to Penshurst with me for a week or two. At least I believe they will

come once I have asked them." He grinned engagingly. "Anna will

not want to leave you so soon. You have not even seen her yet. They

arrived this evening, you know, before I came here."

Oh. She smiled. Just a few weeks ago it had been a relief to get away

from Bowden and all her family. But suddenly a month seemed an

age. She could hardly wait to see Anna.

"And there are only three days to the wedding," he said. "Emmy,

have you considered that Lady Sterne and my uncle would probably

enjoy some private time together, perhaps even a short wedding trip?

For a week or two, perhaps, before they resume all their usual social

activities?"

But Aunt Marjorie had assured her that her new marriage would not

in any way interfere with the social activities she had planned for

Emily. Emily must never feel she was in the way, Aunt Marjorie had

said. And Lord Quinn had echoed her words.

"You need not look so dismayed," Ashley said. "Of course they love

you. But of course too they will be newly wed. Be kind to them,

Emmy. And to Anna and yourself. And to me. Come to Penshurst

too. Just for a week or so, until Theo and Lady Sterne return to

town—though she will be Lady Quinn by then, will she not?"

Emily felt such a surge of yearning that for a moment she felt almost

robbed of breath. It was so very foolish to want him. She had refused

the opportunity to spend the rest of her life with him, because she

knew the misery of seeing him and of being close to him like this

when there could never be anything between them except friendship.

"I want you to see Penshurst, Emmy," he said. " 'Tis a magnificent,

almost new place. But I did not enjoy being there alone. I found it

cheerless. I want my family there with me. And you. I want you to see

the river walk and the hills. I want to see you in the summer house. I

want to see you happy. You are not really happy here, Emmy. And

you must not deny it. Not to me. I know you too well."

How could she be happy—at Penshurst? But she had read the

description of the place on his lips and had a mental picture of it as

his home—as the place where he had been, where he would be for the

rest of his life. How could she ever be happy if she never saw it for

herself?

"Say yes," he said. He grinned at her again. " Sayyes, Emmy."

"Yess," she said.

He had moved his head forward so that he was looking directly into

her face. "Thank you," he said. "You will not regret it. I will give you a happy time there, I promise. And I will teach you more words. A

vocabulary of one word is nothing to boast about, by my life. Not for

your teacher, that is. I shall teach you whole sentences."

She shrugged and laughed.

"Emmy," he said. "Ah, Emmy. And you shall teach me—more than

I will ever teach you. Please, Emmy— teach me."

Even as her heart lurched at the strange plea, he leaned forward and

set his lips to hers and kept them there for several moments. They

were warm, gentle, quite without the passion with which he had

kissed her at the falls. His arm was still about her and she found the

side of her head coming to rest against his shoulder after all. She felt

warm again, and very sad. She closed her eyes and kept them closed

for a few moments after he had raised his head.

He was looking at her with a matching sadness in his own eyes when

she opened hers. "I am so sorry," he said.

They gazed at each other in sadness. She wondered for what he had

apologized. She did not think it was for the kiss—it had not been a

passionate embrace.

"Come," he said at last. "I must return you to Lady Sterne and all

your admirers." He touched a finger to the small black patch she

wore close to her mouth, and smiled. "I have just realized something

tonight, Emmy. I cannot hold you back from being all grown up, can

I, no matter how dearly I wish to believe you are still that girl I knew.

My little fawn."

No. No, he could not. But she knew that he would never really see

her as anything but that girl—despite what had once happened

between them.

He got to his feet and offered her his hand.

"Lud," Lady Quinn said, seating herself on the empty chair beside

Anna and fanning herself vigorously, "there is nothing like a

wedding—one's own wedding—to make one feel like a giddy girl

again. It seems almost indecent for people our age to have such a

crush of guests." She smiled fondly at her groom, who was talking

with Luke and the Earl of Weims and a few other gentlemen some

distance away.

"You look very happy, Aunt Marjorie," Anna said with a smile, and

she leaned over impulsively to kiss her godmother's cheek. " 'Tis what

I have hoped for for years. I am so very fond of Uncle Theodore."

"And you look like a giddy girl, Aunt Marjorie," Agnes said with a

laugh.

"Mercy on me," Lady Quinn said.

"Or perhaps 'twould be better to say you look like a young bride,"

Charlotte said.

"A lovelyyoung bride," Constance added.

Lady Quinn laughed heartily and turned her attention to a wedding

guest who had come to speak with her. The wedding had taken place

a mere few hours before at St. George's, which had been packed with

fashionable members of society. And at the duke's insistence, the

wedding breakfast had been eaten in the ballroom of Harndon

House. Now the guests were relaxing in the ballroom or wandering

out to the garden or into other rooms while an army of servants

discreetly cleared the tables.

Lady Quinn turned back to Anna. "Faith, child," she said, "you

must think me totally lacking in a sense of duty. I undertook to bring

Emily to town for the Season, yet I have married in the middle of it

and now Theo is whisking me away to the Lake District for two

weeks. But I would not have consented, Anna—and Theo would not

have suggested it—if Emily had not assured me that she wishes to go

to Penshurst with you and Harndon. Oh mercy on me, he is my

nephew now and told me but an hour ago that I must call him Luke.

Emily wrote me threeletters, child. I had to believe that she really

wishes to go."

"She does, Aunt Marjorie," Anna said. "She wrote to me too. She

wants to spend a couple of weeks with me and the children. She

misses us, I daresay, as we miss her. But she will come back for the

rest of the Season. I can scarce believe the change in her." She turned

her head to look across the ballroom, and all the ladies with her did

likewise. Emily was sitting on a low chair near the French doors,

looking elegant and lovely and flushed and very slightly disheveled.

Charlotte's baby was in her arms and showing persistent interest in

her pearl necklace. Anna's Harry was sitting on the floor at her feet,

beating some toys with the flat of his hand. Joy was standing at her

shoulder, disentangling the baby's hands from the pearls. Agnes's

youngest was straddling Harry so that he could look Emily directly in

the eye and hold her attention while he told her some lengthy tale.

"I cannot imagine, Anna," Charlotte said, "why you are allowing

Emily to go to Penshurst with you. 'Tis most improper. Jeremiah

even calls it scandalous. If she is to go there at all, it should be as Lord

Ashley Kendrick's bride. 'Twould be more seemly under the

circumstances for her to come home with Victor or with me while

Lady Sterne— Lady Quinn—is away."

"Victor and I would be very happy to have her, Anna," Constance

added.

"Emily is of age," Anna said firmly. "It is her decision to go to

Penshurst. It will be entirely proper. Luke and I will be there with

her."

Lady Quinn looked away from gazing at Emily and saw with some

satisfaction that Lord Ashley—no, he was simply Ashley to her

now—was leaning against a corner of the mantel at one end of the

room, not a part of any group or conversation. He was watching

Emily, a brooding look on his face—with a little imagination, one

might almost have construed it as a somewhat lovelorn look. And the

girl really was showing to best advantage today, Lady Quinn thought,

dressed as she was in all her new finery, the sparkle of happiness still

in her face, but the warmth of real pleasure back there too as she

amused the babies and listened patiently with her eyes to the

confidences of the other children.

The situation might just work out well. Lady Quinn mused. And it

might well justify the sacrifice she and Theo had made in marrying

and arranging a wedding journey right in the middle of the Season.

Some sacrifice! Lady Quinn turned her attention to her new

husband. It was difficult to see him objectively as a man of advanced

middle years. To her he was still the dashing, handsome, rakish

young gentleman with whom she had fallen painfully in love when

still married to Sterne. And who had unbelievably—and really quite

uncomfortably— fallen in love with her. His eyes met hers across the

room and they smiled at each other.

Just like young lovers, she thought fondly, impatient to be alone

together.

It was the sleepy time of day. And a sleepy kind of day. It was a

sunny afternoon, and the inside of the carriage was warm. Anna was

nursing Harry, a shawl wrapped discreetly about her shoulders. When

Emily glanced at her, she saw her lips moving and a dreamy

expression on her face, and figured she must be singing a lullaby.

Their mother must have sung her lullabies when she was an infant,

Emily thought, before she lost her hearing. She could almost

remember—almost, but not quite.

The children were supposed to be traveling with their nurse in the

carriage behind, but none of them were. James, who was sometimes

troubled by the attention his mama gave the baby, was curled up on

the seat opposite, fast asleep. Perhaps the lullaby had been intended

for him more than for Harry, who never seemed to need lulling. The

other two children were riding, Joy up before Luke on his horse,

George with Ashley.

It was a cozy family party that made its way toward Penshurst. And

Emily was not without an awareness that the ties might have been

even closer—she might have been Ashley's wife by now. She set the

side of her head against the comfortable cushions of Luke's traveling

carriage and gazed out the window. She wished Aunt Marjorie and

Lord Quinn had not decided upon a wedding trip. She wished Ashley

had not come to London. She wished her life there could have

continued for the rest of the Season. She had been wildly happy—or

at least had fully convinced herself that it was happiness she felt. If it

had continued longer, perhaps self-deception would have become

true reality. She was not sure now that she would be able to go back

in two weeks' time.

Viscount Burdett, knowing that she was leaving town for a few

weeks and disturbed by the fact, as several other of her gentleman

acquaintances had claimed to be, had made her a marriage offer just

the evening before. He had wanted to talk with Victor this morning,

before Victor left for home. But she had shaken her head quite firmly

while smiling fondly at him. He had seen the smile and the fondness

and had vowed to renew his courtship when she returned. She had

not realized that he believed what they had was a courtship. What a

foolish man he was—he had never been alone with her for longer

than a few minutes at a time. He could not know if he would find her

silence tolerable. He really did not know her at all. She wondered

what the attraction was. Novelty?

Anna touched her arm suddenly and pointed through the window

on her side of the carriage. In the distance, across a broad park, stood

a large and elegant mansion, flanked on each side by equally elegant

smaller buildings. Behind them rose wooded hills. When Emily

leaned slightly across Anna, careful not to disturb Harry, who was

asleep with his mouth open, she could see the spire of a church

farther to the east of the house and a cluster of houses that she

assumed made up the village.

She sat back in her corner, her head turned so that she could see the

house as they drove onward to the village. They would approach it

from the side, she realized, not from the front. She had not been

quite prepared for the churning of pain and emptiness—and

excitement—inside. It was his home. It was where he belonged,

where he would be happy. No, where he would have been happy if

Alice had returned with him, and Thomas. Ashley would never be

fully happy again. This was where she had lived, where she had been

a child. And he had loved her and blamed himself for her death. He

must find the house more of a punishment than a pleasure, Emily

thought sadly.

But this was where he belonged. And for ever after now, she would

be able to picture him in his own proper domain. Wherever she was

for the rest of her life—on the Continent with Aunt Marjorie, at

Bowden with Anna, at Elm Court with Victor—she would have only

to close her eyes and see this lovely house and the quiet, peaceful

scenery surrounding it. And she would know loneliness. Things

might have been so different, she reflected with regret. She might

have spent her life here with him, if only the marriage he had offered

her had been offered for different reasons.

It was a pretty village, centered on a village green, of which a wide

river formed one side and the churchyard another. The houses looked

well cared for. Some people on the streets stood still and watched

them go by. Several curtsied or raised hands in greeting to Ashley,

who was riding just ahead of the carriage, in Emily's line of vision. Of

course, he was already known here. And probably already liked. Most

people smiled.

The carriage turned to cross the river, the sun sparkling off its

surface. Anna turned her head.

"Beautiful!" she said. Emily could tell from the look on her sister's

face that the word had been spoken with fervor.

The gates into the park were just ahead. But the carriage slowed and

then stopped before reaching them. There was a cottage beside the

road with a small but lovingly kept garden. A young woman was

doing something with the rosebushes at one side of the house. She

straightened and looked toward the carriage, though she did not

smile or make any sign of greeting. But there were two other people

on the path in front of the house, an older man and a young boy,

who was standing on the lower rung of the wooden gate. Ashley was

talking to them, presenting Luke and turning to the carriage. Emily

drew down the window.

They were Mr. Edward Binchley and his grandson, Eric Smith. The

woman was Mrs. Katherine Smith, Eric's mother. Eric, Emily

estimated, was about four years old, a handsome child with dark hair

and blue eyes. He was not unlike George, with whom he was

exchanging interested glances. They might easily have been brothers.

"Mr. Binchley was the steward at Penshurst before his retirement,"

Ashley was saying. "He is a store of useful information on the estate

and neighborhood, as I have already discovered over several mugs of

ale here."

Emily looked at Mrs. Smith, who had made no move to come closer.

She stood still and watched. She was very young—not much older

than herself, Emily thought, and very lovely. She must be a widow if

she and her son were living with her father, Emily reasoned, then

found the woman's eyes on her. She smiled warmly and for the first

time Katherine Smith smiled—briefly.

They drove on.

The house was indeed rather new, Emily saw as they drove past the

stable block and drew up before the broad steps leading to the huge

double doors at the front of the house. It sparkled almost white in the

sunshine. Whoever had built it had liked wide-open vistas. The view

to the front stretched for miles over the park and the river and the

road and distant farmland.

Luke lifted a drowsy and grumbling James from the carriage, and

Ashley helped Anna descend with Harry. He grinned down at the

baby, who was oblivious to everything about him. And then he

turned back to Emily.

She set her foot on the top step, her hand in his, but he did not wait

for her to climb down. He released her hand, set his hands at her

waist, and lifted her to the ground, bringing her close to his body as

he did so. Luke and Anna, preoccupied by their children, were not

looking.

His eyes were smiling. Although the suffering was still there, far back

in his eyes, Emily could see that for the moment he was enjoying

himself. "Welcome to Penshurst, Emmy," he said. "And welcome

back to the countryside, where you belong, little fawn."

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. Her body was arched

inward, almost touching his. For those few moments she felt utterly

happy. She felt foolishly as if she were coming home.

"Sir Alexander Kersey must have been a man of considerable good

taste," Luke said. "In design the house and park are exquisite, Ash."

Ashley had seen the dubious glances Luke had cast at the frills and

pastel shades that dominated several of the rooms in the house. But

the library, at least, was an entirely handsome room. They sank down

onto leather chairs at either side of the unlit fireplace, Ashley with a

brandy, Luke with his customary glass of water. Luke had just

returned from the nursery, where he had as usual read a bedtime story

to his children, helped Anna tuck them into their beds, and listened

to them say their prayers. Anna was still giving Harry his night feed.

Emily had withdrawn after dinner in order to spend a quiet evening

in her own room.

"The sad part is," Ashley said, "that he built it all for his

descendants."

"There will be some," Luke said quietly. "Not direct descendants,

perhaps, but in spirit. From your letters I gathered that you were fond

of him and he of you. He approved of you as a son-in-law?"

Ashley nodded and stared moodily into his glass.

"Give it time," Luke said. "Be patient with yourself. And at the end

of the day forgive yourself."

Ashley half smiled.

" 'Tis none of my business," Luke said, "and you may consign me to

the devil if you wish, Ash. But why did you invite Emily here? I got

the distinct impression that we were invited here because you wanted

to invite her—not the other way around, as you have explained it to

numerous people. Why do you want her here?"

Ashley turned the glass in his hands and still half smiled. "She is

mine," he said. "I cannot see other men pay court to her without

wanting to break all their noses and smash all their teeth. She is

mine."

"By right of ownership?" Luke asked, eyebrows raised. "Or for more

tender considerations, Ash?"

Ashley did not answer for a long while. "You did say I might consign

you to the devil," he said at last.

"Quite so," Luke said, sounding infinitely bored. "Tell me some of

your plans for Penshurst, Ash. Knowing you as I do, I will not believe

that you intend to allow it to be run by your steward, no matter how

capable a man he might be."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ASHLEY STOOD AT HIS window looking out across the park and

the river. There was a farmer's cart moving at a leisurely pace along

the distant road. The birds beyond his window, hidden among the

leaves of the trees, were in full chorus.

He felt almost relaxed this early morning hour. He felt almost that

he liked—or even loved—his new home. Just a few rooms away Luke

and Anna were sleeping. Their four children were asleep in the

nursery, watched over by their nurse. Emmy was in the house.

He had gone into Alice's rooms again the night before and had stood

in her sitting room for a long while, not touching anything, feeling

her presence, smelling that faintest suggestion of her perfume. He had

almost made up his mind to give the order to have everything of hers

cleared out, given away, or burned. Forgive yourself, Luke had said—

just as Roderick Cunningham had said it before he left India. But

Luke did not know the whole of it. He did not know that his brother

had hated his wife—hated and pitied her—and had a dozen times

wished her dead. And Luke did not know that on that fatal night he

had not been at a business meeting but in another woman's bed. Or

that mingled with his terrible grief over the loss of the child he had

loved had been a guilty relief at knowing that he no longer had as his

heir another man's child. He even knew the man's identity—a

handsome, red-haired army captain who had left India long before his

son was born.

This morning Ashley had still not made a final decision about those

rooms, but this morning he felt that perhaps after all it was possible

to live again. I see now that I have not understood the true nature of

your concern for the lady, Sir Henry Verney had said to him almost a

week before, and the words had repeated themselves in his mind over

and over since then. And since then he had accepted the undeniable

fact that Emmy was a woman. She was a girl no longer. She was a

woman.

He smiled suddenly and leaned forward, his hands on the

windowsill, bracing himself. He might have guessed it. In fact, he felt

that he had been almost expecting it, waiting for it. She had emerged

from the house and was hurrying off in the direction of the river. The

sun was scarcely risen. He doubted that many of the servants were

even up yet. The only disappointing detail about her appearance was

the fact that she was dressed as if for the park in London. She was

even wearing a hat, prettily tilted forward over her lacy cap.

Ashley hurried into his dressing room.

She was on the river walk, standing still and gazing at the water,

when he caught up to her. She was watching a mother duck with a

string of little ones bobbing along behind her on the surface of the

river. She was smiling. The smile did not fade when she saw him

approaching. She pointed at the birds. Beautiful, she told him,

kissing her fingertips and extending her hand toward the river.

He had been a little afraid that she would resent his presence as an

intrusion on her solitude, but she did not look resentful. This was all

so very beautiful, she told him again with one all-inclusive sweep of

an arm. Despite the fashionable dress and the cap and hat, which

made her look deliciously pretty, she looked more like the Emmy he

loved. Her hair—what he could see of it beneath the hat— was

unpowdered. Her face was clear of cosmetics and patches. Her smile

was without the forced gaiety that had chilled him at Vauxhall.

"Yes," he said, using his hands as well as his voice. "I told you you

would love it, Emmy. And there is so much more to see."

He found himself wondering if she would have looked so happy in

this place and at this moment if she had married him, forced into it

by propriety and the pressure both he and their families had exerted.

They would have been together now for more than a month. They

would have been lovers for that long. His mind, which had shied

away from the memories and had shuddered at the very idea of

thinking carnally of her, considered the thought somewhat sadly now.

She had not wanted to marry him and had been strong-minded

enough to hold out against all the persuasions.

He had brought her here to woo her. But he must not be

overconfident, he knew. And he must do nothing to lose her

friendship. Emmy's friendship, he was realizing anew, was all he had

to cling to. All that could turn his life around and give him occasional

moments of peace. It had once been very much a one-way thing. He

had talked at her, used her for his comfort—and felt superior because

he could hear and speak and she could not. But friendship was a two-

way process. Both friends had to give, both had to receive. Emmy had

much to give—not through words or the inadequate substitute for

words they had devised and would continue to devise, but through

silence. He needed to listen to the silence. And he had much to

give—acceptance, understanding, the willingness to recognize the

validity of her world. Love. But friendship first and foremost. If that

was all he could have of her for the rest of his life, then he would be

very careful not to forfeit it.

He drew her arm through his and strolled with her, not even

attempting for several minutes to talk. Conversation was really not

necessary, he realized, when one could share quiet companionship

with a friend. The river flowed quietly to one side of them. Trees and

shrubs, most notably rhododendrons, carefully placed and selected,

closed them in on the other side, so that there was an air of utter

seclusion and peace. It all now seemed complete with Emmy there.

And more lovely than it had ever seemed before.

"Did you bring your painting things with you?" he asked her at last,

touching his fingers first to her chin so that she would turn her head.

Yes, she told him.

"But you have not used them since you were at Bowden?" he asked.

No, she had not.

"Why not?" he asked.

I, she told him with her hands and her whole body and with the

bright smile she had used in London, have been too busy enjoying

myself to think of painting.

"Yes," he said, "I know you have been busy enjoying yourself. But

painting is important to you, Emmy."

Yes, she admitted after a few moments, with obvious reluctance.

"Enjoyment for the sake of itself becomes less enjoyable as time goes

on," he said.

She frowned in incomprehension.

"You would not enjoy that life forever," he told her.

She admitted the truth of that only by directing her eyes downward.

He left her to her thoughts for a while—but he had to persist. He had

the uncomfortable feeling that his violation of her body had jolted

her out of the world she had created from her own silence. It had

been a happy world for which she had found no comparable

substitute. If he could do nothing else for her, he would give her back

her world.

"Emmy?" He touched her hand and brought her eyes back to his

face. "Will you do something for me?"

She looked wary.

"I invited you here," he said, realizing the truth of his words even as

he spoke them, "so that I could offer you freedom. You took freedom

in your own hands when you refused to marry me. 'Twas incredibly

courageous of you, when your whole family was united with me

against you. But you have used your freedom to deny yourself, to

deny all that is most beautiful and most meaningful in your life. You

are deaf, Emmy, and mute, even if you have learned to say one word

and may in time learn more. You cannot live the life that women

with hearing live—not without giving up all that is most precious to

you. I want to give that back to you—here, with this." He gestured to

the river and the park around them. "Do you understand me? Have I

hurled too many words at you?"

She had stopped walking. She drew her arm free of his and looked at

him with troubled eyes. But yes, she told him with a sign he

recognized. Yes, she had heard him.

"Emmy," he said. "Let me give you something of real worth. I want

you to feel free here to do as you will. If you want to wander here or

in the hills, do so. If you wish to absent yourself from any visits I will

organize for your sister and Luke, then do so. If you want to let your

hair down or go barefoot, do it. And most of all, paint. It is your way

of speaking—without the encumbrance of words. Take your easel

and your paints to the summer house if you will. Will you please

accept this gift from me?"

For a moment her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back.

And she nodded. "Yess," she said.

And the thing was, he thought, that he had meant the word

freedom. He wanted her to be free, just at the time when he also

wanted to clasp her tightly to him and never let her go. But one could

never clasp Emmy close without crushing all the life out of her, he

realized. She was a free spirit and would never flourish in captivity.

She would never have been happy if she had married him at that

particular time and under those particular circumstances. The

realization was infinitely saddening. Perhaps the time and the

circumstances would never be right.

Selfishness could not help but intrude. "Emmy," he said, "may I join

you—just occasionally? Not all the time. Not even often. Just

sometimes? You will never know how much nourishment I have

drawn from just being near you."

She lifted one arm and cupped her hand very gently about his cheek.

She nodded.

"I may?" He held her hand where it was and turned his head to set

his lips against her palm. "Are we also going to make a talkative

woman out of you?"

She smiled sunnily and shrugged, turning both hands upward. Why

not?

"Now?" he said. "Can we double your vocabulary, do you suppose?"

They both laughed. "What word will you try? No?"

No, she told him quite decisively, and pointed one finger at his

chest.

"Ashley?" he said. "Try it, then."

She blushed and bit her lower lip. But he could tell as soon as she

spoke his name that she must have been practicing before a looking

glass. The lip movements were precise and perfect. He doubled up

with laughter and she punched him on one shoulder. She was

frowning in vexation when he caught her eye, but then she laughed

too.

"Not Ahzhee," he said. "Ashley."

That is what I said, she told him with impatient hands and

shoulders.

"Sh-sh-sh," he told her, taking one of her hands by the wrist and

holding it in front of his mouth while he set the fingertips of her

other hand against his throat. "Not zh, but sh-sh-sh."

"Shhhh," she said obediently.

The sound was more difficult to show her. He had not realized how

many sounds must be invisible to the beholder. This one, he

discovered, was formed with the tongue behind the teeth. He began

to have more respect for her skill in being able to read lips so well.

"Ahshley," she said at last, after they had stood face-to-face for every

bit of five minutes.

He should tackle that first sound, he thought. But his name spoken

thus in her low, sweet, toneless voice sounded just too charming.

"Yes," he said, smiling warmly at her. "Yes, Emmy."

"Yess, Ahshley," she said, and covered her face with her hands and

laughed.

He took her by the shoulders and drew her against him, then hugged

her tightly and rocked her as they both laughed. Her eyes were

dancing with merriment when she tipped her head back and looked

up at him.

"Yess, Ahshley."

He rubbed his nose back and forth across hers. "At this rate," he said,

"you will learn three hundred and sixty-five words in a year, Emmy.

One extra in a leap year."

Spare me, she told him with a mock grimace.

"Naow," she said.

He grinned. "Oh-oh-oh."

"Oh-oh-oh. No."

"You have been teaching yourself," he said, drawing her arm through

his again. "You have been making my services as a teacher

redundant."

"No." She pulled her arm free and her hands went to work. "Naow.

Oh-oh-oh. Ahzhee. Sh-sh-sh. L-l-I-I." She pointed at him.

He chuckled. "Very well," he said. "I can still correct your

pronunciation." Except for the opening sound of his own name, he

reminded himself.

"Yess." She smiled sunnily at him. "Yes, Ahshley."

They grinned at each other, thoroughly pleased with themselves.

"And now you must teach me," he said. "Let us stroll onward in

silence. Noise—the need to make noise in conversation—causes us to

miss so much, Emmy. Teach me."

"Yess," she said again.

Conversation really was unnecessary, he discovered over the next half

hour or so. They shared a pleasure in the morning just as surely as if

they had spoken of it.

By the time they returned to the house, he felt almost at peace.

Almost happy.

She loved Penshurst. She had always loved Bowden more than any

other place she had ever been, even Elm Court, where she had been

born and had lived for her first fourteen years. She had always felt

that Bowden would feel like her home for the rest of her life. But

Penshurst, even before she had made a full exploration of either the

house or the park, left her with a strange feeling somewhere in the pit

of her stomach. A feeling of almost painful longing.

Perhaps, she thought, it was because Penshurst was his. Ashley's.

They all went outside later in the morning, after breakfast, when the

air was warm. At first they strolled with the children about the more

cultivated part of the park and Ashley pointed out various features—a

lime grove, a small artificial lake, views over the surrounding

countryside. But soon enough the children demanded more by way

of entertainment and Luke and Ashley played ball with them while

Emily sat with Anna on the lawn and Harry sat too and bounced his

palms on the grass. Then Ashley was galloping about with a delighted

James on his back and Luke was raising his eyebrows and telling his

brother that he would have warned him if he had been given a

chance. And so poor Ashley found himself having to gallop George

and Joy about too. He collapsed onto the grass afterward in mock

exhaustion while Joy and James simultaneously wrestled with Luke.

George had come running over to his mother. "Mama," he said, "I

want to go and play with the little boy." He pointed off in the

direction of the village.

"The little boy?" Anna frowned. "At the cottage, do you mean? Eric?

But perhaps he is busy, George. Or perhaps his mama has taken him

somewhere."

"I want to go and see," George announced.

"He isa sweet-looking child," Anna said. "But Papa and Uncle

Ashley are looking after Joy and James"— James had just jumped

onto Ashley's stomach and was being rolled in the grass—"and Harry

is going to be hungry soon. I will have to take him inside. You cannot

go alone. Perhaps this afternoon."

But George was in no way daunted. "Aunt Emily can take me," he

said.

Emily smiled and nodded. She would enjoy the walk. And if Eric

Smith lived alone with his mother and grandfather, perhaps he would

enjoy having a new playmate. She got to her feet and brushed the

grass off her petticoat.

"You are too good, Emmy," Anna said. "You will be sure he does not

outstay his welcome? Children know woefully little about etiquette."

George ran on ahead when they were close to the park gates. He

could see Eric swinging on the garden gate outside the cottage. The

two of them were in earnest conversation by the time Emily came up

to them. She smiled at Eric.

"George has come to play," he told her. "I am four years old. What is

your name?" He transferred his attention to George and then looked

back at her. "Oh," he said, "you cannot hear or speak? Can you

understand me?"

Emily nodded. But Mrs. Smith had appeared in the doorway. She

was wiping her hands on a white apron.

"Mama," Eric called, keeping his face turned toward Emily, "George

has come from the house to play with me. This lady cannot hear and

cannot speak. But she can understand. You have to look at her,

though."

Mrs. Smith looked embarrassed. She beckoned Emily. "Please come

in," she said, mouthing the words clearly.

And Emily suddenly felt embarrassed too. She had been used to

wandering about Bowden, where people knew her and made

allowances for her. These people would be dreadfully put out. And so

would she. What if they talked and she could not understand? What

if they did nottalk and looked very uncomfortable? But it was too late

to think of such things now.

Mrs. Smith smiled when Emily came through the gate and

approached the cottage door. "You are Lady Emily Marlowe? Have I

remembered your name correctly? How kind of you to bring the little

boy—he is the duke's eldest son?—to play with Eric. He is frequently

lonely, but he has a wonderful imagination." She flushed. She had

been speaking very slowly. "Do you really read lips?

Emily nodded and smiled.

The cottage was plainly but neatly furnished. Mr. Binchley was

coming downstairs as Emily stepped inside. He was clearly a

gentleman, as his daughter was clearly a lady, though Emily guessed

that they were by no means wealthy. He made her a bow and smiled

warmly.

"This is an honor, my lady," he said. "And how do you like

Penshurst?" He turned away and appeared to be offering her a chair.

He was not easy to understand. And then he turned toward his

daughter, appearing startled, and finally looked at Emily. "Really?" he

said. He seemed acutely embarrassed.

Emily smiled at him.

Mrs. Smith disappeared into the kitchen, perhaps to make tea.

Emily sat with Mr. Binchley, who looked about as uncomfortable as

a man could possibly look. There was no one to break the silence—

and Emily knew that people who could hear were always distressed by

silence. She could say yesand break it, she thought, but though the

idea amused her, she was not feeling comfortable. Far from it.

Mr. Binchley caught her eye and they smiled weakly at each other.

His hands fidgeted in his lap. Emily lifted hers and beckoned with

her fingers. When he looked at them, she made flapping gestures and

beckoned again. Speak to me. She felt remarkably foolish.

"I never knew of any deaf-mute reading lips," he said.

She smiled with genuine amusement and tapped her chest. I can, she

was telling him. and then laughed.

The laugh must have done it. He visibly relaxed and started to talk, a

little more slowly than he had at first. She found to her relief that she

could understand much of what he said. He told her about Penshurst

and the neighborhood, and about how pleased everyone was to have

the new owner living at the house at last. He had been steward at

Penshurst for many years, he was telling her when his daughter

returned with the tea tray, until his retirement after the death of Mr.

Gregory Kersey, Sir Alexander Kersey's son.

But Katherine Smith looked up at him tight-lipped and Emily

turned her head in time to read her lips. "Must you always keep alive

that myth, Papa?" she said. "You did not retire. You were replaced."

"This is neither the time nor the place, Katherine," he said. He got

to his feet and bowed to Emily again. "I will leave you ladies alone."

He smiled kindly at her. "Thank you for calling, Lady Emily, and for

bringing the child. He is the Marquess of Craydon?"

Emily nodded.

Mrs. Smith spoke to her about Eric, about the sadness of the fact

that he had no brothers or sisters. Her husband had died—she looked

down at her hands for several moments before continuing. She spoke

about growing up at Penshurst. She had lived in this cottage, though

she had been at the house a great deal. She had been educated with

Alice Kersey. They had even been friends—when they were children,

she added pointedly. Emily was left with the impression that they had

no longer been friends once they had grown older.

She found Katherine easier to understand than her father.

Nonetheless she decided she would not stay too long, reasoning that

it must be a strain on strangers to entertain her when they had to bear

the burden of conversation alone. And it was a strain upon her to be

the only guest—to have to concentrate upon everything that was said

and nod and smile in the right places. But as she was leaving and after

Mrs. Smith had called to George, the woman turned to her and

smiled.

"I do thank you for coming," she said. "You are very easy to talk to.

You seem to be part of a conversation even though you say nothing.

Do come again—if you wish, that is. You are staying at Penshurst for

a while?"

Emily nodded, took her leave warmly, then walked back to the house

with George feeling that she had made a friend. Someone who had

not smiled at either Ashley or Luke yesterday but who had smiled at

her both then and today. Someone who felt anger over the fact that

her father had been dismissed from his position as steward at

Penshurst after the death of Mr. Gregory Kersey. Alice's brother.

Who had dismissed him? Sir Alexander Kersey, who had been in

India at the time? Alice, who between the time of her brother's death

and her own departure for India must have been in charge at

Penshurst? But why? And Katherine Smith had not liked Alice. At

least, that was what her one comment had implied.

But Emily had no real wish to know about the past. Even though she

knew she would look back on these two weeks and feel pain because

they were over and would probably never be repeated, she was going

to enjoy them anyway. She was going to enjoy Ashley's friendship

and the freedom he had offered her. She was going to enjoy being

here in this place, for which she felt such a strange and strong affinity.

And it was such a relief to be back in the countryside, to look forward

to the prospect of time alone with nature. Ashley had even permitted

her to absent herself from visits, to leave off her hoops and her shoes,

to paint…

Ashley, she thought, understood her more than anyone else, even

Anna and Luke. Ashley understood that though handicapped, she

was a whole person.

Ashley…

She sighed. She had to remember that in two weeks" time she would

be leaving again. Leaving Penshurst.

Leaving him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

For three days she explored the huge park about Penshurst. The more

cultivated parts before the house she walked through with everyone

else, including a few of Ashley's neighbors who called upon them

while the weather remained fine and warm. The other parts, the

wilder, more extensive parts, she roamed over alone. She slipped out

in the mornings, sometimes even before the sun rose, and in the

afternoons after they had eaten if there was no visit planned, or

immediately afterward if they went somewhere or someone came to

call on them. Once she went out in the evening instead of staying to

help entertain the visitors Ashley had invited to play cards.

The river walk extended for a whole mile and was very beautiful. But

Emily discovered that the riverbank beyond the walk was even

lovelier, with its long, sometimes coarse grass and myriad varieties of

wildflowers. The hills behind the house, which did not look high

from in front, were nevertheless wooded and secluded. And the

artfully planned clearings afforded wonderful views over rolling,

pastoral countryside. The summer house Ashley had referred to

overlooked the river and miles of empty farmland. The house and the

village were hidden from view behind the trees. She suspected that

whoever had built it there had wanted to feel utterly secluded, utterly

alone. It was, as Ashley had said, sparsely furnished. But she knew as

soon as she set foot inside it that he had had it cleaned and spruced

up. There were even clean, soft cushions on the worn sofa and a

folded-up blanket.

On the third morning she took her painting things up to the

summer house, though she did not try to do anything with them. She

did not know yet what she wished to paint. Although she felt all the

beauty of this new part of the country, it had not yet spoken to her

soul. But she knew it would. She had to give it time. Time, real time

as opposed to human time, could not be rushed or forced. She was

content to sit on the sofa and gaze out the low window opposite—

out and down the hill and across the river and the countryside

beyond.

On that third morning Ashley came to her. She had left the door of

the summer house open, and she became aware after several minutes

had passed of a shadow in the doorway. He was leaning against the

doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at her.

"I knew," he said, "that you would look at home here, Emmy." He

glanced toward her easel. He used his hands to speak. "I am glad you

are going to paint again. And I am glad to see my sprite back."

She had not brought any of her oldest clothes from Bowden. But she

had put on her simplest gown this morning without either hoops or

padded petticoat. She had tied her hair back loosely with a ribbon.

She was barefoot. She had forgotten until these last three days how

much she needed that contact with the earth.

"May I?" he asked, indicating the seat beside her on the sofa.

She nodded and he came inside and seated himself. He took her

hand in his. But he said nothing more. For half an hour or perhaps

longer they sat side by side, hand in hand, looking at the view,

watching early morning turn into definite day. There was no more

perfect communication than silence, Emily thought. Perhaps that was

an easy paradox for her to learn, but she felt that Ashley was learning

it too—as he had asked to do. Perhaps she really did have something

to teach him, something to give him. He was giving her speech and

she was giving him silence.

She had wanted to give him comfort when his emotions had been

too tempestuous for there to be any comfort. Perhaps she could give

him some comfort now. And perhaps she could weave memories for

herself to take with her into a lonely future.

"I shall leave you, Emmy," he said at last after squeezing her hand to

draw her eyes to his lips. "Stay here as long as you wish. Thank you

for allowing me to share some of your time here." He leaned over her

and kissed her softly on the lips. Then he was gone.

She wondered if it would be easier if he did not like her at all. If in

his own way he did not love her. If he had not invited her here. If she

had not come. She closed her eyes, blocking out the beauty of the

view. No, she could not be sorry that he felt a fondness for her. And

she knew that she would never be sorry that she had come here.

Somehow, in some strange way, she knew it had always been

intended that she come here. It was a puzzling thought, and a restful

one.

Except that in less than two weeks' time she would have to leave

again and return to London. And not see him again for a long, long

time.

If ever.

On the fourth morning she went in a different direction, away from

both the river and the hill, which were a strong lure in her search for

solitude and peace. But she wanted to see all there was to see and so

she went in the opposite direction from the river and the approach to

the house. She went across lawns and past the lime grove and in

among the trees until she came to the edge of the park. It was marked

by a hedgerow, with the road beyond.

It seemed sad not to go farther. The clouds, which had brought rain

during the night, were moving off and the sun was just rising. The air

was fresh and cool. The grass and soil underfoot had made her feet

tingle with cold. But she could not go farther—not looking the way

she did. And not in a neighborhood where she was not well known

and would not be able to communicate with anyone she met. She

shook her head and closed her eyes, feeling the wind blow her hair

out behind her. She had not even tied it back this morning.

There was a gap in the hedgerow into which a wooden stile had been

built. She climbed over it and sat on the top rung, facing out over the

fields and meadows beyond the road. It was lovely, she thought.

There was not the obvious beauty of the river here or the seclusion or

the panoramic views of the hill. There was just a basic unspectacular

loveliness about it. It was England. It was home.

She was rather sorry she had not brought her paints and her easel.

She rather thought she could paint here—the wonder of the ordinary.

Though even the seemingly ordinary could appear extraordinary

when one opened one's eyes and one's heart to it.

But her reverie was interrupted. She could feel someone else's

presence. She jerked her head to one side to look along the road to

her right. For the merest moment she felt a surging of gladness. He

had come again. But she knew even before she saw the man that he

was not Ashley. Something inside her always seemed to know

unerringly when he was close by.

He was sitting on horseback a short distance away, handsomely

dressed in riding clothes with a cloak for warmth and highly polished

boots. His three-cornered hat was tipped slightly forward over his

eyes. He was grinning appreciatively at her.

A stranger.

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you must be deaf," he said.

He must have been speaking to her before she became aware of his

presence. She smiled at him, feeling some amusement as well as some

embarrassment at his words. He was a young man, rather dashingly

handsome.

"Egad," he said, "but I am glad I took to the road early this morning.

Have you escaped from your milking chores, wench?" He

dismounted from his horse as he spoke and led it closer to her.

Oh. She felt her smile fading as she shook her head. What a

wretched embarrassment to be mistaken for a milkmaid. This would

teach her to stay well within the confines of the park when she was

dressed thus. And she could not even explain.

He laughed and said something she could not see. But he continued.

"You would be wasted squatting on a milking stool caressing udders,"

he said. "I could put your hands and your… derriere to far more

pleasurable use." Brown eyes roamed over her from head to foot,

pausing suggestively with the pauses in his speech. He abandoned his

horse to graze on the grass at the side of the road and strolled closer

to her.

Emily shook her head firmly and lifted her chin. Her heart began to

beat uncomfortably fast. It was just the sort of situation that

sometimes appeared in her nightmares. In reality she was rarely alone

in a place where a stranger might come upon her. She wished

desperately that her legs were on the other side of the stile. She

mentally calculated how long it would take her to swing them over.

He was not a particularly tall man, she noticed, but he was very

solidly built, and he had an indefinable air of command about him.

He looked like a man accustomed to having his own way.

"I have rendered you speechless?" he said, laughing at her again.

"Come, wench, I would taste of those lips. And perhaps of something

else too. Yes, undoubtedly of something else, though I would do

more than taste there—I would delve deep for a sweeter feast. The

road isdeserted, I am happy to see, and the hedgerow in yonder field

is quite secluded."

She did not see every word. She did not need to. She was desperately

frightened.

Ashley. Ashley. For the moment fear paralyzed both her body and

her mind. All she could do was silently scream out his name and wish

for a miracle.

The stranger took another step toward her.

"No." She held her hands palm out in front of her. "No."

"No?" He became instantly haughty, though the laughter was still

there in his eyes. "No, wench? But I say yes. I will give you the

chance to earn half a sovereign for yourself before breakfast. A

princely sum for a truant milkmaid. But perhaps I will judge that you

have not earned even half a farthing if you protest."

Her brain was beginning to function again. She half smiled and kept

her eyes on him as she swung her legs over to the other side of the

stile. He stood still in order to watch her.

I am Lady Emily Marlowe. I am a guest at Penshurst. The Duchess

of Harndon is my sister. But there was no point in wasting time

verbalizing the words in her mind that she might have written down

if she had had the chance. It was impossible to speak them. Her

mind, still terrified but mercifully released from its paralysis, worked

frantically.

"Ah," he said, obviously believing that she moved in compliance

with his suggestion, "the offer of half a sovereign has done the trick,

has it? This will be rare sport, wench, money or no money, I warrant

you. I daresay you enjoy a good rutting as well as I."

He was within arm's reach of her. She started suddenly with surprise,

her eyes as wide as saucers, gazed beyond his shoulder at the

imaginary rider who was not approaching down the road behind him,

and pointed with one dramatic arm. She hoped—oh, she hoped and

hoped she could say it right.

"L-l-look!" she said.

And then, when his head went back over his shoulder, she hurled

herself down from the stile and began to run. The grass was slippery

among the trees, but her toes gripped it surely. She knew that she had

only a few seconds' grace. It would not take him long to climb over

the stile, and surely he could run faster than she. Her back crawled

with terror and for once the silence was menacing, but she dared not

waste a moment in looking back. She tried to decide whether it

would be better to weave among the trees, hoping to lose him, or to

run a straight course through them, as she was doing. She tried to

decide what she would do when he caught her. Panic was robbing her

of both breath and rationality. And finally she could deny the panic

no longer. She turned her head to look back.

She could still see him, though he was not close. He was only just on

her side of the stile. He was down, one knee bent, the other leg

stretched out ahead of him. He must have skidded on the wet grass.

He touched his right hand to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute.

He said something, but she could not read his lips at that distance.

She turned her head again and ran on.

Ashley was not at home. She entered the house at a run, looking

neither to left nor to right. She raced upstairs and hurled herself at

the door of his bedchamber and through it. He was not there. Nor

was he in his dressing room. She gripped the back of a chair there for

a moment, gasping for breath, setting a hand to the stitch in her side,

not sparing a single thought to wonder how she even knew where his

room was. Then she raced downstairs and into the breakfast parlor. It

was empty.

The footman in the large tiled hall looked at her impassively. Not by

the flicker of an eyelid did he show any reaction to her disheveled

appearance. But he had come closer to the door of the breakfast

parlor.

"His lordship is out riding, my lady," he said with careful lip

movements, "with his grace. Her grace is, I believe, with Lord Harry

in the nursery."

Anna. Luke. She stared blankly at the footman. She had not even

thought of running to either one of them for help. But Luke was

gone anyway, and she would not disturb Anna, who she knew must

be feeding Harry. She nodded to the footman and turned back to the

stairs.

She paced in her room, with the door firmly shut, for several

minutes, stopping frequently at the window to peer downward. But

she did not know where he had gone or from which direction he

would return. And she could not see the stable block from her

window. She finally threw herself facedown onto the bed. She wanted

his arms tight about her. She wanted her head against his heartbeat.

She wanted the strength of his body enclosing her. She wanted to

climb right inside him. She gathered fistfuls of the bedcover into her

hands and held tight. And then she turned onto her side and drew up

her knees, curling as nearly as she could into a ball. She started to

shake so uncontrollably that her teeth chattered, but she could not

even reach out to pull the cover over herself for warmth and

protection.

Ashley, she thought, come home. Please come home.

After a long time she felt enough in command of her body to get up

again. He must not see her like this, she decided. Her hair was wild

and tangled. She could see a twig caught in one lock that lay over her

shoulder. Her hands and feet were dirty. Her dress was torn at one

side. She could smell her own perspiration. She spread her hands in

front of her. They were still trembling. So were her legs, now that she

was standing on them. She rang the bell for a maid and stripped off

her dress.

She felt hardly any better half an hour later, though she was clean

and neatly dressed and had had her hair braided and coiled at the

back of her head beneath her lace cap. She had deliberately chosen

one of her favorite new gowns, an open gown of spring green, its

robings embroidered with spring flowers, the petticoat beneath a

slightly lighter shade of green. She wore stays and small hoops. But

she did not really feel better. She descended the stairs at a sedate pace,

her chin up, her expression serene. She had made enough of a

spectacle of herself for the servants earlier.

She was not sure she could say the word properly. It began with that

invisible sound. "Lord Ahshley?" she asked the footman.

"His lordship is in the library, my lady," the footman said with a

bow. "He is with—"

But she had turned away from him and was hurrying despite herself

in the direction of the library. She felt the panic of pursuit again, the

crawling sensation at her back. She was almost safe. But not quite.

She did not wait for the footman to catch up to her but flung the

library doors wide for herself and hurried inside.

He was standing not far from the door, his back to her, but he

turned at its abrupt opening, a look of surprise on his face. She

hurried straight into his arms, her eyes closing even before she

reached her destination, her face burying itself against the solid safety

of his chest. She wrapped her arms about his waist even as she felt his

come about her. She breathed in deeply the warm, safe smell of him.

She was safe at last. At last. She sighed and relaxed her weight against

him.

But he would not allow her to cling to the safety for long. He set his

hands on her shoulders and moved them firmly away from him so

that he could see her face. His head dipped down and his eyes

searched hers.

"Emmy?" he said. "What is it? What has happened? 'Tis all right, my

love. I am here. I have you safe."

She could not see beyond the blessedly safe circle of his face and

chest and shoulders and arms. But her mind had caught up to her

panic. And she realized that he had not been alone in the library

when she had entered it. She released her hold on Ashley, stepped

back, and looked beyond him. Luke was standing close to the

window, his hands clasped at his back, his eyes intent on her. And

there was someone else by the fireside. She could not for the moment

turn her eyes to look at him. She jerked her head back in Ashley's

direction.

He looked at her with silent concern for a moment, but he must

have felt some awkwardness in the situation. Her mind had not quite

begun to grasp it. "Emmy," he said, "I have had an unexpected

pleasure this morning. Here is my particular friend home from India

with his regiment and come to visit me. Meet Major Roderick

Cunningham. Rod, may I present Lady Emily Marlowe, the Earl of

Royce's sister, Luke's sister-in-law?"

Her eyes moved to him at last. And she could see that in the same

moment as she recognized him, he recognized her. But his reaction

was as controlled as she hoped hers was. He smiled slowly and made

her an elegant bow.

"Lady Emily," he said, " 'tis my pleasure and my good fortune to

arrive here at this particular time."

Instinct had her making him a curtsy in return. Ashley must have

been saying something, but now that she had finally looked at his

visitor, Emily could not look away from the man who had wanted to

ravish her for half a sovereign just a couple of hours before. She could

feel Ashley's hand resting lightly against the back of her waist.

"Indeed?" Major Cunningham said after a pause. "One would never

have guessed. Remarkable. But do you not tire of always watching

lips, Lady Emily?" His smile lit up his face and was suggestive of deep

charm.

The hand at her waist turned her slightly. Ashley's eyes were still full

of concern. "But what frightened you, Emmy?" he asked. "What

happened?"

She shook her head. She was not sure she was not going to faint or

vomit, but perhaps she would do neither if he but kept his hand

against her. This man was his friend? He was an army officer, a man

bound by the code of chivalry and honor? And he had come to visit?

To stay? She smiled.

Ashley's eyes went beyond her for a moment and then looked back.

"Yes," he said, " 'twill be best. Luke will take you to Anna, Emmy. I

will talk with you later, or any time you have need of me. I am going

to see Roderick settled. I will twist his arm and persuade him to stay

for a week or so. What a very pleasant week this is going to be." His

smile was warm and happy.

Luke was beside her then, drawing her arm firmly through his,

turning her in the direction of the door.

She was very naive, Emily admitted to herself. Despite her month in

London, she knew very little about life as it was lived beyond the

confines of a sheltered country estate. But she did know that many

men—perhaps most men— did not live celibate lives. She was even

aware—or thought she was aware—that many men thought any

woman beneath the rank of lady fair game for their gallantry, a

strangely euphemistic word. Was it possible that there had been

nothing so very heinous about Major Cunningham's behavior, given

the misunderstanding engendered by her appearance?

Oh, but there had been, she thought. There had. She had said no—

she had even spoken the word aloud—and he had been in the process

of ignoring her refusal. He had been about to ravish her. Surely he

had been about to ravish her.

"My dear." Luke paused on the first landing of the staircase, a private

place, and set a hand over hers to bring her eyes to his face. "You

were very frightened."

She stared mutely at him.

"Something happened to terrify you," he said. "You went to the

library to the protection of Ashley only to discover that he was

entertaining a newly arrived guest. 'Twas unfortunate. Will I do as a

substitute? Will you tell me what frightened you? Shall we find pen

and paper?"

Luke had been both brother and father to her for eight years. She

loved him dearly and trusted him utterly. She swallowed. And

remembered that Major Cunningham was Ashley's friend. And that

perhaps that sort of behavior was not considered so very reprehensible

among gentlemen. But it would be seen as reprehensible if they knew

the major had treated herso. They would have to do something about

it, both Luke and Ashley. There would be dreadful unpleasantness.

Ashley had looked so very happy to see his friend again.

She shook her head and then shrugged and smiled. It was nothing,

the gestures told Luke.

Luke's cool gray eyes could be the most fearsome things. They

probed hers for a long while.

"I will bring you to Anna," he said at last. " 'Tis time for us to take the children outside. You will come with us, my dear, where you will

feel safe. And where you will besafe. I will not allow any harm to

come to you."

She smiled at him as he patted her hand and looked deeply into her

eyes again. She was safe now, she thought. And would be safe even

though he was to be a guest here for the next week. She would be safe

now that he knew who she was.

She did not feel safe. The normally comfortable silence was full of

unknown terrors.

CHAPTER TWENTY

He felt for the rest of the day that he had failed her in some way. She

had needed his help—quite badly needed it, to have come hurtling

into the library and hurling herself against him as she had when, even

without the presence of Luke and Roderick in the room, there had

been a footman coming up behind her and standing gawking in the

open doorway, until he had withdrawn hastily at Ashley's pointed

look and closed the door behind him.

She had come for his help and he had been unable to answer her

need because he had been entertaining. He had solved the problem

by sending her away with Luke in order to find Anna—though he

had not doubted that Luke would try to handle the situation himself.

He had failed—she had been unwilling to confide in either him or

Anna, Luke had told him later. She had pretended that all was well.

And she had told him the same thing when he had drawn her aside

briefly after their midday meal. She had told him with shrugs and

sunny smiles and blank eyes that all was well, that nothing had really

been wrong in the first place. And she had run upstairs for her straw

hat so that she might accompany Anna on return visits to ladies who

had called during the past few days.

She had been smiling and serene when she returned and during

dinner, at which they had other guests in addition to Roderick, and

for an hour in the drawing room afterward. She retired early,

disappearing quietly from the room. Perhaps only he noticed. They

had had a silent conversation across the room before she went, using

one of their oldest agreed-upon series of hand gestures.

Are you uncomfortable? he had asked, spreading his hands palms

down in his lap and shaking them slightly.

Yes. A simple nod.

Do you want me to sit beside you? Hands pointing to his chest and

to the seat beside hers.

No. A shake of the head. I am going to leave. Hands pointing to her

bosom and to the door behind her.

It had all been very unobtrusive. No one else had known that they

conversed.

Go, then. A smile and a hand wafted toward the door.

Thank you. Fingers touching her lips.

He had watched, troubled, as she left. The serenity she had displayed

all evening had been a thing of the surface, rather as her gaiety had

been in London. She had shut herself off behind the calm, smiling

eyes.

He had failed her, he thought, frowning at the closed door. He

should have left Luke to entertain Rod this morning and taken

Emmy aside himself. He could not but remember that she had had

eyes for no one but him when she had come running into the room,

that it was to him she had come, burrowing against him for safety

and protection.

And he had a niggling suspicion that he knew what might have

happened. Or if not that, at least who it was who had upset her. The

imagination could only boggle over the exact nature of the encounter

if she had been that frightened by it.

He and Luke had ridden through the village and beyond it. When

they were returning, there had been a horse tethered to the fence of

Ned Binchley's cottage. And the owner of the horse had been

stepping out through the door as they drew abreast of the gate.

Verney. Ashley had not known of his return from London. They had

nodded stiffly to each other and exchanged pleasantries. Luke had

conversed more easily, both with Verney and with Katherine Smith,

who came out of the house behind him. Eric had darted out ahead of

them.

"I am to go with Uncle Henry," he had announced. "I am going to

see the horses and the puppies. And Aunt Barbara and Lady Verney,"

he had added as an afterthought.

Sir Henry had mounted his horse and lifted Eric up in front of him,

and they had all gone their separate ways.

Ashley could not push from his mind the thought that somehow

Verney and Emmy had met this morning, and something had

happened. He had no evidence, no proof. But he did have a strong

prejudice against the man and a conviction that he fancied Emmy.

And the knowledge too that he had seduced and irreparably hurt

Alice.

He slipped from the room soon after Emily had left it. She was

nowhere to be found in any of the rooms where she might have taken

refuge for a short while. He climbed the staircase and stood outside

the door of her room for a few moments before lifting a hand and

knocking. He knew it was a foolish thing to do, of course, when she

would not hear him. But perhaps there was a maid in there with her.

There was no sign of a light beneath the door, though. After a short

while he turned the handle and opened the door gingerly. The room

was dark and empty, as he had expected it to be.

She had gone outside, then. It was perhaps a strange thing to do

when something—or someone—had undoubtedly frightened her just

this morning. And already it was dusk outside. But Ashley knew that

Emmy did not always behave as other women did. She drew

nourishment and peace from the outdoors. It was quite conceivable

that she would have gone out there. Up onto the hill, at a guess. To

the summer house.

He wondered if she would resent his following her there. Perhaps

not. She had come to him for comfort this morning. Granted, she

had fought against his concern all day, but probably only because it

had been more or less publicly offered each time. Perhaps in the

quietness of the summer house she would be thankful to lean on him

for a while. Besides, he did not like to think of her there alone.

Verney would have to have brought Eric Smith back home some

time…

He took candles and a tinderbox with him. He had not thought to

take any there before. The sky was clear and would in all probability

be lit with stars and moon when full night came on. But even so, he

reasoned, the inability to see was undoubtedly disturbing to someone

who could also not hear.

It was not quite the thing to abandon his guests, he thought, even

though he had had a quick word with Luke. But Luke and Anna were

quite capable of being substitute hosts, and Rod's easy charm had

made the gathering a very merry one.

Ashley had gone to India as a very young man, eager to enjoy his

work, eager to like the people with whom he would associate there.

He had made numerous friends, but none had been as close or as

loyal as Roderick Cunningham. He had gone out of his way, it had

seemed, after his arrival with his regiment in India, to be presented to

Lord and Lady Ashley Kendrick and to establish a close friendship

with Ashley. The friendship had never really extended to Alice. She

had disliked him.

Roderick was perhaps the only one of Ashley's friends who had

known about his marital problems. Not that Ashley had ever talked

of them and not that Rod had ever openly intruded. But there had

been quiet sympathy and support. He had excused her when she had

deserted Ashley at a ball and gone home alone one night—an

embarrassing situation, as she had intended. Rod had reminded him

that life had been hard on her, with the still recent deaths of her

brother and father. And after Thomas's birth he had commented

good-naturedly on the fact that heredity often skipped a generation

or two before reasserting itself. Somewhere in Ashley's ancestry or in

Lady Ashley's, he had said with a laugh, there was a redhead. Alice

had been even darker in coloring than he, Ashley, was. Yet Thomas

had been undoubtedly red haired.

It was Roderick who had first told him that Mrs. Roehamptom

fancied him and meant to have him. They had laughed over that fact

and over Rod's jealousy—he fancied the woman himself, he said, but

she would talk about nothing but his friend. And they had laughed

over the numerous provocative, suggestive, erotic messages she sent

via Rod. Messages that, unknown to his amused friend, had begun to

have their effect on a celibate Ashley. Until he had maneuvered a

meeting with the lady at a party.

She had looked him almost defiantly in the eye when they had come

face-to-face. "Yes," she had said.

"Yes?" He had looked back at her in some surprise.

"I can bear it no longer," she had said. "You have won, my lord.

Yes."

They had made an assignation to meet the following evening—the

evening and night that would forever be etched on Ashley's memory.

It had been a night of lust and pleasure and guilt—on both sides, it

had seemed. The lady had seemed almost bitter.

"Persistence does sometimes win the prize, you see," she had said to

him at one point. "Your words are as seductive as your body, my

lord."

He had been too caught up in the pleasure and the guilt to question

her words.

Rod had known they were together. But he had not uttered a word

of censure, even after the disaster. He was the one to come for Ashley,

who had had to get out of the woman's bed to hear the news. He had

been a pillar of calmness and strength and efficiency. He had made all

the arrangements. He had spoken all the possible consolations. He

had provided the alibi—Ashley had been with him all night; they had

sat talking and drinking, since Lady Ashley had expressed the

intention of staying the night with her friend and had taken her son

with her. And finally he had been simply a friend.

"Go home to England, then, Ash," he had said. "Go to Penshurst.

Punish yourself for a while. But not forever. 'Twas an accident. A

tragic accident. Eventually you will accept that and forgive yourself.

Move away then. Sell the place. Marry again and have a family. Live

again." And now, soon after his return to England, he had come

visiting. It was good to see him again. To know that he was a true

friend, that he cared.

Ashley stopped when he came in sight of the summer house. The

dusk was deep now, almost darkness. But the door was open. She was

sitting quietly on the sofa, he saw when he came closer.

It was strange how the mind and the emotions could be so much at

variance, she thought. All day her mind had told her that she was

perfectly safe—Ashley and Luke, and Anna too, had kept a close eye

on her; in fact, she had found it something of a strain to smile and

relax and appear perfectly normal for their sakes. And all day her

mind had told her that she had met Major Cunningham under

unfortunate circumstances, ones that had shown him in the worst

possible light. All day he had been friendly and charming. He had

seemed a worthy friend of Ashley's. Luke and Anna obviously liked

him. The neighbors who had come for dinner were clearly delighted

with him.

And yet her mind could not persuade the rest of her to put the

morning's incident behind her, to forget about it, to feel convinced

that it could not happen again. All day her imagination had reenacted

the scene—as it had been, as it might have been. As it might have

been… Terror had lurked all day only just behind the calm, cheerful

facade she had assumed so that she would not be confronted again

with questions.

And all day she had debated with herself the desirability of confiding

in someone—not Ashley, perhaps, but Anna. Or Luke. Perhaps they

could help her decide if what had happened was something Ashley

should know about, or if the telling would merely damage a

friendship unnecessarily. It horrified her to think that such behavior

might be commonplace among gentlemen. But she could not tell

Anna. Her sister would be dreadfully upset—and she had upset Anna

more than enough not much longer than a month ago. And she

could not tell Luke. He might do something as drastic as challenging

the major to a duel. Luke had once had the reputation of being a

deadly swordsman, but Major Cunningham was an army officer.

Fighting was his job.

All day she had kept her secret and hidden her irrational fears. But

by the evening they were threatening to show themselves again. It was

ridiculous really, she told herself. She was surrounded by people.

There were guests in the house, and even when they left there would

be Ashley and Luke and Anna—and him. But as the light began to

fade beyond the drawing room windows, she could think of only one

thing. There was no lock on the door of her bedchamber. And her

mind seemed quite powerless to tell her quite sensibly that he would

not try to press his attentions on her any longer now that he knew

who she was and now that he was beneath Ashley's roof.

She had to get out, she knew. Outside where she would be safe. It

was another irrational notion. The opposite was surely true. But she

could not control the urge without giving in to panic and becoming

hysterical in front of her family and Ashley's guests. And so against all

reason she slipped from the drawing room after making her silent

excuses to Ashley and up the stairs to her room, where she changed

into a plainer gown, removing her stays and her padded petticoat as

she did so, and brushed out her hair. She drew a warm cloak about

her even though she guessed the night would be warm, and slipped

down the servants' stairs and out through a side door.

She would go to the summer house, she decided. She could calm

herself there, find peace there. Perhaps she would stay there all night

so that she would not have to face the terror of that unlocked door.

She felt no fear of the lonely hillside or of the fast-approaching

darkness, even though she realized as she climbed that she had not

thought to bring a candle with her.

The summer house was very warm; the heat of the day was still

trapped inside. She left the door open and draped her cloak over the

back of an upright chair. And she sat on the sofa and gazed out on

the darkening scene beyond the window. After a few minutes she felt

herself begin to relax.

It was the first time she had relaxed since early in the morning when

she had been sitting on the stile, wishing she had brought her paints

with her.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would paint.

And then she felt the presence of someone else. Strangely, she felt no

alarm. She turned her head and smiled. He was saying something,

but the light was too dim for her to see. It did not matter. She did

not want to talk. She did not want him asking her questions,

discovering the answers in her eyes. She reached out one hand to him.

He sat beside her and held her hand. She could not have asked for

more, she thought, than to be sitting here with him like this, quietly,

peacefully, as they had done… was it just yesterday? Today seemed to

have been a week long, a month long.

But the feeling did not last. Perhaps it had not been such a good

thing for him to have come after all, she thought. Now that he was

here, now that she was not alone to fight her own fears, she felt the

return of terror, of the panic that had sent her hurrying through the

library door and into his arms this morning. She leaned sideways so

that her shoulder leaned against his arm. She rested her cheek against

his shoulder.

He must have read the language of her body, she thought, as he

could always read the language of her eyes and hands. He turned to

her, transferring her hand from his right to his left, setting his right

arm firmly about her shoulders, dipping his head close to hers. He

was speaking again. She could not see what he said. She did not want

to know. He had set two candles and a tinderbox on a small table as

he came inside. She knew as soon as he moved that he was going to

reach for them. But she grabbed his arm.

"No," she said. "No, Ahshley."

She did not want to talk. She wanted to hide, to be held close. She

wanted to be a part of him, part of his strength. She did not want

him to see her eyes. She closed them. She put an arm around his

neck, urging him closer, and sought blindly for his mouth with her

own.

His arm was firmly about her. His body was warm. His mouth was

comforting, gentle. It was not enough. She parted her lips and

touched his with her tongue. He drew his head sharply back and said

something and got to his feet, drawing her up with him. She fit more

comfortingly against him when they were standing. She linked both

arms about his neck and leaned her whole weight into him. She could

feel the barrier of his splendid satin evening coat and the heavily

embroidered waistcoat beneath, and of his shirt and breeches. His

arms were about her waist, his cheek against hers.

She realized she was sobbing only when he lifted his head and

feathered soft kisses on her mouth. She could feel that he was talking

or whispering to her. She pressed her mouth hard against his. Safety

was close. So very close. A door had opened. All she had to do was

step inside. But there was still the chance that the door would slam in

her face or that danger would snatch her away from behind.

He held her with an arm while he caught up the folded blanket from

one end of the sofa with his other arm and spread it on the floor. He

tossed cushions at the end of it, then took her down with him until

they were lying on the blanket, face-to-face. He held her close. She

could feel the vibrations in his chest that told her he was still

speaking.

He held her very close to him for a long time while she clung tautly,

her eyes tightly shut. Then he turned her onto her back, sliding her

almost beneath him as he leaned reassuringly over her. She could

scarcely see his face in the darkness, but his hair was back, the length

hidden inside the black silk bag, a ribbon bow holding it closed

behind his neck. She pulled on the ribbon and freed his hair, so that

it spilled about her face. He was lifting her skirt, removing

undergarments, opening the front of his breeches.

For a moment she was reminded… And for a moment her mind

touched upon sin and propriety and scandal. But only for a moment.

She linked her arms loosely about his neck beneath his hair, and drew

his mouth down to her own. His hand had parted her legs and his

fingers were stroking her very lightly, very skillfully, so that the

panicked need to make herself part of him, to hide in him, took on

an ache of longing to be filled, to have the emptiness taken away.

"Ahshley." She did not know if she had produced any sound to

accompany the movements of her lips against his. "Ahshley."

There was memory then. Memory of the hardness pushing slowly

inside her, stretching her, of the man's body covering her own, much

of his weight pressing down onto her. Memory of her own body

becoming part of someone else's. Ashley's. Memory of the depth of

penetration. Memory of pain. But there was no pain this time. She

lay safe beneath him, felt him still and deeply embedded in her, and

closed inner muscles about him.

And then there was memory of the movements, of the repeated

thrust and withdrawal of the body joined to hers. Movements that

had hurt and hurt that first time, but this time did not hurt at all. She

lay still, feeling safe, feeling cherished. Feeling the sheer physical

pleasure of rhythm. It was slow and steady. Deep. Her hands played

with his hair, her fingers twining themselves into it. She braced her

heels against the floor and lifted to him and used her muscles again to

match his rhythm. And the ache was back that his fingers had

created. Except that now it was a raw pain that centered in the place

where he worked and shot upward to tauten her breasts and farther

upward into her throat. She moved her hips, urging him onward—

and then her head lifted from the cushion to bury itself against his

shoulder as the ache got beyond her. She felt every muscle tighten in

her body before shuddering and shaking into a fall toward safety.

He was moving slowly again when she recovered herself. Ashley,

making love to her. In the summer house. Still clad in all his evening

finery. Making love to her because she had begged for it, demanded

it. Because all day she had been terrified and lonely. Because this

might have happened this morning with a stranger. It was not

happening with a stranger. It was happening with Ashley because she

had needed him and he had answered her need—as she had answered

his more than a month ago.

She was warm, languorous. He felt good. So very good. He smelled

good. He was Ashley. She pictured him behind her closed eyelids.

The man who was so much a part of her heart that there would be

nothing left of it if she ever tried to tear him away from it. She

pictured him splendid and smiling as he had been this evening,

dressed in a glorious shade of kingfisher blue with silver embroidery,

his dark hair unpowdered, as she liked it best. He had looked not

quite so thin, not quite so haunted tonight. It was he who was joined

intimately now with her own body. He was Ashley.

She wondered what the morning would bring. Another offer of

marriage? She would think of the morning when it came. She lifted

her legs to twine about his. She would not be ashamed about this,

though she knew he would be sorry. And she would always cherish

the memory of this and the knowledge that it had been utterly

wonderful. She would be able to put aside the memories of pain and

soreness, and of guilt. And of failure. She had meant to comfort and

had brought only suffering—to several people. This time she had

been comforted. She would not feel ashamed.

His rhythm grew faster and he set a hand between them to touch her

so lightly that she felt the effects more than the touch itself. There

was that desire again, and that ache again. And the cresting and

release of pain again—though it had not been exactly pain. But this

time it was not quite mindless. She felt him hold still in her. She felt

the gush of heat deep within. And she felt him relax his full weight on

her.

She let herself slip into peace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

He held her for perhaps an hour. He did not want to risk waking her.

She had been so very distressed, and now she was sleeping peacefully.

He wondered if she had realized, or if she would realize when she

thought back, how reluctant he had been to do this to her. He had

tried to soothe her, to comfort her, without violating her. He had

tried to cling to what he had told her only a few days before, that he

had brought her here to see her happy, to set her free. He had not

wanted to enslave her again.

She had been distraught, clinging and sobbing, and yet she had been

unwilling for him to light a candle. She had not wanted to talk. He

had talked to her, but of course she had not heard. She had not

wanted to talk about whatever it was that had frightened her. Finally

he had known that only one thing would bring her any comfort. And

so he had given her what she had given him at Bowden. He had given

himself.

If there was one consolation, he thought as he held her afterward, it

was that her fear could not have been occasioned by what he had

begun to suspect. She would surely not have taken him into herself so

eagerly if she had been violated just this morning.

He edged away from her at last, sliding his arm from beneath her

head. She grumbled in her sleep and turned her head farther into the

pillow. He found the tinderbox and blew a flame gently to life so that

he could light one of the candles. He set it on the table and sat down

on the sofa after covering her with her cloak.

There were going to have to be some answers, he thought, looking

down at her. Tonight if possible. Definitely tomorrow. He was

beginning to think that he carried his punishment with him wherever

he went. His punishment was to watch all who were dear to him hurt

by his presence, even when he was trying to show them love. Perhaps

it was fitting that it was happening here at Penshurst. He should not

have brought Emmy here.

There were answers that must be gathered, he thought. Answers

about Alice's relationship with Verney. Answers about Gregory

Kersey's death. Answers about Ned Binchley's retirement—why had

he retired so soon after Kersey's death when he was a comparatively

young man and had clearly loved his job, and when his retirement

appeared to have impoverished him? And there must be answers

about today. What had happened to Emmy?

There seemed to be no relationship among the questions, he

thought. And he was not sure what could be gained from learning the

answers—except that knowing the last would help him know what he

must do for Emmy. He certainly could not see that there was any

connection between what had happened here over the years,

culminating today, and what had happened in India.

And yet, he thought, sitting here in the summer house, surrounded

by darkness and silence and gazing down on a sleeping Emmy,

something deep inside him seemed to be telling him that everything

wasconnected. It was an absurd thought. What could possibly

connect the horrifying accident in India to Emmy's fright today? Or

to Binchley's retirement? Or to Kersey's accidental death?

God, he thought, gazing down at Emily, her face and shoulders all

but obscured by her tangled hair. God, but he loved her. And another

long-suppressed memory surfaced in his mind. He remembered

saying good-bye to her when he had been on his way to India. It had

been on the driveway at Bowden. She had been leaning back against a

tree and he had been standing in front of her. Touching her with his

body. Kissing her lips. And feeling desire for her. He had been

horrified at the time—hence the repression of the memory. He had

felt like a man lusting after a child. But she had not really been a

child. She had been halfway to womanhood. She had been fifteen

years old.

Even then, he thought, part of him had known that he loved her

totally—as a friend, as a brother, as a man. Most of all as a man. He

had been afraid of such a vast, all-encompassing love. And so he had

repressed it. Until now.

She was looking up at him. He did not smile at her or she at him.

"I will not allow harm to come to you, Emmy," he said, not at all

sure he was capable of keeping such a promise. He used signs along

with the words. "I will always protect you, even with my life. Will

you not trust me?"

Yes, she told him with a slight nod of the head.

"I do not like to see you frightened and vulnerable," he said. "I have come to see you as a woman of strong character and indomitable will,

Emmy. I have come to believe that you are stronger than I. 'Twas

seductively sweet to be able to comfort you tonight as you comforted

me not so long ago. But I would rather take away the source of your

fear if I might. Something happened this morning?''

No, she told him with a slow shaking of the head.

"But something mighthave happened?" he asked her. "You escaped

from it?"

Still the shaking of her head. But her eyes told him this time that she

was lying. Her eyes had become opaque— deliberately so. Why

would she not tell him? Or even Luke? Was she afraid of causing

trouble? Among neighbors, perhaps? Did she think it better to keep

her secret and contain her fear as best she could? It would be so like

Emmy to do that.

"I begin to realize," he said, "that I should have stayed in India, or that at least I should have come here and stayed away from Bowden.

You would have been happy, Emmy.You would have been preparing

for your wedding to Powell.""

She sat up sharply, reached out a hand, and touched his knee. She

was shaking her head. "No," she said. "No, Ahshley." He must not

blame himself, her eyes and her hands told him. He must not blame

himself.

"Well." He patted her hand. "Come then, Emmy. I will take you

home."

No, she told him. No, she was going to stay here.

"All night?" he asked her, frowning.

"Yes."

He might have expected it, of course. Where would one expect

Emmy to go if something had upset or frightened her? To where

there was the comfort of other people? Certainly that had happened

this morning—she had come running to him. But it was more likely

that she would go running to the source of all that had brought

serenity and happiness to a life that most people would have found

impossibly difficult. Yes, it made sense when one knew Emmy to

understand that she would spend this night up here in the hills rather

than in the safety of her room at Penshurst.

"Very well." He curled his fingers about hers. "Then I will stay here

with you, Emmy."

She did not argue. She got to her feet and drew him to his. She led

him outside. As he had anticipated, the sky-was bright with moon

and stars. The moon was shining in a bright band across the river

below them. They stood outside the summer house for a long time,

gazing at the sky and the land, holding hands until he released hers

and set an arm loosely about her shoulders and she rested her head on

his shoulder.

He wondered if the love she undoubtedly felt for him could possibly

grow the one extra dimension. But it was not something deeply to be

wished for, he supposed. He had not earned forgiveness and perhaps

never would. His life was still full of darkness and perhaps always

would be. He seemed to have been a blight on those he loved since

his return from India and was perhaps incapable of ever bringing

happiness to another person. Especially to Emmy.

Though of course, he knew, he must offer her marriage again. Once

more there was the chance that she would be carrying his child. He

did not know if he hoped more that she would accept him or that she

would reject him.

But tonight was something of a time out of time. He turned his face

into her hair and kissed the top of her head. She sighed. Tonight, he

thought, she was in love with him because she had needed him and

he had brought her comfort—and pleasure. He had never had a

woman take that kind of pleasure from him before tonight. He had

been awed by it. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow would

bring back the safety of daylight and would be a new day. Tomorrow

she would be strong again. She would love him in her own sweet,

strong way again.

But tonight was a time out of time. A time to be silent and at peace.

Silent… Silence, he realized, was more than an absence of speech.

One could be silent and yet have one's mind so teeming with words

that the silence was loud with inner noise. True silence involved a

letting go of words, both spoken and thought. It involved

abandoning oneself to one's senses. It involved… merely being.

He stood with Emily for a long time while the inner noise and

turmoil gradually ceased their clamor and he became part of the

beauty of the night with her. Part of the beauty of being.

"Let us go back inside," he said to her at last with a sigh, tipping her

head back with a hand beneath her chin so that she would see his lips.

"Yes," she said.

He knew that she was consenting to a night of love. No frenzied

reaching for comfort by either of them for the rest of the night.

Merely a mutual giving and taking. A night of love, even if tomorrow

brought denial and a harsher reality.

As bad fortune would have it, Roderick Cunningham was wandering

in the garden early in the morning and saw them returning, even

though they had headed for the side door rather than the front

entrance.

Ashley, who had an arm about Emily's waist, felt her tense and

shrink against him. But it was impossible to cover up the truth. He

tightened his arm reassuringly, kissed her swiftly on the lips, and

opened the door for her.

"All will be well," he said quietly to her before she turned and

disappeared up the stairs. "There is nothing to worry about."

Poor Emmy. He would have saved her from the embarrassment and

humiliation if he could have. She would not realize, of course, that

Rod was the soul of discretion. Ashley turned to look rather ruefully

at his friend, who was smiling back at him.

"If there had been a tree to duck behind, Ash," he said, "I would

have discreetly availed myself of its services. I trust you have had a

good night's… sleep?"

Rod did not understand. "She had need of me," Ashley said more

curtly than he had intended. "I do not know what happened

yesterday. She does not frighten easily. Somethinghappened. We are

not involved in any sordid affair."

Major Cunningham looked instantly contrite. "I never for one

moment thought you were, Ash," he said. "She appears to be a sweet

lady. Tis too bad she suffers from such an affliction. She has been

unable to explain what it was that happened?"

"Not unable," Ashley said. "Unwilling. I mean to wring some

answers from someone else today, though. It will mean deserting you

for an hour or two this morning, Rod. I trust you can amuse

yourself?" He grinned. "But help my brother and sister-in-law keep

an eye on Emmy, if you will be so good."

" 'Twill be my pleasure," the major said. "She is relaxing on the eye, Ash. Perhaps she will confide in me. a virtual stranger. Does she have

any means of communicating?"

"She can write," Ashley said.

"If I were you," his friend said, looking him up and down, "I would

follow Lady Emily through that door, Ash. Imight believe that those

clothes are suited to a morning ride, but I am remarkably gullible."

Ashley slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "Right," he said.

"My brother is decidedly not."

He let himself in through the side door, looked about to make sure

there was no one in sight, and ran up the stairs.

The Duke of Harndon was reclining comfortably on a nursery chair,

watching his wife suckle his youngest son. He had been there for only

a few minutes.

"All is well," he said. "They have returned."

"All is well!" She looked up and met his keen gray eyes. "Were we

foolish, Luke, to agree to bring her here?"

"As I remember it, my dear," he said, raising his eyebrows, "Emily

was invited to come here and accepted and we were invited and

accepted. We did not bring her as we brought Joy and George, James

and Harry."

"Oh, Luke," she said, "you know what I mean."

"I do." He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his

fingers. "But it has come to my notice, madam, that Emily is not one

of our children. Or a child at all, in fact. And that Ashley is no longer

a boy in need of my guidance and discipline. They are adults, both of

them."

"But—," she began.

"We cannot bear the burdens of other adults on our own shoulders,

my dear, much as we love them. I cannot escape from the conviction

that Theo somehow maneuvered this— with his lady as an eager

accomplice. And I cannot help wondering if they have not been wise.

There is something between those two, Anna, something they must

work out between them. Happily, 'tis to be hoped."

"Oh, Luke," she said. "If only—"

"But we can do nothing," he said firmly. "Our son is going to grow

fat if you continue to so indulge him."

She smiled fondly down at Lord Harry, who was sucking lustily.

"You have said that of each child," she said. "But none of them are

fat."

"Given the fact that I have been envious of each of them at this stage

of their existence, madam," he said, "perhaps I can be forgiven for

indulging a little spite." She laughed.

Lady Verney wished to discuss her health and inquire after that of

each of Ashley's house guests. Barbara Verney conversed about

London and the entertainments of the Season in which she and her

brother had participated. Sir Henry Verney sat silent except for

uttering the barest of courtesies. Ashley turned to him at last. He,

after all, was the object of this visit.

'"I wonder if I might have a private word with you," he said, "on a

matter with which I would not wish to bore the ladies." He smiled at

them and felt rather sorry for the insult to the intelligence of Miss

Verney that his words had implied. She was a lady he liked and

respected.

"La, if 'tis business you wish to discuss, Lord Ashley," Lady Verney

said, "Henry will take you out into the garden or into the study. Such

matters give me the headache."

Sir Henry suggested the garden, since the day was sunny and warm.

They strolled along a secluded path that took them about the

perimeter of the small park. A couple of dogs—a collie and a

terrier—were soon ambling at their heels and making the occasional

detour among the trees to sniff at roots.

"It is the dogs who are the main attraction for Eric Smith," Sir

Henry said. "There is one more in the stables with a litter of puppies.

The boy scarcely moved from them yesterday." It was his first

attempt at conversation, though he was making no great effort to

ingratiate himself, Ashley noticed. He was glad there was no pretense

of friendship between them.

"Yesterday," he said quietly. "You were early at Binchley's cottage.

Did you encounter anyone on your way there?"

Sir Henry looked at him consideringly. "It is no idle question, is it?"

he said. "I cannot remember without giving the question

concentrated thought if I met anyone or not. Is it important that I go

through that process? Perhaps you would like to tell me whom you

suppose I met."

"Lady Emily Marlowe," Ashley said. He watched his neighbor closely

and despite himself felt sorry that he had come to Penshurst so

burdened. If he had known nothing about this man before he came,

they might have been friends. But then he might have been deceived

in the friendship. Something had happened to Emmy yesterday.

"Ah." Sir Henry said no more for a while. His voice was decidedly

chilly when he did speak. "I understand, Kendrick, as I understood

when we were in London, that you are a jealous and a possessive

man. I do not know if your claim to Lady Emily's affections is real or

imaginary, but either way the lady has my sincerest sympathy. Have

you confronted her too? Expressed your displeasure or your cold

disapproval to her? Do you imagine that because I was abroad early

and because she presumably was out too, we must therefore have

enjoyed a clandestine meeting? And would my denial make any

difference to these suspicions of yours?"

"Are you denying it?" Ashley asked.

"No," Sir Henry said. "Nor am I admitting it. Unless you can assure

me that you are betrothed to the lady, Kendrick, or married to her, I

do not recognize your right to question either her movements or

mine in relation to her. I was prepared to welcome you to this part of

Kent with all the courtesy and even amiability due a neighbor and

possible friend. I believe that you absolved me of any such obligation

the last time we met in London."

They were trading civil insults. The thought of becoming openly

uncivil was markedly unpleasant, especially in broad daylight and in

the civilized surroundings of Verney's park. But Ashley had come for

answers. He remembered the night before and the desperation in

Emily that had drawn him into a repetition of his indiscretion at

Bowden. "I am neither married to Lady Emily nor betrothed to her,"

he said. "But I will protect her, as I hope I would protect any lady,

from harm and from terror. Moreover, she is a guest in my home. I

mean to discover what happened to her yesterday morning. I need to

know to what extent you assaulted her." It was as well to call a spade

a spade.

"Terror? Assault?" Sir Henry had stopped walking and stood facing

Ashley, with a coldness and a tension in his manner to match Ashley's

own. "I am a gentleman, sir. By my life, instinct directs me to slap a

glove in your face, since clearly you believe I have been responsible

for both. Good sense, however, tells me that perhaps I should answer

your earlier question after all. No, I did not meet or even set eyes on

Lady Emily Marlowe yesterday morning. I have not seen her since I

walked in the garden with her at Lady Bryant's ball."

Ashley stared hard at him while the dogs circled them, obviously

eager for them to move onward. Dammit, Ashley thought, he

believed the man. And yet he surely could not expect an instant

admission even if he were guilty. Verney's open, honest face was

perhaps his greatest asset. Alice must have trusted it, after all. "I must

accept your word as a gentleman," he said.

"But with the greatest reluctance," Sir Henry said, lifting one

eyebrow, "and with only a grain of trust. Very well, then. But I am

sorry in my heart that something appears to have happened to upset

Lady Emily. If she is unable to tell you the cause of her terror, then I

can understand your concern. I can even perhaps excuse the

conclusion you appear to have jumped to, since I wasout riding early

and was alone until I took Eric up with me. But I did not see her.

Perhaps it will help you to know that my affections are otherwise

engaged and have been—to the same lady— since I was a boy. And

that at last it appears I may be having some success in engaging the

lady's affections."

Ashley's head went back, almost as if he had been struck. Zounds

but the words were wicked. Deliberately so? Verney had loved

another woman since boyhood? He had never cared at all for Alice?

Well, he had come for answers and he would not be diverted. "Why

did you treat my wife so badly?" he asked.

Sir Henry stared back at him before breaking eye contact and

bending to pat one of his panting dogs on the head. He began to

walk onward and Ashley fell into step beside him.

"I have regretted the harshness with which I spoke to her and the

coldness with which I treated her during that final month before she

left for India," Sir Henry said. "I was perhaps unjust. Certainly I was

hasty. I should have taken more time for consideration. Undoubtedly

she was devastated by the power of her own feelings, and my words

only made matters worse for her. At the time I did not care. Any

fondness I had ever had for her was forgotten. I cared for Katherine—

and for myself. And yet a part of me, a guilty part of me, could not

help being secretly glad of the gift Alice had presented to me. And so

I lashed out at her to cover my own guilt. I am sorry—woefully

inadequate words. Did I do her lasting damage?"

"I believe," Ashley said, "your question must be rhetorical, Verney?"

He had abandoned her—apparently quite abruptly and quite

cruelly—for Katherine Binchley. And Katherine in her turn had

abandoned him in order to marry Smith. It seemed hardly just that

Verney was now having a second chance with her.

Sir Henry sighed. "The answer is apparently yes," he said. "Your

coldness to me is understandable, then. But I cannot help but wonder

if any permanent damage to Alice's happiness was not caused more

by personal guilt than by anything I said to her."

Guilt? Guilt at having Iain with her seducer, the man she had loved?

The man she had been unable to forget? Ashley knew what it was to

see red at that moment. His fist beneath one side of Sir Henry's jaw

caught the man unprepared. He reeled backward and only just kept

his footing. His hands balled into fists and he glared with anger. But

he did not use his fists, Ashley was disappointed to find. He would

have welcomed a good fight.

"She was your wife," Sir Henry said, breathing hard. "I must

remember that. I am sorry. Sorry for the whole sordid mess and for

your doubtless painful attempts to come to terms with it. But perhaps

'twould be as well, Kendrick, if we kept our distance from each other

in future, maintaining merely a distant courtesy as neighbors."

"Perhaps," Ashley said coldly, "it would. Answer one more question

for me before I take my leave. Did you kill Gregory Kersey?" The

question hung between them almost like a tangible thing. But he

would not withdraw it if he could have, Ashley thought. Verney was

correct: Ashley was trying to come to terms with the past, though he

doubted that knowing the full truth would help ease him of his own

guilt. Perhaps he felt somehow honor-bound to understand the wife

he had been unable to save better than he had ever understood her

while she lived. Had she known that her lover was also her brother's

murderer? Had that knowledge added to her torment?

Sir Henry blanched and the hand that had been rubbing at his jaw

stilled. "Did I kill Greg?" he said in little more than a whisper. He

closed his eyes. "Oh, God. Is that what she told you?"

" 'Tis a possibility that has struck me," Ashley said. "Did Kersey find out the truth? Did he confront you?"

"He had always known," Sir Henry said. "We quarreled bitterly over

her, yes. There was a marked coolness between us up to the time of

his death, though we had been close friends for too long and were still

too close as neighbors to be fully estranged. We were shooting

together that morning—along with several other neighbors." He

paused to draw a deep breath. "No, I did not kill him. I wonder if

Alice believed I did. She never accused me of it. But if she did believe

it, then that would mean… Ah, who knows? The past is best left in

the past, buried with the two of them."

"Why did Ned Binchley retire so abruptly after the death of Gregory

Kersey?" Ashley asked.

Sir Henry sighed again. "You would have to ask him," he said.

"Though it was not retirement. Alice dismissed him."

"Why?" Ashley frowned.

"I believe," Sir Henry said, "that she did not realize he owned his

cottage. Sir Alexander had made it over to him after a number of

years of good service. I suppose Alice thought dismissing him would

be a good way of ridding herself permanently of Katherine. There—I

have answered your question after all."

"Yes," Ashley said curtly. "Yes, I see now." And he did, too. Alice had been in love with Verney and he, unable to win Katherine

Binchley's affections, had taken advantage of Alice's devotion and

had lain with her. That fact had caused a quarrel and a deep rift

between her brother and her lover. And then after all Verney had

abandoned her for Katherine. Had Katherine Binchley teased him—

held back from him one moment, encouraged him the next? Alice's

brother had died—perhaps at Verney's hands—Verney had

abandoned her, and Katherine was still at the cottage with her father,

the steward at Penshurst. And so Alice had tried to get rid of them,

and failing at that had gone to India to join her father. It was little

wonder that she had been emotionally scarred for life.

"I have comforted myself with the thought that they are both now at

peace," Sir Henry said. '"Alice and Greg, I mean. The thought would

not bring you so much comfort, of course. You did not even know

him, and Alice was your wife. And of course, there was the child,

your son. I am sorry. I wish you would believe that. But I understand

that you blame me for some things and can never be disposed toward

me in any friendly manner. I am sorry for that too. Can we agree at

least to be civil?"

"Yes," Ashley said curtly. It was all they could do. And he knew he

must let the matter drop now. He had the truth, or as much of it as

he would ever have. He had to learn to live with past unhappiness,

past guilt. Somehow he had to live on and find some new meaning in

life. He thought of Emily. She deserved better. She deserved light and

wholeness. He had so little that was of any value to offer her. Even

the gift of freedom he had given her less than a week ago had turned

sour. There had been their night of intimacy, a night during which he

had bound her to him bodily over and over again. He had to offer her

once more the protection of his name. And of a love that weighed

heavily upon him because there was no real honor to offer with it. He

had lost his honor during a certain night in India.

Sir Henry Verney was holding out his right hand. Ashley had been

looking at it, unseeing—until almost too late.

"No," he said sharply as he watched the hand close upon itself and

begin to drop to Sir Henry's side. "Please." He extended his own

hand and they shook. "The past is, as you say, past."

He was on his way back to Penshurst a few minutes later, not sure if

anything had been accomplished. Of one thing he felt sure, though—

perhaps foolishly. It was not Verney who had caused Emmy's fear.

Someone else had done that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Henry?" Barbara Verney stepped out onto the terrace as Ashley rode

away from the stables. She looked at her brother with some concern.

"I walked into a tree," he said ruefully, touching his jaw.

"I suppose his fist met the same fate," she said. "What happened? He

was so very pleasant with Mama and me, but I could not fail to

notice the way the two of you glowered at each other."

"I could cheerfully run him through with my sword," Sir Henry said,

"and yet I cannot help feeling pity for him, Barbara. He has come

here a year after Alice's death to try to fit the pieces together, to make

sense out of them. It was, perhaps, a difficult marriage. One does not

know exactly what she told him—what truths she withheld, what lies

she might have told. He asked me if I had killed Greg."

"Ah," she said, grimacing.

"I had to choose my words with great care," he said. "I am not at all

certain that he understands the central truth."

"Ah," she said again. "Perhaps he merely suspects, Henry. Perhaps he

finds it difficult, if not impossible, to ask the question outright.

Perhaps that is why there is a look of tension about him. He must

need to know. Perhaps you should have told him."

"How?" he said, blowing out his breath from puffed cheeks. "We

cannot even be quite certain ourselves. And 'tis not something you

should even know is possible, Barbara. You are a lady."

"And should delicately swoon at far less," she said. "Nonsense. But

there is an unaskable question…" She took his arm and walked away

from the house with him. "I have never been able to ask you. But I

have always wondered. And now the question has been raised in a

different form by Lord Ashley. Do you believe shekilled him?" She

bit her lip now that the question was asked.

"Egad!" he said. "I have no proof. I am not sure I would want proof.

'Tis unthinkable—though I did accuse her of it in the first flush of

shock."

"Or suicide," she said. "Murder was spoken of, though never with

Alice as a possible suspect. Suicide was whispered of at first as a

possibility, but no one could think of a motive. There was a powerful

one, of course."

" 'Tis best not spoken of, Barbara," he said. " 'Tis best forgotten

about. They are both dead."

"But poor Lord Ashley is alive and troubled," she said. "Perhaps you

should not have chosen your words with such care, Henry. Which

ones did you choose more rashly? The ones you spoke just before

colliding with a tree?"

Her brother thought for a moment. "I believe I said something about

her having felt guilty," he said. "I said that if she was unhappy in

India, perhaps 'twas guilt that made her so."

"Ah," his sister said sadly, "then he does suspect, Henry. Poor man."

"We must keep out of it," he advised. " 'Twere well to keep quiet,

Barbara. 'Tis none of our concern after all. It never was."

"Except that Gregory was your friend," she said, "and you loved

Katherine."

" 'Twere best to leave the past in the past," he said.

She examined his jaw closely. "I wonder if Mama will believe the

story about the tree," she said.

"She will when I tell her I was chasing the dogs." he told her.

She laughed.

Emily was relieved to find when she left her room that Anna had not

gone riding with Luke and the children. It was unusual for her not to

do so. But her reason for staying at home was soon obvious, though

she did not state it. She merely said that she wished to walk to the

village and wanted Emily to accompany her.

Of course. Ashley had gone out alone, probably on some estate

business, and the children had been eager for their usual morning

outing with their parents. But Anna had decided—or had been

appointed—to stay to watch over Emily. They all knew that

something had frightened her yesterday.

Emily was relieved, even though she had never before feared solitude.

And a walk, she thought, would be just the thing. She was tired, and

part of her would have liked nothing better than to stay in her room

or to find a secluded corner somewhere so that she could relive the

events of the night—the repeated and glorious lovemakings

interspersed with periods of relaxation and even sleep. Part of her

wanted to consider the meaning of what had happened and its

implications for the future. She was not sure if last night had changed

everything or nothing. But part of her did not want to have to

confront the issues—or to be afraid of what, or who. might be

lurking behind her. The exercise and air and the company of her

sister would help to clear out her head.

But it was not to be as pleasant a morning as she had hoped for. As

she and Anna were preparing to leave the house, Major Cunningham

came upon them, discovered their purpose and destination, and

offered his escort. Anna smiled warmly and agreed. And so when they

set out on their walk, the major stepped between them and offered an

arm to each.

In addition to everything else, Emily thought, taking his arm though

she inwardly cringed, he had seen her and Ashley this morning, and it

would have been evident even to an imbecile that they had been

returning from a night spent together. Ashley had still been wearing

his rather crumpled evening clothes. And his arm had been about her

waist. She could feel power in the major's arm and sense it in his

military bearing. He frightened her even as he smiled and conversed

pleasantly with Anna, even as he turned to her occasionally with some

polished gallantry that needed no verbal reply.

Eric Smith was swinging on the gate outside the cottage, apparently

a favorite activity with him. He waved and started prattling as soon as

they came within earshot. He wanted to know where James and

George were. Emily did not see Anna's reply.

"I am going to have a dog," he announced. "Uncle Henry and Aunt

Barbara said I might have one of the puppies if Mama and Grandfer

would say yes. Uncle Henry took Mama into the garden last night

when he brought me home, and when she came back, she said yes."

Uncle Henry and Aunt Barbara must be Sir Henry Verney and his

sister, Emily thought, taking the opportunity to disengage her arm

from the major's in order to step forward to ruffle Eric's hair and to

bend and kiss him on the cheek. They must have come home from

London, then. Her stomach fluttered when she remembered what

Ashley had said about Sir Henry at Lady Bryant's ball. She hoped the

two men would not come face-to-face any time soon.

Katherine Smith had come outside. She smiled fleetingly at Emily,

but she was looking very pale and tense. Anna presented Major

Cunningham. Mrs. Smith curtsied slightly, but she barely looked at

him. She did, however, invite them inside for a cup of tea. Mr.

Binchley met them at the door and ushered them into the sitting

room.

The visit was rather longer than it might have been. Soon after Mrs.

Smith had returned from the kitchen with the tea tray, Major

Cunningham remarked on the beauty of the garden behind the

house, visible through the window, and asked her if she would be so

good as to show it to him. She rose silently and led the way without

inviting either Anna or Emily to join them.

Anna was telling Mr. Binchley about Bowden Abbey. Emily watched

their conversation, though she used Anna's presence as an excuse to

allow her attention to wander. She also watched the two in the

garden. She hoped Major Cunningham had not taken a fancy to

Katherine Smith, that he did not imagine that because she lived here

with her father in genteel poverty she was therefore fair game for

seduction. The man made her flesh crawl.

"—did not dream you would come here," Katherine Smith was

saying. "And to Penshurst instead of here." The sun was on her face,

making it very easy, despite the distance, to read her lips.

The major had his back to Emily.

"How can you be his friend?" Mrs. Smith asked. Her face was still

pale. Her eyes watched him intently. "Does he know?"

Major Cunningham made a gesture about the garden with one arm.

"They cannot hear," she said. "The window is closed." But she

turned her head away and they strolled together about the carefully

plotted flower beds.

Emily watched, the sitting room and its occupants forgotten.

Katherine Smith and Major Cunningham knew each other. How

peculiar that they had allowed Anna to present them to each other as

strangers. And then the major was facing toward the window.

" 'Twere better that you asked no questions," he said. " 'Twere better that you know nothing. They died ace—" He turned his head away.

Accidentally? Who had died accidentally? They moved out of sight

and at the same moment Anna got to her feet and was taking her

leave of Mr. Binchley. Emily did likewise, and within a very few

minutes they were continuing on their way toward the village. Anna

had promised Eric, after asking Mrs. Smith's permission, that on

their return journey they would call for him and he might come to

Penshurst to play with the children.

Emily watched Major Cunningham comment to Anna on the charm

of the cottage and the hospitality of its occupants, but she did not try

to follow the conversation.

Mrs. Smith had asked him why he had come to Penshurst instead of

to the cottage. How can you be his friend? His? Ashley's? Does he

know? Know what? And who had died accidentally? Why was it

better for Mrs. Smith to know nothing? Major Cunningham had

been in India and had become Ashley's friend there. He had been

there presumably when Ashley's wife and son died. They had died

accidentally. What was it that Ashley might or might not know? That

his friend also knew Katherine Smith?

But if they knew each other, why had they been careful not to

acknowledge the acquaintance to her and Anna?

Emily's mind puzzled over the questions for the next hour, while

they looked around the church and the churchyard, talked with the

rector and his wife, who came out to the gate of the rectory to bid

them a good morning, and purchased a few items from the village

shop.

It was a relief to Emily finally to be on their way back home. When

they reached the cottage and Eric came tripping out to meet them,

Emily walked with him, holding his hand while he talked without

pause, and allowed Major Cunningham to walk on ahead with Anna.

"Thank you." Ashley held out his right hand to Major Cunningham.

"You are a true friend, Rod. I know that a stroll to the village and a

call at a neighbor's cottage is not the way you might have expected to

spend your first full morning here. But 'tis a relief to me to know that

she had the company this morning not only of my sister-in-law, but

also of a man well able to defend them both from any danger that

might have presented itself."

The major shook his hand, and they both stood looking out of the

library window at Emily, who was patiently throwing a ball

alternately to George and Eric and watching them catch it perhaps

twice out of every ten attempts.

" 'Twas my pleasure," the major said. "I had a lovely lady on each

arm. What more could any man ask of life?"

Ashley laughed.

"She means a great deal to you," his friend said quietly.

"Yes." Ashley was picturing her playing thus with her own children.

His. Theirs. It was a thought that warmed him and troubled him.

"You are ready to live again, Ash. I can see it," the major said. "Did you learn any answers from your morning visits? Did you discover

what happened yesterday?"

"No," Ashley said. "No to your second question. Yes to the first.

There were some facts I needed to know. Some things from the past.

Some things I needed to know if I am ever to let go of the past and

move on into the future. Now I know. But the fact remains, of

course, that somehow they were at home when they were not

supposed to be there and that I was not there when I should have

been. I might have saved them. That poor innocent baby! But I was

busy satisfying my lust in the bed of a married woman." He laughed

harshly.

"There is always forgiveness," the major said. "Even for the worst

offenses, Ash. And there is always redemption. Yours is playing on

the grass out there with those two little boys."

Yes, he had come home looking for redemption, Ashley thought.

From Emmy, though he had not known it at the time. But it was too

simple an answer. And if he drew redemption from her, what would

she gain in return? He had so little to offer beyond material things.

He had nothing else to offer except a wounded soul.

"You need to marry her," his friend said, "and have babies with her.

But not here, Ash. You need to leave here, put behind you everything

that would remind you of the late Lady Ashley. It would not be fair

to the new Lady Ashley to keep her here."

Ashley drew a deep breath. Perhaps that was part of the problem, he

thought. Perhaps he should go. Perhaps there could be happiness for

both Emmy and himself if he left here, started somewhere else. And

yet… And yet he had the deep inner conviction that this thing could

not be run from. And that it should not be run from. What he would

be running from was deep inside himself. He must confront it if there

was to be a future. If there was to be Emmy.

'"Sell Penshurst to me," Major Cunningham said. "Sell it and go

elsewhere and forget it."

Ashley was so deeply immersed in his thoughts that it took a

moment for his friend's words to register on his consciousness. He

turned his head and looked at him rather blankly.

"What?" he said. "You would buy Penshurst, Rod?"

The major looked rather embarrassed. "I like it," he said. "And I

have been giving serious thought to selling out of the army and

settling at home. You know I am a gainer. I have amassed a tidy

fortune and would as soon buy land with it as lose it all again at the

tables. I like Penshurst. And it has occurred to me that I could do

myself a favor and do my closest friend a favor at the same time by

purchasing it."

Ashley's look was still rather blank. Roderick had come to Penshurst

as his guest, and after a day he was offering to buythe place? "But it is

not for sale," he said.

The major shrugged. "I am rather impulsive," he admitted. "I ought

not to have said anything, Ash. Certainly not yet. But I will not

change my mind. I am convinced of that. Think about it. And think

about her." He nodded in the direction of the window. "If you

change your mind, we will talk business. I will make you a definite

offer."

Ashley laughed. "You are doing this purely out of friendship," he

said. "How extraordinary you are. Rod. You would regret it within a

month—selling your commission, settling on an estate you do not

know in a part of the country with which you are unfamiliar. And yet

I know you would do it in a moment if I said yes. I value your

friendship more highly than to say the word. Penshurst is not for

sale."

The major shrugged again. "I am going out riding," he said. "I want

to explore this countryside, which is, as you have said, unfamiliar to

me. Would you care to join me?"

"If you will forgive me, no," Ashley said. "Luke and Anna have taken

the other children out."

"And you would not leave the Lady Emily unguarded." his friend

said. He chuckled. " 'Tis commendable in you." He slapped a

friendly hand on Ashley's shoulder and made for the door.

"Rod," Ashley said before he reached it. "Thank you."

He wondered how he would have coped with the tragedy and the

guilt if Rod had not been there for him in India. He had always been

the best of friends. He had seemed to value Ashley's friendship, had

sought after it and cultivated it. And it seemed to Ashley now that his

friend had always given more than he had received, and that he was

continuing to do so. There could be no other explanation than

friendship for his extraordinary offer to buy Penshurst.

It was a tempting offer.

He could not accept it, though. Not ever. Somehow, he felt, if

salvation was to be had, it was to be had here. He could not explain

the feeling to himself. He had not even fully realized he felt this way

until Roderick had offered him a way out. But it was so, he was sure.

And so he was even less sure about Emily.

He turned to the window to watch her with the children. But they

were coming toward the house, the boys running on ahead, looking

flushed and excited. She was smiling. Ah, Emmy, always sweetly

serene. Or almost always. What had happened yesterday to take away

the serenity? Was it something that might recur? He would have to be

very careful to see that she was properly protected for the remainder

of her stay at Penshurst—perhaps forever, if she would listen to what

he knew he must again say to her.

She was painting. It was not coming easily, but she persevered. It was

a different scene from any she had ever tried before. Although she was

on the hill and there were numerous trees to paint, she knew she

could not paint any of them. Her spirit had always been uplifted by

trees, but today the trees were strangely silent. It was the flat farmland

below that called to her. But she did not know the message and for a

long time her brush did not know how to express it.

But finally she was absorbed. So absorbed that she knew when she

finally felt his presence that he had been there for some time. Leaning

against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. Far enough away not to

intrude upon her privacy or her creative need to keep her work

unobserved. He smiled at her when she turned her head to look at

him.

She felt desire deep in her womb, though she knew it was not

entirely a physical thing. It was love that put the slight unsteadiness

in her legs. A love that had now manifested itself in every way. She

had decided after leaving the boys in the nursery to play at

highwaymen and heroes that she would no longer fight to keep her

love suppressed. Not for what remained of her two weeks at least. She

would accept this time as a gift. It had been a freeing decision.

"Hello, Emmy," he said. He strolled a little closer. "May I see?" He was signing as well as speaking the words.

"No," she told him aloud, looking briefly at her painting. And then

very daringly. "Naht yet."

He grinned at her. "You have been learning words in my absence,"

he said. "And learning them wrongly. O-o-o, not ah. Not."

"O-o-o," she said, obediently lifting her jaw a little higher. "Not

yet." She felt her throat quickly with one hand. Yes, the vibrations

were there. It was not so difficult after all to produce sound. It was

almost, she had thought when practicing before the mirror in her

room, as if she remembered…

He sat on the grass a short distance from her easel, but in such a

position that he could not see her painting. He reclined sideways on

one elbow and plucked a blade of grass to set between his teeth.

She thought at first that she would not be able to concentrate with

him sitting so close. She expected him to be restless, curious. But he

was as he had been last night when they had stood together outside

the summer house. He was still and relaxed. He was very like the soul

partner she had always dreamed of having. After a minute or two she

forgot about him again with her conscious thoughts and found that

at last her brush was speaking the meaning that had been lodged deep

within her.

He was gazing off down the hill when she looked at him again. He

seemed peaceful. She stood gazing at him for a while, enjoying the

luxury of watching unobserved.

"Now," she said at last, forming the word carefully.

He did not correct her pronunciation this time. He merely looked

up at her, smiled, and got to his feet, then looked at her painting for a

long time in silence, his expression unreadable. She looked for

ridicule or amusement or even simple puzzlement, but she saw none

of them.

"Everything is horizontal this time," he said, also signing with his

hands—he was doing that more often, she noticed, making up new

and easily interpreted signs, as if he had decided that it was unfair to

expect her always to listen to and speak his language when visual

communication was better attuned to the workings of her mind than

verbal—"instead of vertical as in the other painting I saw. Everything

stretches sideways rather than upward, with the colors of fields and

sky intermingling. Not fields down here and sky up there, but all part

of one another. Explain to me, Emmy. What have you seen that I

have not? I envy your ability to see with an inner eye."

She showed him with her hands and with her bare feet and with her

expressive face that the earth was beneath them, the nurturing

component of life. Soil and grass and crops. It was through the earth,

she attempted to demonstrate, that one must learn all there was to

learn about the mystery of life and growth and measureless time and

patience. And love and peace too. It was not up there, as she had

thought before and told him before. The meaning of it all was not up

there, beyond one's grasp, always to be yearned for, never to be

attained. It was all here and now, if one only recognized it and

accepted it. Not in the future, but now. Not in the distance, but here,

within one's grasp. She tried to tell him in words too because she

knew she was not communicating quite clearly.

"Naht—not there," she said, pointing upward. "Here. Now."

"Emmy." He took her busy hands in his finally and held them both

against his heart as he closed his eyes tightly. "Emmy," he said after a

while, and she could see that there were tears in his eyes. "Is it true,

then? Is peace not so very far away after all?"

"No," she said.

They spoke to each other without words, without images. They

spoke to each other in the silence. It was one of the most precious

moments of her life.

He kissed her lips softly before releasing her hands and folding her

easel while she cleaned her brush and tidied her paints and paper.

Then they walked in silence back to the summer house. A silence that

was both sweet and sad to Emily. She knew she was dear to him. She

knew too that peace was still just beyond his grasp. She wondered if it

could ever be possible to know peace after the person one had loved

most in the world had died in circumstances that one might have

prevented or at least shared.

She turned to him in the summer house after setting down her

things. He was looking at her. It was the most natural thing in the

world to take the couple of steps into his arms, to lift her mouth for

his kiss, to set her own arms about his neck. She was not going to

analyze. Not until she was away from Penshurst again. And she

would not allow conscience or any notion of sin to intrude. Perhaps

she was rationalizing, she thought. Perhaps this was what people did

when they consciously committed one of life's great sins. But she

could not yet feel that this affair she was sharing with Ashley was

wrong.

He sat down on the sofa after they had caressed each other with lips

and hands and had felt the need to be closer still, and she stood

before him and watched as he unbuttoned the front flap of his

breeches and then lifted her skirt and drew down her undergarments.

"Come," he said, setting his hands on her hips and drawing her

toward him.

She knelt astride him and watched his face as he first positioned her

and then returned his hands to her hips and brought her firmly down

onto him. He looked at her, his head against the back of the sofa, his

eyes half closed.

"Emmy," he said.

She had learned something the night before. Two things, perhaps.

She had learned that physical love was intensely pleasurable. And she

had learned that it really was love, that in the physical act, which

could be called sin when performed outside marriage, as now, love

bonded to love and was a thing of the heart and even of the soul as

well as of the body. She loved him totally as he began the already

familiar rhythmic dance of physical love and as she matched her

movements to his—she loved him with her body and with every part

of herself enclosed by her body.

She watched his face and saw that he was watching hers. Watching

each other's pleasure. But seeing deeper than pleasure. Watching the

essence of each other, deeply penetrating each other. Not just in the

physical masculine-into-feminine sense, but in every way possible.

Masculine, feminine; feminine, masculine—they did not matter.

Each was both, and each was both giver and receiver.

He loved her during those minutes, she knew. During the intensely

felt minutes of the act of love. Memory would come back to him

afterward and set up the barrier again. But for now there was no

barrier. Oh no, she would not fight this or see it as sin. Or ever regret

it.

He drew her head down to his and set his mouth on hers, his tongue

coming deep inside as his other hand held her firm and she felt the

hot rush of his seed. She sighed out her own release and relaxed down

onto him. It seemed so natural, so right to love him thus. She set her

cheek against his shoulder and sank for a few minutes into sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Emmy," he said. She had been sitting quietly beside him on the sofa,

her head on his shoulder. But he could not talk to her thus. He sat

forward slightly so that the weight of her head was transferred to the

crook of his elbow and he could turn for her to see his face.

She looked back at him with smiling eyes and he caught his breath

again at the expression in them, far deeper than the smile itself. It was

the expression she had worn as he had loved her, deeper than the

physical passion she had obviously felt. It was Emmy's usual look of

serenity and peace. It was her usual look of deep affection. It was the

look of a woman who had just received the seed of a man who loved

her body. It was—ah, it was far more than any one of those, or even

of the sum total of them. He would not verbalize even in his mind

what her expression told him.

"Emmy." He touched his lips very lightly and briefly to hers. "I am

not going to say the obvious—not yet. We have been lovers, last

night and today. We both know what that might mean and what it

should mean. You may well be with child, and even apart from that

possibility we should both now do what is right and proper. But I

have learned from you since last time. I have learned that there is

something far more important than what society tells us is proper."

She touched her fingertips to his lips. He was not sure there was not

a tinge of sadness in her smile.

"I want to tell you some things," he said. "I want to burden you with

knowledge that should be mine alone. I want you to know the man

to whom you have opened your greatest treasure as a woman. The

man who will offer himself to you for life some time soon—unless

you indicate that under no circumstances can you accept me. You

knew me once better than anyone has ever known me, I believe, little

fawn. You no longer know me. You care for me. Perhaps you believe

you care enough to marry me. But you do not know me, Emmy. And

so I must tell you."

"I know you," she said, indicating with her hand that it was heart

knowledge of which she spoke. But she said the words aloud.

It was still a shock to hear her speak, her words slowly and distinctly

spoken, her voice low and toneless and yet strangely sweet.

"There are so many things about me you do not know," he said.

'"There were seven years when you did not see me, Emmy. So many

things."

"No, no, no," she said. She set one hand flat over his heart. "I know

you, Ahshley."

Why was it, he wondered, that he so often found himself fighting

tears when he was with Emmy, even though she could also bring him

closer to happiness than he had thought ever again possible? He had

shed no tears after the death of his wife and her son.

Tell me, then. She spoke now with her hands and her eyes.

"Not here." He got to his feet and took her hand in his. He had to

make this more real to her. She had to understand that he was not the

man she had loved more compassionately than his own sister had ever

loved him. It seemed that she must marry him now. But he needed

her to understand how unlovable he was, how despicable. He could

not even offer himself to her again with all the darkness shut up

within. She had a right to know.

He did not talk to her as they descended the hill and approached the

house from the side. They did not see anyone on the way, for which

fact he was thankful, and the servants' stairs were deserted too. He

paused for a moment outside the door of Alice's suite and took

Emily's hand firmly in his own.

"These were her rooms," he said when they had stepped into the

dressing room and he had shut the door firmly behind them. "As she

left them. No one cleared them out when she died because no order

to do so was ever given. I have not given that order since my own

arrival here, though I have wanted to and have been on the verge of

doing so numerous times. These were her clothes." He had released

her hand in order to open the double doors of a large wardrobe. "You

can breathe in her perfume if you take a deep breath."

She did so, then stood very still. He opened the door into the

bedchamber and she followed him inside.

"She was a very feminine woman," he said. "As you can see, she

loved pinks and lavenders—and frills and flounces and fussiness. She

was very beautiful—small and dainty and seemingly fragile. She

aroused all of a man's protective instincts. Men routinely fell in love

with her."

She touched the frilled satin bed hangings, a look of deep sadness in

her eyes.

"Come," he said, beckoning her toward the door leading into the

small sitting room. "This is where she sat and wrote letters and sewed.

It has all the daintiness one would expect of Alice's personal domain."

He watched her run a hand over the inlaid wood pattern on top of

the small escritoire. She slid open a desk drawer, something he had

never been able to bring himself to do. She reached in after a few

moments and drew out two oval picture frames, hinged together in

the middle, then turned them over and stood looking down at the

two pictures. He took a step toward her and drew in a slow breath as

he looked over her shoulder.

"Alice," he said, though she did not look up to see him speak. Alice,

looking as lovely and as vital as she had looked before they married,

when she had nursed him. when he had been weak and in need.

Emily looked up at him. She was pointing to the other portrait. She

pointed at him and then back at the picture. Like you, she was telling

him.

He was a young man. dark like Alice, blue-eyed. He must be her

brother. Gregory Kersey, Ashley reasoned. And yes, he thought, there

was perhaps a slight likeness.

"Gregory Kersey." he said. "Alice's brother."

She set the portraits back inside the drawer as she had found them

and closed it carefully. She looked up at him.

"I hated her, Emmy." he said.

She gazed at him, her face without expression.

"We fell in love in great haste," he said. "She was my nurse when I

was very sick. I was her patient when she was grieving and adjusting

to life in a new country. We married before we really knew each

other. I repulsed her. She would—make no attempt to like me. She

was repeatedly unfaithful to me. I suppose I was much to blame.

Rarely is the fault all on one side in a failed marriage. I grew to hate

her. A hundred times I must have wished her dead."

"No," she said aloud.

"My mind shied away from the wish." he said. "But 'twas there. I

longed to be free of her, to be free of the endless nightmare of being

bound to her for life."

Her eyes were wide with shock.

"Thomas was not mine." he said. "I would tell no one else this,

Emmy. I would defend the honor of his memory with my life if

anyone were to challenge his legitimacy. I acknowledged him as

mine. He had my name. He was an innocent child whom I loved."

She frowned.

"Emmy," he said, "the business meeting' that kept me from home

the night of the fire was no such thing. I spent the night in the bed of

a married woman." He wondered suddenly if she had understood his

torrent of words. He had not even tried to sign any of the meaning to

her. But it appeared she had understood.

She closed her eyes and tipped back her head. He waited for her to

look at him again. When she did so, her eyes were filled with pain.

Pain for herself? Pain for him? Knowing Emmy as he did, he did not

doubt there was plenty of the latter.

"There was nothing between Alice and me after our wedding night,"

he said. "The night of the fire was my first adultery, though I do not

suppose it would have been my last. 'Tis no excuse anyway: Adultery

is adultery. My wife and the child I loved died while I was

committing it."

Her face had lost all vestiges of color. He wondered if she would

faint. But he would not step forward to support her. He kept himself

rigidly apart from her.

"Now tell me," he said quietly, "that you know me, Emmy."

She closed her eyes again and swayed on her feet. But after several

moments she took a few hurried steps toward him, wrapped her arms

tightly about his waist, and pressed her forehead to his cravat.

"I know you," she said in words.

Why did her words feel like absolution? Like forgiveness? She did

not have the power to forgive him. No one had that power. Perhaps

not even God, whom he had never asked. There was no forgiveness.

He set his arms like iron bars about her, buried his face against her

hair, and wept. Wept with deep, painful, racking sobs. For a long

time he could do nothing to bring them under control. For a long

time he touched the very bottom of despair. But he held on tightly to

Emily, who leaned warmly and softly into him. And he knew that he

was clinging to the only hope he might ever have of pardon and

peace.

It was a damp and misty morning. The grass was wet and chilly

beneath her bare feet. But she walked up onto the hill anyway, not

even trying to see down into the valley or ahead of herself into the

trees. She walked to draw tranquility from the morning.

He was far more troubled than she had ever realized. The burden of

his guilt was far heavier than he had indicated. And yet she could not

feel totally dejected this morning. He had not loved Alice. It was a

selfish thought to delight in, but she could not help repeating the

thought over and over in her mind. He had not loved Alice. His

terrible suffering had not been caused by grief over a lost love.

She remembered the look in his eyes as he had made love to her the

afternoon before. And his determination that she know all before he

offered her marriage again. He had not tried to excuse his own guilt.

He had tried to show himself to her as he saw himself—evil and

unforgivable. She remembered how he had cried in her arms as if his

heart would break, perhaps because she had tried to tell him that he

was still Ashley, that he was no different now than he had been seven

years before. Only more wounded. Deeply wounded.

There was hope this morning. Hope for him. Hope for herself. She

knew that when he asked again, she would say yes. Happiness was by

no means assured them. But unhappiness was certain if they parted—

for both of them, she believed. He needed her as she needed him. It

was the dependency of love. Neither needed the other as any sort of

crutch. They needed each other because they cared for each other,

because the world was a more meaningful place when the other was

close.

He had seemed quite genuinely cheerful last evening when they had

all attended a soiree at a neighbor's house. It was true that he had

avoided being in close company with Sir Henry Verney, though the

two of them had been civil to each other. But he had treated Miss

Verney and everyone else with his old amiability. Perhaps in time this

new home and this new neighborhood, despite the fact that Alice had

lived here, would bring stability and peace to his life. Perhaps she

would be able to help. She breathed in the clean damp smell of the

air. This morning she was beginning to believe that this would be her

home for the rest of her life. And the thought was deeply pleasing to

her. She was no longer haunted by Alice's ghost.

She had even lost her fear of Major Cunningham. Not her dislike, it

was true; she doubted she would ever grow to like him. But perhaps

that was unfair. He had contrived to speak privately with her last

evening. He had sat beside her a little apart from most of the other

guests, who were grouped about the pianoforte listening to the

musical offerings of several of their number.

"Lady Emily," he had said, a look of frank apology on his face, "will

you ever be able to forgive me?"

She had not known quite how to react. A swift glance had shown

that both Ashley and Luke were not far away.

"My behavior was unpardonable," he had said. "Even if you had

been what I mistook you for, 'twould have been unpardonable. I will

not even try to justify what I said and what I suggested. I can only ask

humbly for your pardon, without any expectation that it is my right

to receive it. Will you forgive me?"

It had been a handsome apology and she had been able to see

nothing but shame and sincerity in his eyes. She had nodded her head

quickly.

"My sincerest thanks," he had said. "And my sincerest good wishes.

Ashley is my dearest friend, but it does not take the intuition of

friendship to see that he has conceived a deep affection for you. May

I hope for his sake that you return it?"

She would not answer that. It was none of his concern.

"I ask only," he had said, "because 'tis my dearest wish to see him

happy again, and I believe you are the lady to make him happy. But

not here—at Penshurst, I mean. Always here the memory of his late

wife would come between you, Lady Emily. Pardon me for speaking

so frankly about what seems not to concern me. But friends must

always wish the best for each other. I have offered to purchase

Penshurst. I like it. So I am somewhat partial, you see." He had

smiled. "Persuade Ashley to accept my offer. 'Twill be for your

happiness and his." He had looked apologetic again. "And mine."

It had not been easy to understand every word; he was undoubtedly

unaccustomed to talking to a deaf person. But she had understood

the main message, she believed.

She still felt surprise. He wished to buy Penshurst. Was he not an

army officer? She hoped Ashley would not sell. She had felt a strange

attachment to Penshurst almost from her first sight of it.

But at least this morning she could feel a certain respect for the

major. She would work on growing to like him. After all, people

constantly did unforgivable things. Why would forgiveness be of any

value if it were reserved only for forgivable offenses? And didn't

Ashley wrongly believe that hehad done something unforgivable?

The mist was lifting in places. She stood still to gaze downward at a

short stretch of the river which had for the moment come into view.

The mist had made her hair damp. She lifted a hand to push it back

behind one shoulder.

And then she felt such a piercing dread that she became momentarily

paralyzed. There was the quite irrational terror that her heart had

stopped and would not start beating again. She seemed to have

forgotten how to draw breath into her lungs.

She did not know where the terror came from. And for those few

moments she was unable even to turn her head to find its source.

There were only mist and trees and hillside—and a wide bloody

swath across the back of her lifted hand.

She stared at it as if it were someone else's hand, someone else's

wound. Several moments passed before she recognized that the main

focus of her feelings was pain. Her eyes turned to the tree trunk

directly behind her and gazed at it. Her mind must be working very

sluggishly, she suddenly thought with great lucidity. She had been

staring at the bullet embedded in the trunk for several seconds before

she really saw it. Now she stared for several more seconds. And then

again down at her hand, from which the blood was dripping onto her

skirt.

Panic took her then and she hurtled blindly downward through the

mist, wailing loudly without realizing that she was doing so. The

silence was a ravening terror at her back.

A footman in the hall of the house gaped at her, but he did not have

to react further. Luke was on his way downstairs. He paused for a

moment before hurrying toward her. She collided with his chest and

clawed at him.

"Hush, hush, hush," he was saying, but she did not look at his

mouth. He lifted her chin and held her head steady. "What have you

done to your hand? It appears to be bleeding rather copiously. Hush

now. Hush, Emily. I shall take you to your room and we will have it

seen to."

But she clawed at him again without seeing his words. And then

other hands gripped her shoulders tightly from behind. She did not

hear herself scream.

"She has cut herself rather nastily," Luke was saying. "She is also in shock."

One of the hands on her shoulders moved down her back to behind

her knees. The other circled her shoulders. Ashley lifted her into his

arms.

"Try not to struggle, love," he said, "or I may drop you. Luke, will

you bring Anna to her room? We will have to see if a physician is

needed. Hush, love. Shh."

She was still wailing. She buried her face against Ashley's neck as the

concerned face of Major Cunningham came into view.

He had been in his study, writing some letters before breakfast. His

pen had made an ugly squiggle across the page and spattered it with

ink blots when he had heard her. The sounds had been chillingly

inhuman, more like those of an animal in pain than of a woman. Yet

he had known even before flinging back the door and striding out

into the hall that it was Emmy.

"Shh, love. Shh," he said to her as he carried her up the stairs,

though he knew she could not hear him. The horrible wailing

continued. Luke hurried ahead of them, presumably to fetch Anna.

But it was not necessary. She was running down from the floor above,

her eyes wide with alarm.

"Merciful heaven!" she exclaimed. "What has happened? Emmy!

What has she done?"

"She has cut her hand," Luke said, "and is deep in shock." He

hurried on ahead to open the door to Emily's room.

Ashley set her down on the bed, but she clutched at him with

renewed panic. The sounds had not abated at all.

"Hush, love," he said, and heedless of his brother and sister-in-law,

who were both in the room, he followed her down onto the bed and

gathered her against him, rocking her, crooning to her.

"Emmy." Anna's voice was shaking. "Emmy, what happened?"

Luke was talking to a maid, for whom he must have rung or who

had been sent up. He was directing her to bring warm water and

cloths, soothing ointment and bandages. His voice, as one might have

expected of Luke, sounded reassuringly firm and calm.

It was a raw and nasty cut, Ashley saw when he looked down at the

hand that clutched his frock coat. And still bleeding. It must hurt like

the devil, he thought. But she was too distraught even to feel the pain

at the moment. He forced her head back from his chest and held her

chin firmly.

"Emmy," he said. Her eyes were clenched tightly shut. He kissed

each in turn and then her mouth. "Emmy."

Her eyes, when she opened them, were blank with terror. Oh God,

and he had looked out of his window this morning, seen the weather,

and assumed that she would not think of going out. He had not been

there to watch over her.

"Hush, my love," he said. "I have you safe. No one is going to harm

you now. You see? Anna and Luke are here too." Why was it that he

could never seem to protect the women in his life?

The wailing stopped finally. She stared blankly at him and then

looked over his shoulder at her sister and Luke.

"Emmy," Anna said. "Oh, Emmy, what happened?"

"Set them down beside the bed," Luke was instructing the maid.

"Then you may leave."

"I am going to let you go, love," Ashley said, "and get up so that we

can attend to your hand."

Her eyes moved to it and stared blankly. He eased away from her

and stood up beside the bed, but her hysteria did not return. Her face

and even her lips were chalk white. She winced but did not make a

sound when Anna spread a towel beside her and gently spread her

hand on it.

"Oh, Emmy," she said.

'"It looks worse than it is," Luke said, setting a hand on Anna's

shoulder. "When the blood is sponged away, my dear, you will see

that 'tis no mortal wound."

Anna was dabbing with a damp cloth about the long gash across the

back of Emily's hand.

"Emmy?" Ashley said when her eyes found him. "You fell?"

No, she had not fallen.

"You scraped it?" he asked. "Against a tree? A rock? A building?"

No. It suddenly occurred to him that a mere cut incurred in such a

manner, even if rather a deep one and even given the amount of

blood lost, would not have sent her into such deep shock anyway.

Not Emmy.

"What happened?" he asked. "Can you tell me?"

She stared at him for a long time. Then she lifted her free hand,

seemed not to know quite how to explain, and finally formed it into

the unmistakable shape of a pistol and pointed it at the window

opposite.

"Zounds," Luke said.

"Someone shotat you?" Ashley felt suddenly as if all the blood had

drained out of his head. "You sawhim, Emmy?''

No. She shook her head.

She would not have heard a shot. How could she know, then? Ashley

wondered. But cuts like that did not simply appear from nowhere.

"How do you know?" he asked her. Anna, he could see, had looked

up from her task, her face as white as her sister's.

There had been something behind her. Something big.

"A tree?" he asked.

Yes, a tree. And something small and round—she formed it with her

forefinger curled into the base of her thumb—against the tree.

"A bullet," Luke said quietly. She was not looking at him.

"A bullet?" Ashley asked.

Yes, a bullet. Lodged in the trunk of the tree behind her. It had cut a

swath across the back of her hand. No more than a few inches from

her body. From her heart—it was her left hand that had been hurt.

Someone had shot at Emmy and had missed killing her by only a few

inches.

"But you saw no one?" he asked her. "Either before or after it

happened?"

No, no one. She winced again. Anna was crying and dabbing at the

cut. Luke squeezed her shoulder and reached for the jar of ointment.

"Move aside, my dear," he said. "I will finish this and bind up her

hand. Some laudanum would not be amiss, I believe."

"Emmy," Ashley said, "we are going to need to know what happened

to frighten you two mornings ago. We need to know who wishes you

harm."

Who could want to harm Emmy? Ashley asked himself. Verney? But

why? Had Verney shot Gregory Kersey after all? In the same hills?

With the same gun? But why Emmy?

Her eyes closed and her teeth bit into her lower lip as Luke applied a

liberal dose of ointment to her hand and began to bandage it.

"I believe a physician's services will be unnecessary," he said, "unless the shock has still not worn off after she has slept. But the questions

will have to wait, Ash."

"I need to know," Ashley said. "I am going to kill him, whoever he

is."

"I shall help you," Anna said fiercely.

"You will stay close to your sister while she has need of you,

madam," Luke said quietly and gently, "and to our children, who

have a right to your attentions."

"And leave the serious business of guarding our safety to the men in

the family,'' she said sharply, her eyes flashing. ""Tis always the way

of the world. And what if the men fail?"

Ashley watched in some astonishment as his brother and his

brother's wife, the models of marital love and affection, proceeded to

quarrel. Luke, his task completed, looked coolly at Anna.

"To my knowledge I have not failed you yet. madam,'' he said.

"But once you needed my help," she said. "Once I helped you kill a

man who needed to be killed."

Luke raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "And so you did,

madam," he said.

"Then do not tell me that I have no further use in life than to

comfort my sister and play with my children." she said.

Luke had killed Anna's kidnapper years ago, after Ashley went to

India. He had not heard before now of Anna's having had any part in

that killing.

"I ask your pardon," Luke said, "if you wish to continue this

difference of opinion, Anna, I shall be at your service later in the

privacy of our own rooms."

She flushed, opened her mouth, and closed it again.

Ashley sat on the side of the bed and took Emily's good hand in his

own. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"You are in pain?" he asked. "I shall have some laudanum brought

up."

She shook her head.

"But you will stay here and sleep?" he asked her.

She nodded, but her hand tightened about his.

"You must not fear," he said. "I shall see that someone is always with you, night and day. I shall have a maid sent to sit with you." He

would have stayed himself, but there were proprieties to be observed.

He wondered what Anna and Luke had made of his lying on the bed

with her when he had carried her in. And had he not been calling her

his love? For Emmy's sake, he did not wish to arouse their suspicions.

Perhaps she would still refuse to marry him when he next offered.

"I shall stay with her, of course," Anna said. "I intended to do so

even before I was informed that 'tis my function in life." There was a

definite edge to her voice. "Harry will not need me for a few hours."

"I have a strong premonition," Luke said, sounding both bored and

haughty, "that I have just fashioned a scourge with which I am to be

whipped mercilessly for the next eternity or two."

"Anna will stay with you," Ashley told Emily. "Both Luke and I will

be in the house—and Roderick too, I daresay. He will be waiting to

hear what happened. He is a military officer, well experienced at

defending people in danger. And there are many servants here. You

are quite safe. Do you believe that?" If she did not, then he would

stay himself and to hell with propriety.

She nodded.

He raised her hand to his lips. "Try to sleep," he said. "Later we will talk and get to the bottom of what has been happening here. I will

put everything right for you so that you will never have to fear again."

It was perhaps a rash promise, he mused. "I swear it, little fawn. On

my honor."

She smiled—a mere ghost of a smile—for the first time since he had

picked her up downstairs in the hall and carried her up here to her

room. And she closed her eyes.

Luke, looking somewhat grim about the mouth and eyes, was

holding the door open for him. He closed it behind them after they

had left the room.

Roderick Cunningham was pacing back and forth in the corridor

outside, a look of deep concern on his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Anna was suckling Harry, who had been crying lustily when she

arrived in the main room of the nursery. He had been playing happily

with his sister until his stomach suddenly told him that his mama was

late and he was hungry. He was now contentedly sucking. The

housekeeper was sitting with a sleeping Emily, who had been

persuaded after all to take a small dose of laudanum to ease the pain

in her hand.

Anna did not look up when the door opened and closed or when her

husband seated himself in a chair close to hers. She was quite out of

charity with him—especially over the fact that he had had to point

out to her in his usual oblique way the distasteful nature of quarreling

in public.

"Your only function in life is not to care for my children, Anna," he

said after several minutes had passed in silence. "Or even to bear

them. Nor is it to give pleasure to my bed. Though you perform all of

those functions superlatively. You are the joy of my heart and half of

my soul. Yet your function is not even to be those things. 'Tis merely

to be, as a person worthy of my respect, regardless of your gender or

your relationship to me."

"Oh." She still refused to look up. She watched Harry pull on one of

his ears as he sucked. "You were always magnificently clever with

words. And you have rehearsedthis speech. Tis not fair."

"Rehearsals take time and effort," he said. "And commitment and

conviction. I belittled you and I hurt you and I beg your pardon."

She looked at him and her lips quirked. "I wish your Paris

acquaintances could hear you apologize to a woman," she said. "To

your own wife."

"They would assume that I had been corrupted by English beef and

English ale," he said. "They would be immensely saddened. Forgive

me?"

She smiled, but she sobered instantly. "Someone is trying to kill

Emmy," she said. "Who could possibly wish to do such a thing?"

"Perhaps," he said, his elbows on the chair arms, his fingers steepled,

"someone who knows that she is precious to Ashley."

She frowned and lifted Harry against one shoulder so that she could

rub his back and pat it to dislodge the wind he never failed to

swallow. "But who would wish to hurt Ashley?" she asked. "No one

here has even known him for long."

"He was Alice's husband," he said. "Ashley tells me that Alice

dismissed Mr. Binchley as steward here before she left for India. Mr.

Binchley and his daughter now live in near poverty outside the gates

of Penshurst. Someone appears to have shot Alice's brother. The

verdict was that 'twas an accident, though no one ever admitted to

doing the shooting. Ashley believes 'twas murder. And now soon after

Ashley has returned, someone has been frightening the woman he

loves."

"Trying to kill her," she said.

"I doubt it." Luke considered for a moment. "It was misty this

morning. Whoever did the shooting must have been close. Emily's

deafness would enable him to draw quite close without much fear of

detection. Unless he was a very poor shot, 'tis surprising that he hit so

far from his mark, assuming that he was close and that his mark was

her heart. I believe the intention was merely to frighten her. If so,

then 'twas brilliantly successful."

Anna shuddered. She set Harry to her other breast, the wind having

been quite audibly dislodged. "But who?" she said. "And why? What

does Emmy—or Ashley—have to do with what happened here before

he even met Alice?"

"We will have to hope, my dear," he said, "that Emily can enlighten

us as to the nature of the first frightening experience she had. If she

saw someone and can tell us his identity—or heridentity, for that

matter—then perhaps we can proceed further."

"Was Ashley serious when he said he would kill the man

responsible?" she asked.

"Were you serious," he asked, looking steadily at her, "when you said

you would help?"

"Yes," she said after a pause.

"I believe, my dear," he said, "that Ashley has a stronger motivation

even than yours to stake his life on Emily's protection."

She said no more but lowered her gaze to Harry, who was beginning

to tire and lose some interest in his meal. Luke sat quietly watching

them. Wisely he did not reflect aloud on the fact that a man would

willingly die to protect the peace and safety of his woman and of the

children they had begotten together in love.

"Come with me, Rod?" Ashley asked. The two of them were sitting

in the study, waiting. Waiting for Emily to wake up, Ashley

supposed. There was little else to do. He had walked about on the hill

behind the house with his friend while Luke had stayed at the house

at his request, and it seemed to him that they had looked at every

tree. They had found no bullet. And what would have been solved if

they had he did not know. Now his butler had brought word that Sir

Henry Verney and Miss Verney had come to call on her grace and

Lady Emily and that he had shown them into the visitors' salon.

Ashley's first instinct had been to send word back simply that the

ladies were not receiving.

"Of course. It would be my pleasure." Major Cunningham got to his

feet. But he clapped a hand on Ashley's shoulder before they reached

the door. "But 'twould be as well to keep a cool head. Ash. Despite

what you have told me, there is nothing to prove that Verney has any

reason to wish Lady Emily harm, or you either. Besides, I like the

man."

Barbara Verney was rising to her feet when they walked through the

doorway of the salon. Sir Henry Verney was standing before the

window, his back to it. Both looked somewhat surprised to see

neither Anna nor Emily.

"Miss Verney." Ashley made her a bow. "Verney. This is a pleasure

my sister-in-law and Lady Emily will regret having missed."

"Oh," Miss Verney said, after curtsying to both him and the major,

"they are from home. What a disappointment. You see, Henry? I told

you this was rather a late hour of the morning to be paying a call."

"Please do have a seat," Ashley said, indicating the one she had risen

from at his entrance. "I shall have some tea brought in. They are not

from home. Lady Emily is indisposed and her grace is tending her."

Both looked instantly and politely concerned. "I hope 'tis not a

serious indisposition," Sir Henry said.

"No," Ashley said. "Not serious."

"I do believe," Major Cunningham said, smiling appreciatively at

Barbara Verney, "that I must have been from England altogether too

long. The styles of ladies' hair and hats are far more becoming now

than they used to be. Or perhaps 'tis just that the few ladies I have

seen since my return have superior beauty and taste."

Miss Verney laughed. "If you flatter the enemy as you flatter my sex.

Major," she said, " 'tis no wonder France was defeated in the recent

war."

But the major insisted that she describe to him how ladies succeeded

in dressing their hair so high and keeping its height.

"Pads," he said after she had explained. "Ingenious, madam, and

altogether enchanting."

They drank their tea and conversed on a wide range of topics, all

decidedly frivolous and all directed by Major Cunningham.

" 'Tis a good thing, Henry," Miss Verney said, setting down her cup

and saucer and signaling an early departure, "that you did not leave

me at the door as you suggested in order to go about your own

business before returning for me. I would have been an

embarrassment to Lord Ashley."

"Not at all, Miss Verney," he said. "I would have been pleased to

show you the park and the river walk. Are you familiar with them?"

"From childhood," she said, getting to her feet. "I am sorry about

Lady Emily. You will convey our good wishes to her for her restored

health, my lord? We would have called earlier this morning, but

Henry was from home from first light until little more than an hour

ago. 'Twas most provoking when he had promised to escort me on

several visits in addition to this one." She smiled at her brother to

indicate that she was teasing rather than seriously scolding.

Ashley drew a slow breath. "Where were you?" he asked Sir Henry.

"I beg your pardon?'' Sir Henry looked back at him with raised

eyebrows.

"I asked where you were this morning between first light and one

hour ago," Ashley said. "I ask again. Where were you?"

"Ash—," Major Cunningham said, touching him lightly on the arm.

They were all on their feet.

Ashley jerked his arm away. "Where were you?" he asked again.

Sir Henry's eyes narrowed. "I am not convinced that I owe you or

anyone else an explanation for my movements, Kendrick," he said.

"And if you will excuse me, there is a lady in the room. I will escort

her home."

"I believe," Major Cunningham said, "it might be wise to tell them

what happened this morning, Ash."

" 'What happened'?" Miss Verney was looking bewildered and rather

pale. "What didhappen this morning?''

"Perhaps youcan tell us," Ashley said, not taking his eyes from Sir

Henry.

"Ash."' The major's voice had taken on a note of authority- "Sit

down. Miss Verney, please do seat yourself again. Lady Emily was

shot at this morning up on the hill."

Barbara Verney pressed both hands to her mouth.

"Fortunately," the major said, "apart from a badly grazed hand and

badly shocked nerves, she is unharmed.''

"And you think I did it," Sir Henry said almost in a whisper. "Egad,

you still think I killed Greg Kersey. And you think now I tried to kill

Lady Emily. Do you believe I make a career of shooting people, even

when they have done nothing to offend me? I will meet you for this.

Kendrick." He drew an audible breath through his nose. "But this is

not for a lady's ears. Come, Barbara. I will take you home and deal

with this later."

"No," she said, her voice shaking. She sat down. "Let us deal with it

now and without foolish talk of duels. Lord Ashley is upset, Henry.

Lady Emily is his guest here, and we all know that even besides that

point he has an affection for her. And all he did was ask you a

question—which you refused to answer. I believe 'tis time for some

plain speaking."

"Bravo, madam," Major Cunningham said. "Sir Henry, sit down if

you please. Sit down, Ash. Perhaps you would prefer that I leave?"

"No," Ashley said quickly. "Stay, please."

"You must tell Lord Ashley what you believe, Henry," his sister said.

"It concerns your late wife," Sir Henry said stiffly. "Perhaps you

should hear it alone."

"No," Ashley said. He had seated himself again. Sir Henry did not

sit. "Whatever you have to say can be said in Major Cunningham's

hearing."

" Tis my belief," Sir Henry said, "that Gregory Kersey's death was

not accidental. He might have taken his own life. He had a gun with

him and it had been recently fired—as had all our guns, of course. He

had motive— perhaps. But I believe 'twas murder." He drew a deep

breath. "I believe Alice killed him."

" What?" The word came out as a whisper. Everything had

blackened about the edges of Ashley's vision.

"But why?" Major Cunningham's voice, sounding strangely calm,

broke into the ensuing silence.

"He was to marry Katherine Binchley the very day he died," Sir

Henry said. "He had the special license and had made the

arrangements for the ceremony to be performed quietly in a different

parish."

Ashley could do nothing but stare at him.

"And you believe that Lady Ashley—Miss Kersey— killed her

brother merely because she was about to be supplanted as mistress of

Penshurst?" the major asked. "It sounds a trifle extreme, does it not?''

"Not for that reason." Sir Henry was looking at Ashley. "I believe

you understand, Kendrick. She told you all— except perhaps the

incriminating details I have just mentioned."

But he did not understand at all. Not at all. He felt as if he must

have walked into some bizarre dream.

"Tell me," he said.

Sir Henry looked acutely uncomfortable. He glanced at Major

Cunningham and at his sister.

"I know already, Henry," she said. "I guessed and you did not deny

it, remember? You need not worry now about my sensibilities."

"She was upset at the whole idea of his marrying," Sir Henry said.

"She was fond of him." He cleared his throat nervously. "She was

overfond of him."

"Egad," the major said.

But Ashley's eyes had closed. Into his consciousness rushed a detail

that perhaps he had kept at bay ever since meeting Sir Henry Verney.

Ashley had reminded her of her lover, Alice had told him on the

morning after their disastrous wedding night. That was what had

attracted her to him. He had reminded her of her lover—Sir Henry

Verney. But Verney looked nothing whatsoever like himself. And one

of Emmy's signed messages just yesterday echoed loudly in his mind,

as if she had spoken aloud. Like you, she had indicated. She had been

pointing to the portrait of Gregory Kersey, set in a twin frame with

Alice's portrait. Like you.

"She was an unhappy woman when Gregory started paying court to

Katherine," Sir Henry said. "As unhappy about it as I was."

"But you were her lover," Ashley said without opening his eyes.

"Katherine's?" Sir Henry said stiffly. "No. I behaved with honor

toward her."

"No," Barbara Verney said. "He means Alice's, Henry."

"Alice's?" Sir Henry looked shocked. "I was Alice's lover? Is thatwhat she told you? Egad. Tis not true, as I live."

But Alice had not been a virgin. She had not been a virgin.

"I can see," Sir Henry said, "that all of this is new to you, Kendrick. I am sorry. Truly sorry. I assumed when you told me Alice had told

you all that she had told you the truth, even if she had withheld the

most violent and incriminating part of it."

"Your quarrel with Kersey," Ashley said, "was occasioned by the fact

that you both loved the same woman. 'Twas not because he knew

you had debauched his sister."

"Dear Lord God," Barbara Verney said.

"No," Sir Henry said quietly.

"Her attachment to her brother was so strong that she would kill

him rather than lose him to another woman?" Major Cunningham

asked. "Do you have any proof that she shot him, Verney? Or is this a

wild guess?"

Yes, her attachment was that strong, Ashley thought with certainty.

They had been lovers. Her eyes had been fiercely fanatical when she

had told her husband of twenty-four hours that she still loved the

other man, that she would always love him. Always. Yes, she had

loved him enough to kill him. And to live in torment ever after.

"She was on the hill," Sir Henry said. "I saw her fleeing downward

when I stopped and looked back after hearing the shot. She denied

having been there when I confronted her, and then admitted it. She

claimed to have been coming to join the shoot—she did sometimes—

and to have heard the lone shot and to have seen her brother down.

She claimed to have been too filled with horror and panic to go close.

She had run back to the house for help. But there was a firmness, an

intrepidity about Alice that made that explanation ring not quite

true. Besides, she did not send Binchley to look until hours later. Do

I have proof that she killed Greg? No. Perhaps I have always been

glad that I did not. I kept my mouth shut. Even Barbara has only

guessed these things until this morning. She is now hearing for the

first time, as you are, that I saw Alice."

"Why might it have been suicide?'' Major Cunningham asked. "Why

might Kersey have killed himself on the morning of his wedding?''

Ashley's elbows were on his knees, his face in his hands.

"His—love for Katherine was a sudden thing," Sir Henry said, an

edge of bitterness in his voice. "And he was an unhappy man. We had

always been close friends. But there was a barrier there between us

even before he took Katherine from me. There was something he was

not willing to talk about. Something I could only guess at. 'Twas only

later that I discovered Barbara had made the same guesses."

"He was trying to make his life more… normal, then?" the major

said.

"I believe so." Sir Henry had gone to stand at the window, his back

to the room.

"Henry has been puzzled and hurt by the extent of your hostility,"

Miss Verney said quietly to Ashley. " 'Tis clear now that there has

been a huge misunderstanding. I think we should take our leave,

Henry. Major? He looks in a state of near collapse."

"I shall see to him, madam," Major Cunningham said. "I am his

friend."

"Yes," she said. "I can see that. Come, Henry."

Ashley was aware of Sir Henry Verney's stopping beside him on his

way to the door. For a moment a hand rested on his shoulder.

"I am sorry," Sir Henry said.

Ashley kept his head down, his face resting on his hands. His wife's

brother had also been her lover. She had killed him because he had

been trying to break free of an incestuous relationship by taking a

wife.

"Henry," his sister said as their carriage drove away from the house,

"he did not know. That poor man!"

'"There is one thing no one seemed to think about," he said,

"though I daresay Kendrick will think about it soon enough. The

person who killed Greg cannot be the same person who shot at Lady

Emily this morning—not if our suspicions are correct. So who did

shoot at her? And why?"

"I thought all unpleasantness concerning Penshurst was at an end

when Alice went away," she said with a sigh. "Now it seems to be

back again. But can there possibly be any connection? What wereyou

doing all morning?"

His smile was rather crooked. "Are you wondering if I was on that

hill?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said briskly. "I am just curious."

"I was riding for most of the time," he said. "If you were to ask me

exactly where I rode, I would be unable to answer. I do not

remember. I went to see Katherine earlier. I often do, you know,

before Eric rises and she has no time for me. I offered for her at last—

I finally got up the courage. She refused me."

"Oh, Henry," she said, and she leaned across the space between their

seats to lay a sympathetic hand on his arm. "But why? She has always

been fond of you. I used to think she loved you. I have thought

recently that she loves you again—if she ever stopped."

"She said no." He set his head back against the cushions. "She would

offer no explanation. Just no."

"I am so sorry," she said.

But when the carriage reached the gates to the park, Sir Henry

turned to rap on the front panel for his coachman to stop outside the

Binchley cottage. Eric was, as usual, swinging on the gate. He was

smiling and waving.

"What is it today?" Barbara called to him after pulling down the

window. "A horse? A ship?"

"A cloud," he said. "I am riding across the sky. Grandfer told me a

story about a god who rode his chariot across the sky. But I am riding

a cloud."

"Eric," Sir Henry said. "Ask your mama if she will step outside for a

moment."

Eric went skipping off up the path.

"I will not intrude upon her," Sir Henry explained when his sister

looked at him in inquiry. "But I very much need to talk to her."

She came, wiping her hands on a clean white apron as she did so.

She did not look at the carriage but somewhere on the ground before

her feet. She looked as if she might have been crying.

Katherine," Barbara said. "You are busy as usual, and as usual you

make me feel like an idler."

"Kathy," Sir Henry said, "we have come from Penshurst. Lady Emily

Marlowe was shot at this morning by an unknown person for an

unknown reason."

Her eyes looked up at him, wide with dismay.

"She was not badly hurt," he said. "She is suffering more from shock

than from her wounds, I believe. I tell you only so that you will be

careful. So that you will stay close to the house unless your father is

with you. And so that you will watch Eric. Promise me?"

Her face had blanched.

"Kathy?" he said.

"You have frightened her," Barbara said. "There is no reason

whatsoever to fear, Katherine. Only to be a little cautious, perhaps.

How lovely all your flowers are. You are so very clever and

industrious."

Katherine Smith had set her arms around her son from behind. She

lowered her face to kiss the top of his head.

"Kathy," Sir Henry said. He sighed in frustration. "Be careful." He signaled his coachman to drive on.

She stood for a long while with her arms about Eric, looking after

the carriage. Eventually he protested and she released him so that he

could continue with his game. She stared sightlessly around at the

flowers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Emily came downstairs for tea. Apart from a slight pallor and her

heavily bandaged hand, one would not have known that anything was

very wrong with her, Ashley thought, bowing over her good hand in

the drawing room and seating her beside him on a sofa. She was

dressed prettily and fashionably in spring green with delicate flowers

embroidered onto her stomacher and the robings of her open gown.

Her hair was neatly dressed beneath a frothy little wing cap. He

resisted the need to sit closer to her than propriety would allow and

to draw her arm through his.

She answered all inquiries about her health with a smile.

"She refused to lie abed any longer," Anna said, "or to take any more

laudanum. The hand must be very painful, though."

"Sometimes pain is preferable to the feeling of being drugged," Luke

said. " Tis but a cut, Anna, though a nasty one to be sure."

"Lady Emily's courage is to be much commended," Major

Cunningham said. "Many ladies of my acquaintance would cower in

their rooms for days or even weeks after such an experience."

Emily smiled her way through tea. Ashley noticed that she made

little attempt to follow the conversation.

It had not taken Ashley long after the departure of Sir Henry Verney

and his sister to realize that the mystery of what had happened to

Emily this morning and two days ago had deepened. Only she herself

could enlighten them— but now seemed hardly the time.

Luke and Anna thought that they should take her away, back to

Bowden, at least until Theo and Lady Quinn returned to London.

Ashley could not help but agree, though with the greatest reluctance.

He wanted to marry her. He was half convinced that this time she

might be prevailed upon to accept his offer. But how could he marry

her if she must leave Penshurst? If it was not safe for her?

There was only one answer, of course, and Roderick Cunningham

had provided it in private, after the four-way conference on Emily's

safety had been concluded over luncheon: Ashley must live elsewhere

with her. The offer to purchase Penshurst was still open.

It was an offer Ashley hated to consider seriously. Penshurst was his.

He already felt the attachment of ownership. He and Emily had loved

here and found happiness together here—lasting happiness, he

hoped. He wanted to settle with her here, have children with her

here, grow old with her here. He did not want to be driven away. He

did not want to fear to bring her into this part of the world. And who

knew for sure that the strange assaults would not follow her

elsewhere? He would far prefer to find her assailant than to run from

him—or her.

But he had told Roderick that he would think about selling.

His friend had laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know 'twould wrench

your heart, Ash," he said said. "But I know that giving up Lady Emily

would shatter it. Think about my offer. There is no hurry, no

pressure. We are friends."

"Come for a walk, Emmy?" Ashley asked now. setting a hand on hers

to draw her attention. The rain has stopped. Will it frighten you too

much to leave the house? With me at your side?"

No, she told him, she was not afraid. She left and came back with

one of her attractive wide-brimmed straw hats perched forward over

her brow and secured with a wide ribbon bow at the back of her neck

beneath her cap.

But he stopped her in the hall before they stepped outside. He made

sure that he was not within earshot of any of the footmen, then said,

"Emmy, answer some questions before we leave. We may need pen

and paper. You did not see the person who shot at you this morning.

Did you see the person who frightened you two days ago?"

He could see she had, though she was obviously reluctant to say so.

But she did nod eventually. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and

satisfaction.

"Who?" he said. "Tell me who."

"No," she told him, biting her lip.

"Emmy." He caught at her upper arms and bent his head closer. "Let

us go into the study. Write the name for me. I must know. I must be

able to protect you from further harm.''

"No," she said, frowning.

He drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. "Tell me, then," he

said. "Do you believe there is any connection between the two

incidents?"

She was very firm in her answer. No, there was no connection. But

how could she be certain? he wondered.

"Are you very sure of that?" he asked her. "Sure beyond any doubt at

all?" He searched her eyes.

"Yes," she said.

And so his final hope was gone. It was frustrating not to know who

had frightened her so badly, but she seemed quite convinced that

whoever it was had not also tried to kill her this morning.

They strolled along the river walk, her arm drawn firmly through his.

Though he usually wore it only for evening dress occasions, he was

wearing his sword beneath his skirted coat. And in one pocket of his

coat he carried a loaded pistol. It was not a good way to be in one's

own home, he thought. Perhaps in a different home he would feel

more in control, better able to protect his woman.

"Emmy," he said, dipping his head so that she would sec him

beneath the brim of her hat. "Luke and Anna wish to take you home

to Bowden. Perhaps even tomorrow."

She stopped walking and stared at him with wide eyes.

"I cannot fight them on it," he said, I do not have the right. And I

am as concerned for your safety as they are. What is your wish?'"

She spoke very carefully. ''You wahnt it?" she asked him. He could

tell by her lifted brows that it was a question, not a statement.

Love made him selfish. He hesitated, but he shook his head finally.

"No," he said. "But you have been very badly frightened here, Emmy.

Perhaps you ought to go. I can come to Bowden when I have settled a

few things here."

"No," she said.

"You would not want me to come?" he asked her.

She tipped her head to one side and looked reproachfully at him. I

will stay here, she told him firmly with her hands.

"I will make Penshurst safe for you, then," he said. "I promise you,

Emmy. And then you can live here without fear—forever, if you

wish." it was the wrong time to say more, though he yearned to do

so. And her eyes appeared to tell him that she wished it too. It just

seemed to him that his life was still too full of tangles—or perhaps

fuller of tangles now than it had been even the day before.

He bent his head and kissed her.

She woke up with a feeling of deep dread. The room was dark

despite the fact that the curtains were pulled back both from about

her bed and from the window. It was still. Not a shadow moved. But

why would she expect one to do so? And why this feeling?

It was only when she gripped the bedclothes covering her and felt the

bandage on her left hand and winced with the pain of the sudden

movement that she remembered. She did not like the helpless feeling

that fear brought. All her life she had fought it. Because she was deaf,

she was perhaps more susceptible to fear than most people. But she

had never been willing for fear to master her. She had fought hard to

be in control of her emotions, to make peace the dominating force of

her life. She had tried again when she came to bed earlier. She had

refused to have either Anna or a maid sleep in her room with her. She

had even refused to allow herself to leave the candles burning.

It seemed that since coming to Penshurst there had been nothing but

one fear following another. Perhaps she ought to do what Anna and

Luke wished her to do and what even Ashley advised. Perhaps she

should leave Penshurst and go home to Bowden. But she did not

want to leave. She wanted to stay with Ashley. He had mentioned

forever during their walk by the river. She wanted forever with him,

or at least the rest of their lives. She even dared to hope that he was

coming to love her as she loved him. Besides, she did not want to run

from her fear. If she ran now, perhaps she would find herself running

all her life. She would start seeing herself as a handicapped person.

She had given in to the temptation to take a small dose of laudanum

again at bedtime, she remembered. Her hand had been stinging

beyond her power to ignore. The effects of the drug had worn off.

Doubtless it was the disorienting effect of emerging from her drugged

state that had caused her to wake up in the state of panic that still had

her heart thumping uncomfortably against her rib cage. The fear was

so very hard to shrug off. She dared not move. But why?

She deliberately turned onto her side, wriggling and squirming to

find a comfortable position. She would conquer this fear soon, she

decided. She would close her eyes and go back to sleep.

But her eyes focused on the small table beside her bed. The familiar

contours of the candle in its ornate candlestick were obscured by

something larger. She tried to remember what it was. Her small

prayer book was at the edge of the table where she had placed it last

night. What was the larger object? Her mind puzzled over it, tried to

remember—entirely without success. Finally she was forced to sit up

in order to lean over and touch it. She picked it up and still could not

remember. It was heavy, a picture frame. No, two picture frames,

hinged together.

And then she knew. The feeling of dread returned, redoubled in

strength. How had it come here? It had not been here when she went

to bed.

She scrambled out of bed. clutching the frames to her bosom. She

looked wildly about her for her night robe. It should have been over

the back of the chair beside the fireplace, but it was not there. She

could not remember where she had put it. She set down the picture

frames on the bed and went searching in her dressing room. But her

mind was too distraught even to remember what she was looking for.

She opened the door into the corridor outside and fled along it.

His door was unlocked. She opened it in a hurry, rushed inside, and

closed it behind her. She stood with her back against it, trying to

catch her breath, trying to calm her mind, trying to remember why

she had come. And where she was.

And then her eyes focused on the bed. He was getting out of it and

coming toward her. He was naked, she could see in the near darkness.

His hands were on her shoulders. He was talking to her, she knew,

though she could not see his lips clearly. His hands gripped tightly

and pulled her against him. She shuddered into his warmth.

She was on the bed then without knowing how she had got there. It

was soft and warm from his body heat. He was sitting on the edge of

the bed, close beside her, lighting a candle. He had pulled on a red

silk robe, though she had not seen him do so.

"Emmy?" He leaned over her. "My love, what is it?"

Her teeth were chattering. She was in his room, she realized. Why?

His lingers were smoothing through the hair at her temple.

"You woke up and were frightened?" he asked. "You should have

allowed Anna to stay with you, or at least one of the maids."

Yes, she had woken up frightened. And alone. There had been a

shape…

His mouth was on hers, warm, comforting. "Shall I send for Anna?"

he asked her. His eyes suggested something else.

No, she told him without words. No, she could not move again. She

could not go back there. But where? And why could she not go back?

"Are you in pain?" he asked. "The laudanum must be wearing off. It

has left you disoriented."

Her hand was throbbing. She became aware of the fact only when he

asked. It was not unbearable. She did not want any more laudanum.

Laudanum made her strange, filled her with fears. She hated being

afraid. She was still afraid from the last dose. She could feel her teeth

chattering.

"No."

He stood up then, undid the belt of his robe, and let the whole

garment slide to the floor. He bent to blow out the candle. He was so

very beautiful, she thought, even if he was somewhat thinner than he

should have been. He was still well muscled, and possessed a graceful

masculinity. He lay down beside her and held her close so that she

could draw on his warmth and his strength and eventually relax into

them. When he finally made love to her, he lay heavily on top of her

and pushed swiftly and deeply inside without first loving her with

hands and mouth. He moved with hard, firm strokes. It was as if he

knew her need to lose herself in him, to become one with his strength

and virility. She did not participate. She lay relaxed and open and

grateful. She felt him pressing at her core and gladly on this one

occasion allowed him to master her.

Sleep came almost at the same moment as the hot gush of his seed.

Holding her asleep in his arms in his own bed and in his own home

as he did now brought stark reality to his mind. She was unmarried,

yet very possibly she was with child by him. She was a guest under

the protection of his roof. Her sister and his brother were under that

same roof. Yet she was in his bed. He had been inside her body. It

would not do. He could not simply allow matters to continue like

this.

She would have to go away from Penshurst. That was quite evident

now. And if she must go, then he must too. He could not live

without her. And he would not do so unless she was very adamant in

her refusal. He did not believe she would be. Besides, her choices

were very limited now. He did a quick mental calculation of the

number of times he had put her in danger of conceiving. She had to

go away. And so would he.

He held her and held himself from sleep. He would not take her

back to her room before daybreak. But he would have to take her

there before any servants were abroad. No one could know that she

had spent several hours of the night here.

He stared into the darkness. He hated to see what had become of

Emmy. He hated to see her cringing with fear even when there was

no foundation for it—she had been safe in his home tonight. She had

tried to be brave. They had all pressed her to allow someone to sleep

in her room with her, but she had been stubborn in her refusal to

show such weakness. Dear Emmy. He longed to see the serenity and

the peace back in her life. The strength.

It had not escaped his notice earlier that she had not made love, that

she had merely surrendered her body to his penetration. And her

mind and all her emotions too. He had felt almost as if she had

abandoned herself to ravishment, as if she had given up the very

essence of herself to his male domination. He had not enjoyed the

lovemaking. He had given her what she had so obviously wanted and

needed, but he had not enjoyed it. He had grieved for the person she

had denied—for Emmy. For his little fawn.

He still grieved for her.

He waited for light to dispel the last shadows of darkness before

kissing her on the lips and blowing gently against her ear. She stirred

sleepily and tried to burrow against him. He quelled desire.

"Emmy," he said, kissing her again. "Wake up." She would not hear him, of course, but his kisses, and his finger running lightly up and

down her spine, would wake her.

Her eyes were blank. She looked at him and then about the room. It

was as he had guessed: she had woken from her laudanum-induced

sleep frightened and disoriented, and had come scurrying to him

without consciously knowing it. Perhaps she would not even

remember that he had made love to her.

"'You came to me for comfort," he told her. " 'Tis all right, Emmy. I

will always be here for you. As you were there for me when I first

returned to England. I will take you back to your room before anyone

is up and about. 'Twould not do for anyone to know you had been

here."

She got obediently out of bed and waited while he belted his robe

about him. He opened the door and made sure the corridor was

empty before setting an arm around her and taking her to her room.

The bed was unmade, as she had left it when she came to him. He

drew her close to him and kissed her.

"You will be all right on your own?" he asked her.

She nodded.

"Promise me you will not go out this morning?" he asked.

She nodded again.

"Go back to bed," he said. "Sleep some more, Emmy. You are quite

safe here, I promise you." He let her go and was about to turn back to

the door. But there was something lying on her bed. Something he

instantly recognized. His eyes stilled on it. He felt suddenly cold.

"How did Alice's portrait get here, Emmy?" he asked.

She turned her head to look at it and her eyes widened. Her face

paled. She looked bewildered when she turned back to him.

"You brought it here?" he asked, signing to her. "Why?"

She frowned.

Why had she gone into that room? Why had she brought Alice's

portrait here? It was on the bed, hinged to the matching portrait of

Gregory Kersey. On the bed she had got out of last night in order to

come to him. She had been terribly frightened, her eyes large with

terror, her teeth chattering.

"Come," he said gently, picking up the double picture frame and

looking for something to set about her shoulders. But there was no

shawl or robe in the room. He put his arm around her and drew her

close.

The door to Alice's dressing room was wide open. So were the doors

into the bedchamber and the sitting room. The bedclothes were

drawn back, the sheets creased, the pillows dented. A satin night robe

was flung across the foot of the bed.

Emily's arm came up. Her hand was trembling. She indicated the

robe and herself. Mine, she told him by the gesture.

Inside the sitting room the drawer of the escritoire where the

portraits had been was wide open. He set them back inside and closed

the drawer.

He turned Emily toward him and lifted her chin. She was very pale.

"Laudanum has terrible effects on some people," he said. "You must

not be upset, Emmy. You are not going mad, I do assure you. I am

going to take you back to your room and leave you there for a very

few minutes. I am going to fetch Anna to you. You are not going to

be alone again until you leave Penshurst. I cannot see you like this,

always frightened, always pale. I will send you away, and after I have

sold Penshurst I will come for you."

She moaned.

"I will see you happy again and at peace again," he said before

drawing her close for a few moments. "I swear it, my love."

He took her back to her room and hurried to knock on Luke's door.

He was going to dress after talking to them and sending Anna to

Emmy, and then he was going to talk to Rod, even if it meant waking

him up at this early hour. They had business to discuss—the sale of

Penshurst.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Kathy?" Sir Henry Verney removed his three-cornered hat when she

opened the cottage door. It was very early in the morning. "You

wished to talk with me?"

She had sent word the night before with his steward, who had spent

the evening visiting her father. He had had the message last night, but

it had been too late to come then. He had slept scarcely a wink all

night. But if he had expected to be given hope by the first sight of her

face, he was disappointed. She looked almost haggard.

"Yes." She leaned against the door. "I did not know to whom to talk.

Papa would be merely upset. It was you or Lord Ashley Kendrick.

But I cannot go to him or ask him to call upon me here. He might

tell—" She stopped and looked at him with troubled eyes.

Ah, so she had not changed her mind. She had not summoned him

to make him the happiest of men.

"Fetch a shawl," he said, "and we will walk. Eric is still asleep?"

"And Papa too," she said.

He offered his arm as they walked toward the bridge and was relieved

that she took it. They crossed the bridge and turned to walk along the

footpath beside the river, on the opposite side from Penshurst park.

"What is making you so unhappy?" he asked her after she had had

time to compose herself. "How can I be of service to you, Kathy?"

"I do not know where to start," she said, looking up at him with

liquid brown eyes.

"Wherever you wish," she said. "I have all morning, all day to give to you if necessary."

She drew breath a few times. Finally she spoke. "I always assumed

that we would marry," she said. "You and I, I mean. I did not believe

the difference in our stations would hold you back and I was… fond

of you."

"Yes," he said. "I always assumed it too. I loved you."

"I do not know quite what it was with him," she said. "With

Gregory. Suddenly he seemed to—to need me. I do not believe he

loved me, but he pressed his attentions on me with single-minded

determination. I do not know why I responded as I did. I was

flattered, perhaps. He was from Penshurst, after all. Papa workedfor

him. Or I felt his need and responded to it. The love you and I

seemed to share was a quiet thing. I did not fully realize until

afterward how—how deep it was. I—I do not know why I responded

to him."

"I thought," he said, and he could hear the hurt in his own voice,

"that you had stopped loving me, Kathy. That you had grown to love

him."

"I think I persuaded myself 'twas so," she said. "I knew 'twas not

even before he died. Henry, there was no Mr. Smith. I have never

been married."

"I know that," he said quietly.

"You knew?" She looked up at him and bit her lower lip.

"Before you even returned here," he said. "And if I had not known, I

would have realized it as soon as I saw Eric."

"He does resemble Gregory, does he not?" she said sadly.

"Kathy." Hope stirred painfully in him again. "Was that why you

refused me yesterday? Did you think I did not know? Did you believe

I would not want you if I knew you had never been wed? If I knew of

Eric's illegitimacy?

These things do not matter to me at all. You would be my wife. He

would be my son."

"I think," she said, her voice shaking badly, "I am guilty of terrible things. Much worse than these."

"Tell me, then," he said. " 'Tis time. You used not to be as quiet, as unhappy as you have been since your return. He is a lovely child,

Kathy, and you are a good mother to him. There seems to be no

reason for lasting unhappiness. What are these dreadful things you

mention?"

"I went to stay with my mother's family," she said. "They took me in

and were kind to me. I was very fortunate. But I was angry and bitter.

I had ruined my life, turning to him in his need and away from

everything that would have led to my permanent happiness. And even

my chance for respectability had been snatched away at the last

moment when he died on our wedding day. My son, who would have

been heir to Penshurst after his father, was instead a bastard. And

Papa—poor innocent Papa, who had always taken such great pride in

his work—had been dismissed. All because of her. I do not know why

she hated me so, unless it was that I was merely the daughter of her

father's steward. But I was a lady. Papa is a gentleman. After all,

Gregory would have married sooner or later. She must have realized

that. But she did hate me. And I think she hated him too after he told

her about me. I think— Henry, I have always thought that she killed

him. Is it wicked to suspect such a thing?"

"No," he said.

"Is it true, then?" She stared at him with wide eyes.

"Yes," he said. "I believe so, Kathy."

"There was a man," she said. "My cousin's friend. He was

enormously wealthy, having inherited money from several relatives,

though he was rather unhappy about owning no land of his own. He

was handsome, charming, sympathetic, attentive. I was soothed by his

interest. Gregory was dead, I had lost you—I was grateful to him. I

poured out all my bitterness to him, all my hatred, all my suspicions."

"Perhaps it was not in the best of taste to do so," he said when she

paused in obvious distress. "But 'twas understandable, Kathy. I wish

you had come to me."

"No," she said, "you do not. You were hard and bitter, Henry. You

were unkind to me—not that I blame you. If I had told you

afterward that I was to have his child…"

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, you are right. I hated you for a long

time."

"I did not know," she said, "that he was conceiving a passion for me,

that he was becoming angry on my behalf, that he was plotting

revenge on my behalf. Oh, he talked about avenging the wrong that

had been done me. He was an army officer and he thought it possible

that his regiment would go to India, where of course Lord Kersey was

living, at some future time. He said he would see to it that one day

Eric would live in his rightful home and that I, as his mother, would

live there too. 'Twas all a game to me, a gleeful, spiteful dream. I

encouraged him."

"To India," Sir Henry said quietly.

"And then," she said, "long after I had forgotten about it, and about

him too, we heard of Alice's and her son's horrible deaths. And only a

few days after that there came a letter from him, telling me that he

was in India and enjoying his duties there. Nothing more. Nothing

about Alice. The suspicions have gnawed at me ever since. I have

wondered about it, worried about it, had nightmares over it."

" 'Twas a coincidence, Kathy," he said, covering her hand with his

own. " 'Twas a coincidence, by my life. You must forget it. Alice and

her son died accidentally in a fire."

"But he is at Penshurst," she said quickly. "He is Lord Ashley's

friend, Henry. His friend from India. Major Roderick Cunningham."

"Zounds," he said, his reassuring touch turning to a grip-

"He has talked to me," she said. "He has told me that soon Eric and

I will be living at Penshurst—with him. I am terrified of him, Henry.

What has he done for my sake? And what is he planning to do—for

my sake? Yesterday morning Lady Emily Marlowe was shot at. By

whom?Why? I fear I know the answer to the first question at least."

"You have done the right thing in telling me," he said. "I shall

handle it, Kathy."

"I am afraid even for you," she said. "What if he sees me walking

with you? I should not have come out with you like this."

"You must not fear for me," he said.

"But am I guilty of murder?" she asked him. "If he did…Ami?"

"Of course you are not." He turned her to him and held her firmly

by the upper arms. "Of course you are not, Kathy. I will have to tell

Kendrick what you have told me. May I?"

"You do not think that he would say something to Major

Cunningham?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I do not. I have had reasons not to like the man

particularly well, but he is no villain. Kathy, why did you refuse me

yesterday? Because you were frightened? Because you felt you were

guilty of some villainy? Because you are an unmarried mother? Or

because you do not want me?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "Perhaps for all except the last reason," she

said.

"I will ask you again then," he said, "after this thing is settled."

"Henry," she said, "what are you going to do?"

"I am going to consult with Kendrick first," he said. "But one thing I promise you, Kathy: Cunningham will not be frightening you again.

I can wager Kendrick will say the same for Lady Emily Marlowe."

"You will not—" She gripped the edges of his coat beneath his cloak.

"I could not bear it if you were hurt."

He kissed her for the first time in years. She clung even more tightly,

pressing her lips hungrily back against his.

"Just one thing," he said when he raised his head. "You will not be

living at Penshurst. But you might start wondering if you might like

to live at Willowdale Manor. And if you think Lady Verney a prettier

name than Mrs. Smith.And if you think Eric Verney sounds like the

name of a successful lawyer or businessman or clergyman."

"Henry," she said. "Be careful. Oh, do be careful."

Luke, Ashley, and Major Cunningham took the children riding and

amused them outdoors for an hour afterward. Anna stayed at home

with Emily, conversing cheerfully as she sewed. Afterward the two of

them went to the nursery to play with James and Harry. Luke was

there too, helping Joy practice her penmanship, listening to George

read aloud.

Emily let James ride her around the nursery like a horse. She sat

beside Harry, making his face light up with merriment and his arms

flap and his legs kick with excitement. She looked at Joy's writing

when it was brought to her and smiled her approval. With her one

good hand she helped James build a castle with his wooden bricks.

They were to go home to Bowden tomorrow. If it had not been for

the difficulty of organizing all the children and their baggage as well

as their own, Anna had assured her, they would go today. But she

would see to it that Emily was not left alone for a single minute.

Tonight she would sleep in Emily's room and when Harry needed

her, she would simply have his nurse bring him from the nursery.

None of them mentioned the incident of Alice's room, though Emily

was sure Ashley must have told them. It was too embarrassing and

too disturbing to think about. She must have been sleepwalking from

the effects of the laudanum. But she had actually lainon that bed. She

had brought those portraits back to her own room. And then she had

gone to Ashley's. She could not remember going there. She could

remember only being in his bed there this morning, warm and

comfortable and safe, and unwilling to wake up. There was only one

isolated memory of the night before. She could remember his making

love to her.

It was hard this morning to smile, to watch people's lips instead of

withdrawing into her own very solitary silence, to give her energy and

her cheerful attention to the children.

She hated feeling like this. Frightened, out of control, haunted.

Guarded. She hated thinking of Anna and Luke as guards, robbing

her of privacy and curtailing her freedom. She was afraid to be alone,

afraid to go outside, afraid to run up the hill to the summer house.

And yet she wanted to do all three. She resented her fear. And

irrationally she resented the people who protected her from it. The

very people she loved most in the world.

She hated the feeling.

And she hated the thought of going. And of Ashley's leaving

Penshurst for her sake. Had he been serious this morning when he

had talked of selling it? He must not do so. Not for her sake. She

must persuade him not to do anything so foolish. But he would never

be willing to bring her back here. And she would probably always be

afraid to come. If he did not sell, then…

She did not believe she was going to be able to live without him. She

had thought so before. She had thought so when he left for India,

and again over a month ago at Bowden. She had lived without him

for seven years. She had lived without him for that month in London.

Yes, she told herself firmly, she would be able to do it again. But the

very thought threatened to pitch her into a black void of panic.

And then she laughed as the tall, thin tower she had been building

for James finally collapsed—and looked up to find that Ashley was

there. He snatched James up, tossed him toward the ceiling, and set

him down on the floor again. He was smiling, but she could see

weariness and tension in his face.

"I shall be with Emmy for the next half hour," he was telling Luke.

"I have to go out then—Verney has summoned me on some business

that apparently cannot wait beyond today. But when I return, we will

all go out for a drive. The children too. We will take food and drink

with us and have our tea in the outdoors. Rod is belowstairs now,

charming my housekeeper and my cook and arranging it all for me.

We must enjoy your last day here."

Emily took his offered arm and allowed him to lead her to the

library, where he seated her in a soft leather chair and perched on the

arm beside her. He took her good hand in his.

She felt embarrassed with him. What must he think of her having

gone to Alice's room last night? Of her having lain in Alice's bed? Of

her having taken Alice's portrait to her room? What must he think of

her for going to him in his room during the night? She raised her eyes

to his.

She saw a deep tenderness there. "Somehow," he said, "I am going to

make all this up to you, Emmy. I am going to see you happy and at

peace again. Perhaps I can atone for some of the great wrongs in my

life if I can do this for you."

She tried to smile at him.

"I am going to ask you a question," he said. "One I have asked

before. I will hope that this time the answer will be different. But I

will not ask it yet. Not here. This has become an unhappy place for

you—and therefore for me too. I am going to sell Penshurst, Emmy.

I will buy another home and hope that it will be happier—for you as

well as for me."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, Ahshley." She would have

liked to say more so that he would understand.

He kissed the back of her hand. "Rod is going to purchase it," he

said. "We have already come to an agreement between ourselves. It

needs only for our lawyers to arrange the actual business details. He

seems genuinely happy at the prospect of living here. And 'twill make

me happy to know that it will be owned by a friend."

She did not understand all that he said, but the main point was clear.

Despite her efforts, she still could not like Major Cunningham. She

could not bear the thought of Ashley's selling Penshurst to him of all

people.

"No," she said.

"He will be happy here," he said. "There are no memories, bad or

otherwise, to spoil it for him. He is a stranger here. He does not

know this part of the country or anyone in it except me. This will be

the best way, Emmy, believe me."

"No." She frowned. No, that was not true. She remembered the visit

she had paid to Mr. Binchley's cottage with Anna and the major. She

remembered watching Major Cunningham and Mrs. Smith through

the window as they walked in the garden. How could she say it? And

why was it even important that it be said? But she did not want

Ashley to sell Penshurst. Especially not to the major.

"He knows Mrs. Smith," she said very slowly. She was never sure

when she spoke that sound came out. But he had evidently heard

something.

"Who does?" he asked. "Rod?"

"Yes," she said.

"Impossible," he said. "He has never been here before. Unless he met

her when she lived elsewhere with her husband, of course. But

'twould be strange that he has said nothing. Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said.

"Strange," he said. "I must ask him about it."

But she remembered that Major Cunningham and Katherine Smith

had not openly acknowledged their acquaintance. They had gone out

into the garden, like hostess and guest, and talked there. The window

had been closed. No one in the house would have heard their

conversation. But she had seen it. For some reason those two did not

want it known that they were acquainted. Emily felt a wave of the

now almost familiar dread and panic.

"No," she said, clutching the wide cuff of Ashley's coat. She shook

her head firmly. "No. No. Do not ahsk."

He lowered his head and looked closely into her face. "Emmy," he

said, and now there was a frown on his face too, "you do not like

Rod. Why?"

She dropped her hand and deliberately made her face expressionless.

She shook her head.

"I will say nothing, then," he said. "I must take you back to Anna

and Luke. Sir Henry Verney wishes to speak with me. I would take

you with me, Emmy, to visit Lady Verney and Miss Verney—you

like them, do you not?— but Verney particularly requested that I

come alone. I will be as quick as I can so that we can have a long

afternoon outing. You look as if you need fresh air."

She smiled.

He leaned his head down again and kissed her warmly on the lips.

He spoke carefully with his hands and his face as well as with his

voice. "Emmy," he said, "you are the most precious treasure of my

life. You have been since the day I met you, but I have not fully

realized until recently how all-encompassing is your influence on my

life and your importance to my happiness. How blind one can be!

And how foolish!"

He gave her no chance to reply. He got to his feet, took her hand,

and drew it through his arm. Then he took her back to the nursery,

where Luke was holding Harry above his head and making him laugh

while Anna read a story to the other three.

They sat in Sir Henry Verney's library, one on either side of the

fireplace, like two old friends exchanging news and views and gossip.

But Sir Henry had done most of the talking. And finally they sat in

silence.

"I mean to marry Katherine," Sir Henry said at last. "I mean to give

her son my name. I mean to call out Major Roderick Cunningham

for the guilt and the terror he has forced into her life."

"Then you will have to wait your turn," Ashley said, breaking his

long silence.

"Yes," Sir Henry said. "I guessed that I might. I seem to have been

nothing but the bearer of disturbing news in the past few days. I am

sorry."

Ashley looked steadily at him. "I owe you so many apologies," he

said, "that I scarce know where to begin. But they must be said now

lest after today I am forever prevented from saying them."

"We will take them as spoken and accepted," Sir Henry said. "Under

similar circumstances I would perhaps have behaved with less

restraint and courtesy than you have shown. 'Tis altogether possible

that we will be neighbors for many years to come. Is it possible we

can also be friends?"

Ashley got to his feet and held out his right hand. Sir Henry stood

up too and took it. Despite the fact that they clasped hands quite

firmly, there was some awkwardness between them. But there was the

will on both sides to put the past behind them and to begin their

acquaintance anew. Ashley took his leave without further

conversation. For the moment there was nothing else to say. Both

knew that they might never meet again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Emily had gone to her room to rest for a while before the picnic. At

least, that was the reason she had indicated to Anna. She had also

signaled her that she did not need company. It was broad daylight.

There could be no danger. Anna, dubious though she had looked,

had allowed her sister to be alone.

But it was not rest Emily had needed. She needed to be alone so that

she could think. She had become a prisoner to fear. She had become

dependent for safety on Anna and Luke, and on Ashley. They had

taken charge of her life. She was to return to Bowden—because she

was afraid to stay at Penshurst. Ashley was going to sell Penshurst

because—well, because he was going to offer for her again, and

because he believed he could not have both Penshurst and her.

She hated the fear. She hated the dependence. And she hated the

thought of Ashley's selling Penshurst. Somehow, she felt, he needed

to stay here, to make it his home, to find his peace here. And she

loved it too, despite everything.

How could she fight her fear? How could she overcome whatever it

was that was causing it? It was that last point that had finally sent her

in search of solitude. She needed to think. Or rather she needed to

analyze the strange, confused conviction that had come to her since

talking with Ashley: Major Cunningham was the cause of her fear—

allof it.

He was the original cause, of course. He had tried to ravish her when

he had mistaken her for a servant. But it was not just that. He had

shot at her. He had come into her room last night. He had brought

the portraits and taken her dressing gown. She still had only very

vague memories of the night, but she was almost sure she had woken

up to see the shape of the portraits on her bedside table. And she was

almost sure she had looked for her dressing gown before fleeing to

Ashley and forgetting everything else in the sense of safety she had

found as soon as his arms came about her. Major Cunningham had a

previous acquaintance with Mrs. Smith—one that both of them

wished kept secret.

She had proof of nothing. She understood nothing. But she knew.

She had nothing to take to Ashley. He would either not believe her at

all or he would become suspicious of his friend without provable

grounds. She could tell him about that first morning, of course. That

was grounds enough to send the major away and to keep Penshurst.

She could tell Ashley, or she could—

She felt the familiar hammering of her heartbeat in her throat, the

familiar terror. Gazing from her window, she could see Major

Cunningham walking about down by the stables and carriage house.

He was organizing transportation for the picnic.

It would be madness to go down there. He had shotat her. She

would be unable to confront him with words. She was shaking with

fear. She could accomplish nothing— because she was a woman and

a deaf-mute. No, she was notmute. And though she was a woman,

she was also a person who had always confronted the shadowy places

in her life and brought them into the light. Her handicap could have

made her passive and submissive and timid and dependent. She had

made it into her strength. Until now.

No, even now.

Major Cunningham was alone in the carriage house when Emily

arrived there, running one hand over a wheel of the open carriage. He

looked up, startled, smiled, and bowed.

"Lady Emily," he said. "Are you ready for the picnic?"

But she did not smile. She shook her head. Her heart was thumping.

"You are alone?" he asked, looking behind her. "I am surprised at

your sister and his grace for allowing it. Permit me to escort you

safely back to them." There was nothing but kindly concern in his

eyes.

Emily shook her head again. "I know," she said slowly. It was so very

important that she get it right.

"By Jove." He grinned. "You can talk. I did not imagine it that first

morning."

"I know," she said again, "about you." She hoped she was saying the words right.

"About me?" He touched a hand to his chest and raised his

eyebrows.

She had set herself too great a task. She knew that. How she longed

for words. But somehow she would convey her meaning. "You." She

formed the shape of a gun with one hand and then pointed to her

wounded hand. "You." There was no sign he would recognize. "Lahst

night. You. Mrs. Smith."

Something happened to his eyes. Perhaps people who had ears did

not know how eloquent the eyes were. But she knew from his eyes

that she had not made a mistake.

He smiled. "I do assure you, Lady Emily," he said, "that you are

mistaken. I would perhaps be angry if I did not realize that the

manner of our meeting put a lasting suspicion in your mind. But—"

She was shaking her head firmly, and he stopped speaking. "No," she

said. "I know. I know you."

" 'Tis to be hoped," he said, "that you will not go to Ash with these

quite groundless suspicions, Lady Emily. Zounds, he might believe

you. And he is my dearest friend in this world."

"Go," she told him, making broad shooing gestures. Ah, it was too

long and too hard to tell him that she would not allow Ashley to sell

Penshurst to him. "Go." She made an even wider gesture with her

arm to show that she meant away from Penshurst—forever.

"By Jove," he said, "you mean to frighten me."

No, hehad meant to frighten her. She understood that. He could

have killed her with that shot—he was a soldier. He might have

murdered her in her bed last night. He wanted to frighten her so that

Ashley would sell Penshurst to him and take her away.

"Go," she told him again.

He stood smiling at her. She read a certain reluctant admiration in

his look. She lifted her chin and kept it up.

"Are you not afraid now?" he asked her. "Alone with me like this?"

She was about to shake her head. But of course she was afraid. She

was almost blind with terror. And she scorned to lie to him. "Yes,"

she said. "Go."

He could kill her now, she realized. There was no one else in sight. If

he wanted Penshurst as passionately as she guessed he must, he might

very well kill her, knowing she could tell Ashley and spoil everything

for him. How foolish she was to have come. And yet she knew even

as her knees trembled under her that she had had no choice. Life was

more than just breathing and eating and sleeping. Life had to have

quality and dignity.

"Ah, but you are merely an hysterical little deaf girl," he said. "One who walks in her sleep and is obsessed with her lover's dead wife.

One who runs to him for protection every time she is frightened—

and she is always frightened. Go back to the house, Lady Emily. Your

charges are absurd." He turned back to examine the wheel again.

She returned to the house, her back prickling with terror the whole

way. He was right. Even if she could write everything down quite

coherently, she had no modicum of proof for anything. And she

hadbecome hysterical. But she would do it anyway. She was not

going to let Ashley sell Penshurst. And she was not going to let Luke

and Anna take her back to Bowden tomorrow.

She was going to stay and fight. For Ashley and for herself.

The footman in the hall and the butler who joined him there on

Ashley's return did not know where Major Cunningham was, though

they believed it was somewhere outside the house. The butler thought

he was probably in the carriage house, personally supervising the

preparations for the afternoon's drive.

"You will find him," Ashley said curtly, "and ask him to meet me in

the ballroom at his earliest convenience." He turned toward the

staircase and took the stairs two at a time.

Some minutes later, as he was leaving Roderick Cunningham's

room, he came face-to-face with Luke.

"Ah," Luke said, "the wanderer has returned. And the revelries are

about to begin." His eyes lowered to the sword Ashley held in his

hand and moved to the other sword he wore at his side. He pursed

his lips and raised his eyebrows. He looked thoughtfully at the door

to the major's room.

"I am on my way to the ballroom," Ashley said. "He is to meet me

there. Go to the ladies, Luke, if you will be so good, and keep them

well out of the way."

"I trust," Luke said, looking again at the swords, "that there is good reason?"

" Everyreason in the world," Ashley said.

"Then I shall be present in the ballroom too, my dear," Luke said.

"After I have given my instructions to Anna and to Emily, that is."

He turned and walked away without another word.

Major Cunningham was already in the ballroom when Ashley arrived

there. He was standing in the middle of the floor looking up at the

high coved ceiling.

" 'Tis really quite magnificent, by Jove," he said, half glancing at

Ashley. "I did not particularly look up when you gave me the tour of

the house, Ash. Are you planning to give a ball here? A farewell ball,

perhaps? I would be delighted to assist you."

"No," Ashley said.

"Then why the summons here?" His friend looked at him with a

grin. "It had a dash of mystery to it. The ballroom in the middle of

an afternoon." But his eyes had lighted on the sword—his own—

clutched in Ashley's hand. Then they moved to take in the sword at

Ashley's side. And finally they looked up to Ashley's grim face. "Ah,

Lady Emily has spoken to you already then?"

"I have been your dupe," Ashley said.

"No, Ash." Major Cunningham did not move from where he stood.

"You have been my friend. You still are."

Ashley saw the major's eyes move beyond his shoulder and guessed

that Luke had come into the ballroom. He did not look back and

Luke made no move to intrude.

"You killed my wife," Ashley said. "And my son."

"He was not your—"

"You killed Thomas Kendrick, my son," Ashley said. "You killed

Lady Ashley Kendrick, my wife."

"Ash." Major Cunningham spread his hands to his sides. "She was a

wicked woman. You have learned that for yourself during the past

week. She killed her own brother, for whom she had an unnatural

passion, to prevent him from marrying a woman she thought beneath

him and to prevent that woman's child from becoming his heir. She

made you miserable. Do you think I did not know that? I was your

friend. I released you from a life sentence."

" 'Twas why you befriended me," Ashley said. "So that you could get

close to her."

"But I soon felt a genuine friendship for you," Major Cunningham

said. "I did for you what you could not even dream of doing for

yourself, Ash."

"Why was she at home that night?" Ashley asked.

The major shrugged and looked apologetic. "She disliked me," he

said. "Much can be made of dislike, Ash. Attraction can come of

dislike. She found me attractive."

"And you knew I would be safely from home for the night," Ashley

said. "Did you arrange that too?"

"A few words supposedly from Mrs. Roehampton to you, a few

words supposedly from you to her…" The major shrugged. "I merely

enabled the two of you to recognize a mutual attraction, Ash. Forgive

me for the pain you felt afterward. I know there has been a great deal.

But I rescued you from a great evil. I am glad you have discovered the

truth. Yes, I truly am. Now you will be able to let go of your

damnable sense of guilt. You will realize that you were not in any way

to blame for what happened."

"You murdered my wife and son," Ashley said.

"Murder," the major said softly. " 'Tis a harsh word, Ash. I am a

soldier. I have killed a hundred times—more. I have never thought of

myself as a murderer. And if 'tis any consolation, they died quickly,

the two of them, and the nurse—they were dead before the fire. I did

that much for them."

"You tried to kill Lady Emily Marlowe yesterday morning," Ashley

said.

"Oh no, Ash." Major Cunningham raised a staying hand. "I am an

excellent shot. I was close. I was careful to hit the target I had set

myself. If she had only been capable of hearing, I would not even

have had to graze her skin."

"And last night?" Ashley asked. "You have been deliberately trying to

terrorize her. You were in her room. You took her night robe. You

put the portraits there. Why? But I need not ask that, need I? You

have correctly divined my feelings for her. You have thought to drive

her away and therefore to drive me away. You very nearly succeeded."

"You could not be happy here, Ash," the major said. "Not with your

wife's ghost haunting you every day of your life. Not with the

knowledge that young Eric should be living here as the rightful

owner. A few hours more and his mother would have been married to

his father. Sell to me. I will marry Katherine and make the boy my

son. He will be where he belongs, and so will she."

"Just tell me what happened on the morning of your arrival," Ashley

said. "What did you do to frighten Lady Emily so?"

"She has not told you?" Major Cunningham laughed rather ruefully.

"My apologies, Ash. I saw her in what I now realize is a common

guise. But at the time I mistook her for a milkmaid. No harm was

done—fortunately for all of us, she is rather fleet-footed. Since

discovering her true identity I have been the soul of honor. Besides, I

have other interests of a more serious nature than that aroused by

milkmaids. Come, Ash, shake my hand. There is no point in making

a damned quarrel of all this." He held out his right hand and took a

step forward.

"One of us is going to die here today," Ashley said. "If 'tis me, my

property will become Harndon's. He will discuss with you how he

wishes to dispose of it. If 'tis you, I will bury our friendship with you

and consider that the deaths of my wife and my son and the nurse as

well as the terrorizing of Lady Emily Marlowe have been justly

avenged. I have brought you your own sword, as you see."

"This is very foolish, Ash, and very unnecessary," Major

Cunningham said. "I have no wish to kill you."

"Then you must stand and be killed," Ashley said. "I suggest we strip

down to shirts and breeches."

He set down the major's sword on the floor and walked away to

prepare himself. Luke was standing motionless inside the door,

looking tight-lipped and rather pale.

"Ash," he said quietly as his brother removed his skirted coat, "let me do this for you. I have a reputation as a swordsman that has been well

earned, I believe."

Ashley's smile was somewhat grim. "I had to do something for

physical exercise in India," he said. "I practiced swordplay. Besides,

Luke, they were my wife and my son. And Emmy is my woman."

"Yes," Luke said rather sadly. "I love you, brother."

Ashley grinned. "Zounds but I will hold those words over your head

for the rest of your life," he said, setting his long waistcoat down on

top of his coat. He was no longer smiling when he straightened up

and withdrew his sword from its scabbard. "Luke, tell her I love her.

Care for her if she is with child."

"Yes," Luke said. "For your sake and because she is almost my sister

and almost my daughter. She will always have my love and my

protection. So will any child of hers—and yours." He strode away

then to the middle of the ballroom to talk quietly with Major

Cunningham, who was ready in his shirtsleeves, drawn sword in

hand. After a minute or so, Luke looked across at Ashley and nodded

curtly.

" 'Tis, as I understand it," he said when Ashley had approached and

the two men stood face-to-face and had crossed swords, "a fight to

the death. Nevertheless you will not begin until I give the signal and

neither one of you, for honor's sake, will hit the other from behind or

stab the other when he is down."

Ashley had not noticed that Luke too was wearing his sword. But he

had it drawn now and set it beneath their crossed swords. Major

Cunningham's eyes were on Ashley's, cool, calculating, rueful. He

was a friend, Ashley thought, who had betrayed him during every

moment of their friendship. A friend who must now die or who must

kill him. This was no moment for sentiment, for regrets, for hurt

feelings of betrayal.

Luke's sword came up, and with a clash of steel the swords of the

combatants were separated. "Begin," he said.

Major Cunningham was solidly built, strong, and fit. He was a

soldier. As an officer, he habitually carried a sword. He led his men

into battle with drawn sword. But that did not necessarily make him

an expert in its use during single combat. Ashley was slender in

comparison, taller, also fit. He had never been in a real sword fight.

But, as he had just told Luke, he had learned and practiced the art of

swordplay.

And Ashley had the advantage of motivation. His anger was cold and

controlled. Alice had been many things. Perhaps—even probably—

she had been a wicked woman. Certainly she had been a tormented

woman. But she had been his wife and under his protection. Thomas

had been another man's son, conceived in sin. But he had been an

innocent baby, and a baby to whom Ashley had given the protection

of his name. Emily was simply his love. He fought for all three of

them, so that the two might finally rest in peace, so that the third

might again live in peace.

And he fought, though he did not consciously think of it, for the

restoration of his honor, lost when his wife and child died while he

was in the arms of another woman.

Swordplay, he discovered, was very different from serious combat.

Swordplay was conducted according to strict rules of gentlemanly

etiquette and honor. Combat was not. And in combat a hit drew

blood. Major Cunningham drew first blood after several minutes of

circling and clashing swords and sizing each other up. He did

something with his left hand that drew Ashley's attention away from

his sword for a mere fraction of a second and in that time was past

Ashley's guard and had pricked him on the right shoulder.

There was pain, shock, and a fast-spreading stain of red in the corner

of Ashley's vision.

"Enough, Ash," Major Cunningham said, his voice breathless. "You

have made your point. Honor has been served. Enough now."

"To the death," Ashley said coldly. Though it was painful, the

wound did not incapacitate him. Instead it made him cautious. It

made him grimly aware with his whole body of what his mind already

knew—that one of them was to die. He ended the momentary lull in

the fighting and bore his opponent back with the force of his attack.

They fought to what seemed an inevitable stalemate. They fought for

long minutes until it seemed that exhaustion must end the fight

before death did. But Major Cunningham lost his patience first. He

lunged forward into what was only an illusory opening. A mere

turning of Ashley's body sent the major's sword harmlessly past. But

Ashley's own sword, firmly held, impaled his enemy.

The major went very still as his sword clattered to the ballroom floor.

He stared into Ashley's eyes, and a peculiar twisted smile distorted his

lips. A line of blood oozed from one corner of his mouth and trickled

down to drip off his chin. Ashley pulled his sword free and the dead

body of his erstwhile friend crumpled at his feet.

Ashley looked down at the red sword in his hand and dropped it to

the floor. There was no feeling of relief at being the survivor. There

was no feeling of triumph at being the victor, or of guilt at having

killed a man. There was no feeling at all. He stared downward.

"You will need to have that shoulder tended to, Ash. You are losing

blood." Luke's voice. Cool and calm, as might have been expected of

him.

"Yes," Ashley said.

" 'Twas a fair fight. And a necessary one," Luke said.

"Yes."

"And if I ever again see you for one hairbreadth of a second take

your eye off the sword of your opponent, even in a friendly bout,"

Luke said, his voice shaking, "I will personally thrash you within an

inch of your life, Ash. With a horsewhip."

"Yes," Ashley said.

"I shall see to everything here," Luke said. "I shall have the nearest magistrate summoned and the body attended to. Go and have that

blood stanched, Ash. Anna is stouthearted. Go to her in Emily's

room. I instructed them to wait there. She will not have disobeyed

my instructions. Do you need help with your coat?" He was again the

cool, practical Duke of Harndon.

"No," Ashley said. He walked to his discarded clothes and pulled on

his coat, heedless of either the pain or the blood. He turned to leave.

"Ash," Luke called.

Ashley looked back.

Luke said nothing for a moment. He merely nodded his head. "I

meant what I said earlier," he said. "Just in case you are ever in

doubt."

Ashley left the ballroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The sky was cloudless. It was going to be a clear blue when the sun

rose. It was going to be a warm day. She walked first along by the

river, looking across its smooth glassy surface, watching another

mother duck—or perhaps the same one—lead her babies in a line

down the very center of their highway. Then she walked up the hill,

wandering in no particular direction, touching the bark of tree

trunks, feeling grass and soil beneath her bare feet, breathing in sweet,

cool air.

She stopped at one particular tree and saw that the bullet was still

lodged there, just below the level of her eyes. She did not even look

over her shoulder. She did not feel afraid any longer. Last night she

had slept alone in her room, despite Anna's pleadings. She had not

felt afraid.

Yesterday had been a horrid day. First the threat of having to leave

Penshurst and of knowing that Ashley planned to sell it for her sake.

Then her foolhardy confrontation with Major Cunningham. Then

Luke's coming to them—to her and Anna—with set face and that

look of authority that even Anna dared not defy, and commanding

them to go to Emily's room and to stay there until he or Ashley came

for them. And the long wait, during which they had both known that

something was dreadfully wrong. Then Ashley's coming, white-faced,

to tell them that all was well, that there was nothing more whatsoever

to fear. Then he had stumbled forward, grabbed at a chair,

overturned it, and landed on his knees. They had seen the blood.

Major Cunningham was dead. Ashley had killed him. Neither he nor

Luke had given any great detail, but they had said that the major had

killed Alice and Thomas and that in his determination to own

Penshurst he had terrorized Emily, hoping that fear would drive her

away and convince Ashley to sell.

She had helped Anna half lift, half drag Ashley to her bed and had

helped remove his stained coat and cut away his blood-soaked shirt.

But she had cleansed and bound the wound herself while he had

watched with half-closed eyes.

She hated to think of the sword fight in which Major Cunningham

had died. But she was not afraid any longer. She looked upward and

turned about and about. The world was a beautiful, spinning place.

Especially the natural world. If one remained a part of it, merely one

creature among many, one's feet firmly resting on earth, great

happiness was possible. And peace. She was happy this morning. She

felt at peace with the world.

She wanted to watch the sun rise across the river. She wanted to see

the colors of dawn reflected in the water. Perhaps one day she would

paint the scene. But not today. Today there was too much beauty to

behold in nature itself to spoil it by getting out her paints and

analyzing the meaning of it all. This morning she was content merely

to watch and to feel. Merely to be. She made her way toward the

summer house.

She was standing in front of it, gazing down the hill and across the

fields to the horizon, when she sensed that her morning was going to

be complete. She turned her head and smiled. He was wearing his

arm in the sling she had fashioned for him yesterday. But he had lost

yesterday's pallor. And his eyes, smiling back at her, were clear of the

suffering and the darkness that had lurked there since his return from

India. She could see that at last he was at peace with himself.

He came to stand beside her, and set his good arm about her waist.

She rested her head against his shoulder and together they watched

the sun come clear of the horizon in a blinding burst of glory. She

looked up at him and smiled. His eyes reflected the brightness of the

sun. Not a word had passed between them. The peace, the silent

communion, was perfect.

They had not spoken a great deal yesterday. Both he and Luke had

spent a long time with the magistrate who had come to the house to

investigate the death. Then they had spent an almost equally long

time with Sir Henry Verney, who had also called. And finally Luke

had played stern elder brother and implacable head of the family—his

own words—and had sent Ashley off to bed early.

But Emily was glad there had been little chance for words. Yesterday

had been the wrong time. They had needed this new day. Her heart

began to beat faster, and despite herself, despite what deep down she

knew to be the truth, she was anxious.

"Emmy," he said, shrugging his shoulder and turning his head so

that she could see his lips—so very close to her own—" 'tis a clear,

bright, warm morning. It feels like the first morning that ever was. Is

this how Adam and Eve felt, do you suppose? Is this Eden?"

She loved the warmth and the merriment in his smile. Everything

else was gone. She touched her fingers to his cheek.

"At last I feel that perhaps I have something to offer you," he said,

gazing back at her, his eyes softening to such unmistakable tenderness

that she felt her anxiety melting away as if by the warmth of the

newly risen sun. "My honor. I will not say that I was guiltless. I have

confessed to you that I committed adultery. 'Tis a grievous offense.

But there can be pardon for such sins, I do believe. I no longer feel so

very responsible for their deaths, and I have avenged them. I feel that

I have reclaimed my honor."

"Yes," she said. Foolish man—she had loved him anyway. But she

knew that he had been unable to forgive himself and that therefore

her love would never have been enough for him. They could never

have been fully happy.

"My love has always been yours," he said. " Tis a strange thing to

say, perhaps, when I almost completely forgot you during my years

away. But that very fact tells me that unconsciously I had deliberately

erased you from memory because my feelings for you disturbed me.

You were only fifteen, Emmy. Even after my return I fought my love

for you. In my mind those years had not passed—you were still a

child. But you have always been a woman, have you not? Even when

we first met? When you were fourteen?"

"Yes," she said.

"Ah, Emmy." He kissed her warmly and for a while nothing else

mattered except that they were together in sunshine, with no shadows

at all to darken or chill. "Emmy, my love. Forgive me for forgetting

you. Forgive me for denying your womanhood."

She set her hands on either side of his face and smiled at him. "Yes,"

she said. She was not sure she could say it, but she would try. "I love

you." She knew that he was still unsure of himself, unsure of his

worthiness for happiness and peace. "I love you."

His smile softened and was again untroubled. He set his hand over

one of hers—it was her injured one, still rather sore now that she had

removed the bandages, but she stopped herself from wincing—and

turned his head to kiss her palm.

"Thank you." He grinned at her. Ashley's grin, all mischief and

sparkling eyes and happiness. "If you wish," he said, "you may tell me all the ways you love me so that we can make a speech lesson out of

this."

She laughed and he hugged her and rocked her with his good arm.

"Ah, Emmy," he said, releasing her sufficiently that she could see his

lips. "You have the most infectious laugh I have ever heard. My love,

marry me. Will you? Not because you have lain with me and may be

with child by me. But because 'tis the only thing in the world we can

do to be complete and happy. Will you marry me?" His eyes were

anxious once more.

"Yes," she said. "Ahshley."

They simply smiled at each other for a long while. She could see no

clouds behind his eyes, no troubles, not even any remaining doubts.

Only a happiness and a peace that matched her own. His face was lit

up by the sunlight.

"Will we stay at Penshurst?" he asked her. "I will sell it if you wish, Emmy. We can live elsewhere. It does not matter where as long as we

are together."

But she had set her fingertips over his lips before using her hands to

speak. No, she told him. We will live here. This is home.

And after he had searched her eyes and had seen that she meant it, he

looked happy again. Bad things had happened at Penshurst, Emily

mused. They had culminated in the death of a man yesterday. But

they were over and done with. Penshurst was merely a place, a

beautiful house in natural surroundings with congenial neighbors, a

few of whom would become close friends—Sir Henry Verney and his

sister, Katherine Smith, Mr. Binchley. It was a place she and Ashley

would make home, a place in which their children would be born and

raised, a place where they would grow old together. They would

make of it a good place with good memories.

"Yes," he said, using his free hand to sign to her as well, "it is home.

Because you are here with me, Emmy. But I am going to send you to

Bowden tomorrow."

Her smile faded and her eyes widened.

"We should marry at Bowden, not here," he said. "And we should

marry soon, Emmy. Because we wish to and because we must. We

will send for your family and mine today, and tomorrow when you

go to Bowden with Anna and Luke, I will go to London for a special

license. We should be able to marry within two weeks."

She bit her lip. She would be two weeks without him?

"An eternity," he agreed, smiling ruefully. "This arm sling is mere

decoration, you know, worn to arouse sympathy and to invite people

to wait on me hand and foot. It does not incapacitate me for any of

the important activities of life."

She watched him remove it and drop it to the grass before flexing his

shoulder and grimacing only slightly.

"Making love, for example," he said, looking at her with a curious

mixture of playful smile and smoldering eyes.

"Yes." She touched one hand to his cheek again. "Yes." It seemed

important that they make love this morning. Not because of any fear

or need for comfort, motives that had clouded their past lovemakings.

But purely for the sake of love and sharing and joy.

He took her by the hand and led her into the summer house. It was

flooded with the bright light of early morning. He turned and drew

her against him. They smiled at each other before his mouth found

hers.

"Faith, child," Lady Quinn said, kissing Anna warmly on both

cheeks, "you will think us mad. Lud, we aremad."

"This is a grand place, I warrant you, lad," Lord Quinn said, rubbing

his hands together and looking about the hall of Penshurst. He was

addressing Luke. "I told Marj 'twould look magnificent by the light

of the morning sun."

"But he has never seen the place before," Lady Quinn said, tossing

her glance upward. "The moon and the stars were bright last night,

Anna, my love. We were watching them." Lord Quinn chuckled.

"And Theo concocted the notion that we should leave town almost as

soon as we had returned there and come here for breakfast. We have

traveled half the night."

"And are hungry, by my life," Lord Quinn said. "I could devour an

ox. Now where is that youngest nephy of mine? Not up yet to

welcome his aunt and uncle to his own home? Pox on it, but I have a

good mind to go up and turn him out of bed with a pitcher of water

over his head. If I but knew which direction to take." He gave vent to

a short bark of laughter.

"Ashley is outside, Theo," Luke said, "taking the air."

"At this hour? A lad after my own heart," Lord Quinn said.

"And how is my dear Emily?" Lady Quinn asked. "I can scarce wait

to bring her back to town with me, I vow. Unless—'' She looked

hopefully, first at Anna and then at Luke. "Unless she has something

more important to do with her time, that is."

Luke looked at his wife, who was smiling back at him, and raised his

eyebrows. He pursed his lips. "By some coincidence, Aunt," he said,

"Emily is out taking the air too."

Lord Quinn slapped his thigh with the three-cornered hat he had

removed from his head. "Egad," he said, "it worked, Marj, m'dear.

You did not marry me in vain." He roared with laughter.

"Theo," his wife said, "you will be putting strange notions into dear

Anna's and Luke's heads, I do declare. We merely thought that ifwe

married and went away on a wedding journey, and ifEmily came here

with Anna for a fortnight, and ifAshley was not a dreadful

slowtop…"

"They did not go out togetherthis morning," Anna said. "Luke saw

them both, but separately," she added, flushing. "Still, we are

hoping…"

"I have been set to spying on my own brother and sister-in-law as an

occupation suited to my dotage," Luke said in his haughtiest, most

bored voice. "My duchess has encouraged me."

Lord Quinn slapped his thigh again. "And has there been much to

spy upon, lad?" he asked.

"Oh, most assuredly," Luke said. "We had better take you in to

breakfast, Aunt Marjorie and Theo. If we await the return of Emily

and Ashley, we might well be here until dinnertime. We might well

all starve. Madam?'' He bowed elegantly and offered Lady Quinn his

arm.

"Dear Emily," she said with a sigh. "And dear Ashley."

"I warrant you, Marj," Lord Quinn said, roaring his comment after

his retreating spouse as he gave his arm to Anna, "she will be brought

to bed of a boy come nine months from today."

"Nine months from the wedding day, 'tis to be hoped,Theo," his

wife said placidly while Anna blushed and Luke raised his eyebrows

and pursed his lips again.

Luke had discouraged him from coming to Bowden Abbey until the

day before his wedding. And family members, Ashley had discovered

to his chagrin, moved about England with tortoiselike speed. Despite

the fact that he had acquired a special license the very day after Emily

had agreed to marry him, more than two weeks passed before he was

finally permitted to go to Bowden to claim his bride.

And when he finally arrived there and finally saw her again, it was to

find her ringed about, walledabout with sisters and sisters-in-law and

assorted other relatives, so that all he could do was bow formally over

her hand, inquire formally after her health, and converse formally

about the weather and other such scintillating subjects. And then she

was whisked off to spend the night at Wycherly with her sister Agnes.

Anna and Charlotte followed her there early on the morning of the

wedding day.

His wedding day!

"Zounds, I feel like a damned Paris beau," he said when he was ready

to leave for the church. He frowned at his image in the pier glass of

his dressing room. He was resplendent in silver embossed satin

skirted coat with silver embroidered waistcoat, gray breeches, white

stockings and linen, and heeled and buckled shoes. His hair was

powdered white, carefully rolled at the sides and bagged in black silk

behind.

Luke met his eyes in the mirror. "You have something against Paris

beaux, Ash?"

Ashley grinned. As usual on dress occasions, Luke, all in rich green

and gold and white, would turn heads even on Paris's most

fashionable boulevard.

They were early at the church. Or Emmy was late. He did not know

which. But it seemed that he waited an eternity at the front of the

village church, trying to look dignified, trying to feel calm. What if

she had changed her mind? What if she did not come at all? Would

she send a message? Or would he stand here like this, feeling the eye

of every guest in the pews on him, until noon came and went, until

dusk descended?

And then she was there.

She looked incredibly beautiful. He watched her as she came closer

down the aisle, her hand resting on Royce's sleeve. She wore an

elaborately trimmed sack dress of palest gold, with a train. The heavy

robings down the edges of the open gown were of a darker gold and

matched the color of her frilled, flounced petticoat and of her heavily

embroidered stomacher. The two deep lace frills at her elbows were

also trimmed with gold lace. Her hair was piled rather high over pads.

Gold rosebuds and green leaves were entwined in it. It was

unpowdered.

She was the other Emily. The one he had first seen and admired

without knowing who she was on the night of his return to Bowden.

The one he had seen and admired in London. And yet when her eyes

met his and when she smiled—her bright, warm, serene smile—she

was his Emmy too. His little fawn of the loose dress and the bare feet

and the wild mane of fair hair. She was each and both and all. She

was everything. He smiled back at her.

The service began, the marriage service that would make them man

and wife, that would bind them together with love for the rest of

their lives. The Reverend Jeremiah Hornsby led them through it with

a slightly pompous competence until it came Emily's turn to make

her vows. She was to watch Hornsby's lips and nod her acceptance of

the words as her own. But a look passed between Hornsby and

Emily, a look of mutual understanding. Almost a look of conspiracy.

"I, Emily Louisa, take thee, Ashley Charles," Hornsby said.

"I, Emily Louisa, take thee, Ahshley Charles," Emmy said.

Ashley guessed that they had practiced it endlessly, the two of them.

He knew she would speak the whole of it, that she would pledge

herself to him in words for him to hear, for the whole world to hear.

He knew too that they must have practiced in secret—he was half

aware of the distinctly audible gasp and murmuring from their

gathered relatives. But he did not look at them. He looked only at

her, deep into her eyes, each time she turned back from watching

Hornsby's lips. He tightened his grasp of her hands.

And he smiled at her.

"Until death do us part. So help me Gahd."

He would tease her about that pronunciation later.

"God," she said, correcting herself and then smiling in triumph.

Ashley heard nothing else of the service until Hornsby was telling

them and the world that they were man and wife. She was his—for

the rest of his life. How could he possibly have come to deserve such

happiness? But of course he had not. All he had done was love—and

allow himself to be loved. So simple—so complex.

He lowered his head and kissed her. His wife. His love. His serenity

and peace and joy.

Her eyes, when he raised his head again, said all the same things back

to him.

They were married.

They had decided to stay at Bowden Abbey for the night and leave

for Penshurst early enough in the morning that they could make the

journey in one day.

They had retired early to Ashley's old suite of rooms amid the

knowing smiles, the tears—from Anna, Agnes, and Constance—and

the mildly ribald comments of Lord Quinn. They had gone

immediately to bed and had made love with lingering slowness and

exquisite sweetness. And Ashley had called her his wife, whispering

the words against her mouth—at least, she guessed that that was what

he had whispered when he lifted his head and apparently repeated the

words so that she could see them in the candlelight.

They had lain quietly in each other's arms and then made love again

and relaxed once more—until he had told her that there were no

more sounds, that he was convinced everyone, even down to the last

servant, was in bed. They had smiled conspiratorially at each other as

they had got up and dressed and slipped down the stairs and outside.

And now they were where they had planned to come ever since they

had been alone together for a few minutes in the carriage after their

wedding. They were at the falls, standing side by side on the highest

rock, the one that jutted out over the water. Their fingers were

entwined. It was a beautiful, warm night. The stars seemed almost

close enough to touch. They were like lamps in the sky, so that even

without the moon, which was almost full tonight, it would have been

nearly as bright as day.

"Well, little fawn," Ashley said, turning her to him and taking her

other hand in his free one. "We are back where it all started."

"Yes," she said. They had first met in Luke's drawing room, but this

was where they had first talked, sitting together on this rock, her feet

dangling in the water. She thought of him as he had been then—very

young and handsome and restless. And of herself focusing on him all

the love and devotion of her girl's heart. She thought of lying here

facedown, alone, living through the terrible pain of his departure

forIndia. And of his return and all that had followed it.

"But not where it will end," he said. "Tomorrow we will go home.

To Penshurst. To our new life. I have had those rooms cleared out,

Emmy. All is gone. And I want you to change everything else that

does not suit you. I want it to be your home. Ours. There will be a

wedding to attend soon—Henry Verney is to marry Katherine Smith.

And I am encouraging my steward to desert me—as he phrases it—in

order to move back to the north ofEngland, where he comes from

and which he misses. I will offer his position to Binchley."

She smiled at him, then used their private language to reply. I am

very happy, she told him.

I am very happy too. He spoke to her without words. He pulsed a

lightly closed fist against his heart. I really mean it. I feel deeply.

But there was something else she wished to say in words, though she

could have signed it to him. She wanted to tellhim.

"Ahshley," she said.

"Emmy." He smiled. "I love my name on your lips more than on

anyone else's in the world."

"Ahshley," she said again, using her hands too. "You. Me. A baby."

She was not quite certain, of course, and she had felt unable to ask

Anna. But she was almost certain—with her body. With her heart she

knew it beyond a doubt.

She watched his eyes brighten with tears. He bit his lip. And then he

caught her up in his arms and held her very close. He was talking to

her, she knew. But it did not matter that she neither heard nor saw

the words. Words were not important.

She kept her eyes open and looked up at the vast sky and at the stars.

The whole sky and the earth too, the whole universe was singing. Did

it matter that she could not hear? The melody, the dance, the joy

were in her heart. And in his.

And then she could neither see nor hear. His mouth found hers and

she closed her eyes.

There was only a silent melody.

National Bestselling Author

Mary Balogh

INDISCREET

When the indiscreet attention of a handsome lord brings a beautiful,

young widow close to ruin, she comes face-to-face with a past she has

fought to escape…

TRULY

In a perfect world, their love was meant to be. In the reality of

nineteenth-centuryWales, he was a man of wealth and privilege and

she was a lowly minister's daughter. But the fate that divided them

sparked rebellion in their hearts. For they knew the only right way to

love—honestly, passionately, truly.

Mary Balogh brilliantly evokes all the passion and splendor of

Georgian London in this magnificent new novel, capturing all the

opulence and excitement of the era And through her sympathetic

portrayal of a Duke and a Lady struggling to heal a troubled

marriage, she creates a love story as timeless as it is compelling.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT