A KIND AND DECENT MAN
by
Mary Brendan

A KIND AND DECENT MAN

Mary Brendan

MILLS &- Books

Prologue.

I'm begging you to hear me out, sir!  "

"Remove yourself.  I have nothing further to say to you and will listen
to no more."  The words snapped out, the frail man showed his visitor a
slumped-shouldered back.

"You will hear me out."  The quiet determination had the elderly
gentleman twisting unsteadily about.  Undisguised alarm in weak grey
eyes elicited a sardonic tilt to the youthful supplicant's mouth.  Talk
of fighting had obviously also reached his ears.  The doddering fool
probably believed him disposed to hitting someone almost thrice his age.
He reined in his temper, politely but firmly requesting, "Please, let me
at least speak to your daughter before I leave..."

"My daughter is removed to Hertfordshire with her aunt."  The
information was bitten out in icy triumph.

"She seemed unaware of your true character but I have now told her of
your revolting habits and morals.  Moreover, she knows her duty to her
father."

Fierce blue eyes bored relentlessly into watering grey.  A white line
traced around the young man's thin, compressed lips and a cord of muscle
formed, jerking a lean cheek.

Instinctively the girl's father stumbled back a few steps.  He knew of
his dangerous reputation.  Oh, he had heard every sordid detail gossiped
abroad, and he knew this was not a man to trifle with.  But his contempt
was impossible to contain, and finally exploded in a hissed,

"You have the effrontery to come here and offer for my daughter?  You?
The younger son of a bankrupt viscount, with no prospect of title or
wealth to recommend you?  You, with your gambling, your whoring, your
brawling... your disgusting breeding?  If your parents were struck down
dead in the street I doubt that carrion would risk the taint of picking
them over."  He had gone too far, he was sure, and his bloodless,
puckered lips pressed so firmly shut they disappeared.

A flash of even white teeth revealed the young man's appreciation of the
imagery and the mirthless smile terrorised the elderly man more than the
leashed rage he could sense radiating from him.

"Remove yourself before I call Brook to eject you."  The words were
pushed out, emerging in a strangled whisper.

The threat provoked no more than a careless elevation in the young
petitioner's thick dark brows.  But he exhaled a steadying breath
through set teeth.

"I am aware, sir, that at present I have little to offer.  But within
two months I will have.  I have several deals on the table and the
prospect of much more.  I can raise considerable finance through a
private source..."

"You think you can buy my daughter?"  the elderly man spat, hoarse with
outrage, bony fists quaking at his sides.

Exasperatedly snapping back his dark head, the young man finally yielded
and pivoted on his heel.  He turned by the door and leaned his tall,
powerful figure back against its mahogany panels.  Sapphire eyes
narrowed in his handsome, angular face, riveting into his gaunt, stooped
tormentor.

"Oh, I know I can," he softly promised, before quietly closing the door
behind him.

Chapter One.

I realize you will, Victoria.  " The whispered words were thready and
Victoria Hart inclined her head closer to her husband.

A thin-skinned, thick-veined hand trembled out and rested upon the
crumpled black satin of her hair.  He stirred it beneath his fingers.

"Promise me, my dear, that you will write to him and tell him.  I want
you to do it now... this minute."

"Hush," Victoria soothed, closing wet grey eyes to shield her grief from
him.

"You can write yourself when you are feeling a little better."  The
words were gasped out as she battled against the tears threatening to
close her throat at such futile comfort.  She half turned for a sideways
glance at Dr Gibson by the shadowy doorway.

Leaping flames in the hearth revealed his stooped silhouette and the
negative swaying of his head.

Her husband attempted a wry, appreciative laugh at her sweet, hopeless
encouragement but it made him wheeze and he fought to regain his breath.

"Will you do it now, for your poor old Danny?"  he eventually squeezed
out on a long, painful sigh.

"And will you promise that Samuel takes it today for the letter-carrier?
For I want him to receive it in time.  He is all the kin I have, apart
from you."  As he sighed into the silence, there was a faint, appealing
smile for his beautiful young wife.

Victoria nodded her dark head beneath his fleshless palm and cold, dry
fingers drifted across her warm, wet cheek before falling back to the
coverlet.

"Thank you, Victoria."  Relaxing at her wordless vow, Daniel Hart
allowed speckled lids to droop over colourless eyes.

"You know what you have promised me, my dear.  No widow's weeds... not
for your Danny.  Nor moping about indoors away from the young people you
like.

Never deprive yourself of your youth, or anyone of your sweet company.
It is what I want, you know that, and others will too.  It is a
condition of my bequest, witnessed and sealed.  " A dry chuckle preceded
his next words.

"What care we for convention... you and I... eh, my dear?"  He patted
her slender white fingers in a gesture of dismissal.

As the rustling of her skirts told him she had risen from kneeling by
his bedside, he murmured,

"There is something else you have to promise me, Victoria."  Into the
rasping silence he finally breathed, "Promise me you won't cry any
more..."

David Hardinge, Viscount Courtenay of Hawkesmere in the county of
Berkshire, paused while dictating and smiled.  So infrequent a show of
consideration and humour was this that Jacob Robinson, clerk and general
factotum to the Viscount, actually ceased his frantic note-scribbling to
stare at his master. He peered through his dusty spectacles at the lean
profile presented to him as his employer settled broad shoulders
comfortably back into his leather wing chair and brought the source of
his amusement closer, savouring it.

Startlingly blue eyes scanned an ivory black-edged card as he shoved
back his chair and leisurely settled his highly polished top-boots on
the edge of his highly polished mahogany desk.  He reread the few lines
of elegant black script while his long fingers sought on the desk for
the cheroot curling a gentle drift of smoke towards the lofty ceiling of
his walnut-panelled study. With the cigar stuck between his white teeth,
his narrowed blue eyes nicked upwards, contemplating the ornate plaster
coving.  As his mind sped back seven years, the card was tapped idly
against a manicured thumbnail.  A few seconds of reminiscence had his
teeth clenching on his cheroot and the card flipping casually across the
desk to land in front of Jacob.

"Send condolences and usual regrets at being unable to attend."

Juggling his lapful of letters and ledgers, Jacob finally freed an index
finger, stabbed it onto the card and slid it closer.  Once he'd read it,
he wondered what it was about a distant cousin's funeral, notified to
him by the man's widow, that could possibly give the Viscount cause to
smile in that unpleasant way.

"Sad business..."  he volunteered, hoping to find out.

His sympathy was ignored.  David Hardinge leafed impatiently through a
lengthy document.

"Have this delivered back to Mainwaring by hand this afternoon with a
note stating that if he alters terms and conditions again the deal is
off.  The contract of sale I issued last month is the only one I will
sign."  Piercing blue eyes fixed on the clerk as David realised the man
had noted nothing down but was apparently fascinated by the notification
of Daniel Hart's demise.

"Have you got that dictation?"  he enquired silkily past the cigar
clamped at one corner of his thin mouth.

"Sad business..."  Jacob persisted, meaningfully pointing his sharp nose
at the card on the desk.

"Is it?"  David Hardinge asked, feigned concern spuriously softening his
tone.  The cigar was jerked from his teeth and he studied its glowing
tip.

"Oh, yes..."  Jacob opined, pulling his lips into a sorrowful droop.

"Poor Mrs Hart.  Not married more than seven years, I'll warrant.
Widowed so young.  I met her just the once, you know, at your brother's
funeral.  So charming a young lady, I recall."

He shook his greying head, reflectively sucking his teeth.

"Of course you were fighting alongside Wellington at the time, were you
not, and missed laying your brother to rest, so perhaps you wouldn't
know her. It's hard to believe that young master Michael's been gone
these five years and that I've worked man and boy for the Viscounts
Courtenay for more than twenty-five years and--' " And there's no real
need for it to continue beyond today," David mildly threatened, while
long fingers ground out his cigar so thoroughly that he Singed them,
shook them, swore audibly and scowled at Jacob's censorious look.

Oh, he knew charming young Mrs Hart, and she could damn well go to hell
alongside her husband for all he cared.  But he didn't, he reminded
himself. He hadn't cared for seven years or more, not since her father
had unceremoniously tossed his marriage proposal back at him and sneered
in his face for his effrontery.  David had known his youthful
hell-raising was a minor consideration; it was his lack of money and
status that was the genuine stumbling- block.  Vice in bridegrooms was
customarily overlooked so long as the prospects were right.

But, in fairness to the man, all of Charles Lorrimer's objections had
been quite valid.  And, in his own defence, in the six months he had
gently courted eighteen-year-old Victoria Lorrimer, his behaviour and
morals had been impeccable.  Those of his parents, however, had
continued to swill around in the gutter, to the vicious amusement of the
haul ton.  Paul Hardinge and the courtesan, Maria Poole, he had
scandalously married by then had no further affluence or influence to
buy acceptability.

In the distant days of childhood, he had been fiercely loyal to his
parents, believing them to be the butt of malicious gossip.  But the
craving for reciprocal love and attention had slowly eroded, finally
extinguishing in his mid- teens when he'd abruptly had to accept that
his mother was an unreformed whore and his father a drunken sybarite who
had gambled away practically every asset the Courtenays had amassed over
two centuries.  Henceforth David had unswervingly believed what he was
often maliciously told-- that his destiny must be tainted and shaped by
theirs--and had lived his life accordingly.

Until he'd seen Victoria Lorrimer.  For six months he'd believed in
salvation.  He'd lived in daylight hours and serenity.

Within a month of his proposal the only woman he had ever believed
himself capable of loving had married Squire Hart of Ashdowne in
Hertfordshire, who, with typical bitter irony, happened to be some
distant relation of the Hardinges.  His father's great-aunt had married
into the Hart clan in 1680, as he recalled.

Daniel Hart had a comfortable estate and wealth, and, at fifty-two, was
some thirty-four years Victoria's senior and a mere fifteen years
younger than her own dear papa.

His own dear papa had been dead of syphilis within six months and his
older brother Michael had inherited the viscountcy and the escalating
debts bequeathed by their wastrel father.  When Michael had succumbed to
smallpox two years into his birthright, after a valiant but unsuccessful
battle to repair the Courtenay fortune and standing, David had gained
nothing other than a title he didn't want and continuing ignominy.  But
he had risen to the challenge.  If there was one thing David Hardinge
had learned by the age of twenty-five, as he then was, it was how to
survive, need no one, and decimate adversity through cunning and
doggedness.  He was grateful to Paul Hardinge for one solitary thing:
his traditionally thorough education.  His honed tellect was applied to
his business affairs with the diligence of any trained banker.  With the
same typical irony, now he no longer cared, he found he had the respect
and admiration of his peers, who ruminated enviously on how
astonishingly he had turned about the Courtenay fortunes.

And now that David had money enough, he liked to enjoy the fruits of his
interminable labour.  He even allowed others to enjoy at his expense. He
knew he had a reputation for being a generous man and was thus
persistently targeted by women who, through necessity or choice, kept
company with gentlemen.  In short, he had a thoroughly pleasurable, if
licentious lifestyle, and no intention of moderating any of it.  ever
again.

The devastation that had ripped into him on learning Victoria Lorrimer
had married was now simply a hazy memory.  Since then he was sure he had
barely spared her an idle thought.  He reluctantly conceded that odd;
after all, thinking of her had for six months monopolised every waking
hour and kept him hot, frustrated and celibate the night through.  But
then, at just twenty-three and still surprisingly reluctant to fully
relinquish youthful idealism, despite the sewer in which he was reared,
courting a beautiful, enchanting virgin to marry and play house with had
seemed so appealing.  A wry choke of laughter escaped him at the
fairy-tale quality of it, causing Jacob to launch a quelling look his
way and sniff,

"I don't see any humour in funerals myself."

"Jacob," David gently threatened, 'if we don't get through this
correspondence in the time I have allocated to it, which is--' he
consulted his gold fob-watch '--five minutes more, you'll be unamused to
find yourself seeking alternative employment without a character.  "

Abruptly swinging his long legs off the desktop, he shoved back his
chair and stood up.  He stretched and flexed his powerful shoulders
before wandering idly to the large casement win 3 dow.  A hand eased a
niggling cramp at his nape as he gazed down onto the quiet elegance of
Beauchamp Place.  Cream- stuccoed Palladian splendour soothed his
restless gaze before blue eyes met a scene that elicited a smile of
genuine amusement.

Richard Du Quesne, splendidly attired in a striking burgundy greatcoat
trimmed with luxurious gold frogging, was sauntering towards his
residence as though he hadn't a care in the world.  This despite the
fact that clutching at the man's arm was the mistress he had been trying
to off load Dickie Du Quesne was his closest friend--a true companion of
similar taste and habits who shared a good deal of David's history, time
and vices.

Sensing eyes on him, Dickie glanced up at the study window and grimaced
his bored disdain for his friend.

A shrug of exaggerated sympathy met this.  David drew a long finger
leisurely across his immaculate silk cravat before closing his hand and
explicitly indicating with his thumb along the street.  She might be a
countess, the wife of an impecunious, much cuckolded earl, but he had no
intention of enduring her presence in his house this morning.  Roberta
Stewart knew her relationship with Dickie was in its death throes and
had been casting about for an equally wealthy replacement.  David knew
himself as prime target. Since he had finished with her some months
before Dickie had taken her on, her constant pathetic attempts at
seduction aroused disgust rather than lust.

David currently had set up two fresh, eager young mistresses, one at
either end of town; that way, whether finishing the evening at Cheapside
or Mayfair, he had a willing body close by should he require it.  When
neither Annabelle Sharpe's creamy skin and thick auburn tresses nor
Suzanna Phillips's rosy charms and wispy blonde curls held any allure,
he allowed himself to succumb to sexual enticements.

And he received plenty.  Ambitious seam14 A at(w a/iJ Decent Man
stresses, impoverished widows, bored titled ladies all constantly
prowled in his vicinity, flirtatiously displaying their interest and
availability.  As he was so popular, he could afford to be choosy.  and
cautious.  He had no intention of losing his own robust health to a dose
of the pox or risking the appalling ravages that had preceded his
father's death.

Thinking of widows brought Victoria Hart's pale, pointed face, smoky
eyes and silken black hair floating into his mind's eye.  A self-mocking
twist of thin lips acknowledged that, seven years it might be, but he
certainly hadn't forgotten her delicate beauty.  Lean hands braced at
either side of the casement showed steadily blanching knuckles.  She was
probably grown fat and matronly in her wedded bliss, and had several
brats clinging to her rustic skirts.

He casually pushed himself back from the window, concentrating on his
promenading friend.  Once rid of Roberta, Dickie and he would take their
usual stroll to Watier's for an afternoon of cards, dice or whatever
pursuit took their jaded fancy.  He idly pondered whether the
bare-knuckle fight on the cobbles in Haymarket would go ahead this
afternoon, but it occupied his mind only briefly.  He collected his
thoughts with iron discipline.  His meeting with his clerk was not yet
finished and business always took priority.

He had grown up having very little money, now had more than he was ever
likely to need, and knew which state of affairs he preferred.

Unlike a lot of his peers, commerce was accorded serious respect: he
oversaw the execution of every single enterprise.  He had a reputation
as a fair yet unforgiving master.  Those keen to feather their own nests
at their employer's expense gave Viscount Courtenay an extremely wide
berth.

His boot had once sent an amateur opportunist sprawling down his elegant
front steps, causing Dickie to say admiringly that it took one to know
one. That irreverence had earned his friend a playful cuff.  David was
professional.  especially when devious.  He slanted a glance at the old
retainer who had stayed with the Lords Courtenay through fair, foul and
fair again.  Jacob was an inquisitive, irreverent old buffer, but he was
extremely efficient and unwaveringly loyal and trustworthy.  David knew
that his half-hearted threats to put him off were now a source of
amusement to them both.  In fact, he'd really grown quite fond of him.

"Make sure that Mainwaring has that response regarding the sale of the
property in Chelsea and deal with all other matters as we discussed."

Jacob's short, wiry body carefully unfolded from the chair.  He cradled
his day's work in one arm while the other hand sprang to catch his
spectacles before they slid from the end of his nose.

Reaching over his desk for another cheroot, David lit it and drew deeply
until the tip ruddied.  He speared long fingers through his dark
mahogany hair, aware of the length of it and that he should get to his
barber some time this week.  In all other respects he was immaculately
turned out as usual: a shirt of finest white lawn, a deep chestnut silk
cravat similar in shade to his thick hair, and buff breeches of
excellent quality and a style that snugly emphasised the considerable
muscular length of his legs.

"Mr Du Quesne," Jeremiah Clavering, his butler, intoned from the
doorway, allowing David's comrade, well wrapped into his exquisite
greatcoat, entrance to the cosy study.

As he caught the draught from the corridor, David stirred the glowing
coals with the tip of his expensive leather boot.  It had been a long,
hard winter and these February mom- ings were invariably solid with
frost.  A sideways grin at Dickie acknowledged his glowing red nose,
white cheeks and blond hair, lank with cold.  His freezing friend
immediately sought a place by the roaring fire.

"Nippy out there?"  David needled.

"I'd taken two extra turns of the square with that silly bitch before
someone have into view and I managed to dump her.  I'm not sure
Wainwright will still be speaking to me... Damn!"  he exclaimed, through
chattering teeth.  "He'd best not consider returning her home a favour
and cancel my duns."

David laughed down into the leaping flames.  As the chill from his
friend's body permeated his comfortable warmth, he shifted to allow
Dickie the best position in front of the hearth.

"You did well," he soothed.

"Had you brought her in here, I would not have been best pleased. You'll
get your money from Wainwright--' He broke off, noting Jacob was hopping
from foot to foot, shifting and balancing documents in his arms while
making grabs at the door handle.  He strolled over and held the door
wide.  As the clerk exited under his braced arm, David instructed, for
no reason he could understand, " Forget that letter to Mrs Hart. I'll
convey condolences myself at the funeral.  "

It was certainly comforting to see so many paying their last respects to
her dear Danny, was Victoria's consoling thought as she buried her
small, trembling hands further into her sable muff.

This February morning was bright with winter sunshine but bitterly cold;
the grave-diggers had laboured long and hard to scoop out her husband's
final icy resting place.

Parson Woodbridge dropped a fistful of dark soil into the grave and it
hit Daniel Hart's coffin with a splattering thud.  He inclined his head
at her and she stepped unsteadily forward on numbed legs at the signal.
The mixed sheaf of fragrant herbs and flowers she had collected that
morning was released into the earth-dark void.  Despite her solemn
promise to Daniel that she would not cry, she felt melancholy tears
heating her hastily closed eyes.  Withdrawing her gloved fingers from
their warm nest, she pressed them to her eyelids, chafing delicate skin
with the black lace veil shrouding her small, sculpted face.

Damp, inky lashes slowly un meshed to expose luminous damson-grey eyes
and she raised her head, again composed.  and saw him.

She squinted through a teary film and an involuntary gasp of recognition
was heightened by fierce frosty air abrading her throat.

He was standing a way off, absolutely still--a solitary figure divorced
from those by the graveside stamping frozen feet and huddling close
together for warmth.  She was sure he was staring at her as intently as
she was at him, despite her veil and matted lashes distorting her view.
And she quietly knew that after seven years he would look as she
remembered him even though his features were indistinct.  He looked
statuesque outlined against a washed winter sky, and quite frighteningly
imposing.  He seemed more powerfully built.  Perhaps he had grown
broader, or perhaps it was just an illusion created by his heavy black
greatcoat.  A steamy haze froze before his face and this undeniable
proof that he was not a figment of her imagination but a living,
breathing man simultaneously cheered and alarmed her.

He must have just arrived, walked up alone from Hart- field to the
chapel, for he hadn't left with the mourning party.  He was a head
taller than any man here and impeccably attired; she would never have
missed him.

Victoria dragged her gaze back to Parson Woodbridge's kindly face as he
concluded the funeral service and indicated to her that the pair of
grave-diggers would like to continue about their business.

It was too final!  She couldn't yet relinquish the man who had cared for
her, provided for her and her relatives.  It was too soon.

Despite the empathy radiating from the friends and neighbours grouped
about her, she felt alone and frightened, and that stomach-churning
anxiety was now oddly intensified by the shadowy, remote figure on the
edge of her vision. She suddenly wished that Daniel hadn't insisted she
write and ask him to come.  Why had he?  There had been no bond between
them other than a distant kinship that neither man had ever sought to
acknowledge or build on.

She became conscious of people looking more purposefully at her.  Stiff
fingers were being warmed with puff- cheeked breaths and chilled cloaked
bodies batted with rigid arms.  They were patiently awaiting a signal to
leave.

"Are you ready, Victoria, my dear?"  the parson enquired kindly as he
took a pace towards her.

"Come, my child, you'll freeze," he coaxed, taking her arm gently and
turning her about.

"You can return later, when these men have done their work, with another
pretty posy and a nice hot toddy inside you."  He lifted a bony gloved
hand to his bulbous nose set in a curiously gaunt face.

"I do believe this is twice its normal size," he gently joked as he led
her away.  Sheeny grey eyes raised to his painfully purple proboscis and
Victoria choked a hysterical giggle.  She gratefully held his arm as
they slowly made their careful way back down the frost- glistening
grassy hillock to the shingle path that wound to Hartfield.  The
mourning party, approximately a score in number, fell into step behind
them.  A quiet murmuring among its members could be heard, conveying
gladness that the ceremony was satisfactorily accomplished, and that a
fire and a warming drink awaited them at Hartfield.

They would pass close by him, Victoria realised, for he had not so much
as budged an inch from his isolated spot.  Raising her head as she drew
level, she turned; courtesy decreed she acknowledge him.

Glistening grey eyes were immediately entrapped by a steady sapphire
gaze. Power 9 less to break free, she glided on until looking across at
him became impossible and she finally twisted her veiled face away and
exhaled.

The blonde woman climbed the last mound.  Pausing to draw a spiteful
breath, she spied the snaking trail of mourners trudging away towards
Hartfield.  But her narrowed green eyes were almost immediately skimming
black to the churchyard, targeting the sole remaining figure.  Her
interest quickened at his virile attractiveness, but it was his obvious
affluence that drew forth a calculating smile.

Ignoring the open grave, the tall, impressive man strolled the rimed
grass towards the shingle path.  Feline eyes tracked him until he
latched the lych gate when they pounced forward onto the slightly built
young widow far in the distance and close to the saintly parson.

The woman's generous mouth thinned in malice.  Wrapping herself more
closely into the warmth of her thick cloak, she picked a careful path
across the slippery turf.  She glared boldly at the two labourers who
began whispering as she approached.  Leaning on shovels, they watched
curiously as she stared down at the coffin partially obscured by a few
scoops of rich dark soil.

Muttered curses, loud and crude enough to make the grave-diggers
exchange an appreciative look, preceded earth piled along the edges of
the grave being sent hurtling unceremoniously back into the void by a
small booted foot. Then, with a dramatic swirl of her cloak, the blonde
woman was hastening back across the fields in the opposite direction to
the mourners and Hartfield.

"Here, drink this," Laura Grayson urged her friend as she held out the
glass of mulled wine.

Victoria gave her a grateful smile but her eyes were discreetly watching
the door, sliding over familiar faces to find one she hadn't seen for so
long.

She felt neglectful now and ill-mannered.  She had not so much as nodded
to him in welcome or recognition.  All she had done was stare like an
idiotic fool.  She so hoped he would enter the house and take a little
refreshment before leaving.  He had no doubt travelled from London.  He
must be tired. thirsty.  Guilt and shame suddenly swamped her.  He
obviously felt shunned; she had written and invited him to attend the
funeral, as Daniel had bidden her, yet done nothing to greet him. Daniel
would have been rightly horrified by such lack of hospitality.

Her aunt Matilda entered the drawing room and immediately made for the
roaring fire, a glass of warm wine grasped in each hand.

"Your aunt Matty seems in fine form," Laura said wryly, but her troubled
hazel eyes searched Victoria's strained countenance.

"Daniel would hate to see you looking so peaky.  Remember those promises
you made," she gently reminded her.

Victoria gave her friend a wan smile, then directed a speedy, searching
glance at the ancient gentleman ensconced close to the wide hearth.  It
judged him to be quite comfortable and cosy.

"Would you mind my papa, Laura, while I ensure everyone has some
refreshment before they leave?  It is so terribly cold and some have
travelled far." Having received an immediate affirmative to this request
from her friend, she hurried away.

People waylaid her to sympathise, making her pause to graciously thank
them, but as soon as possible some inner desperation had her hastening
on.  She was sure he was here solely from his own sense of duty: he felt
obliged to pay his last respects and would probably leave as soon as he
deemed that achieved.  The notion that he might go before they had even
exchanged a few words, before she had even thanked him for attending,
had her running.

Her black crape skirts were gripped in small white fists as she flew out
into the chilly hallway and came upon him immediately, talking with the
Reverend Mr Woodbridge.  She stopped dead, her heart thumping so hard it
was as though she had sped up three floors while searching for him in
each of the fifty-two rooms that comprised Hartfield.

She paused to compose herself, noting that Jonathan Woodbridge had the
appearance of a scrawny crow beside the expensively attired, athletic
physique of the man who stood head and shoulders above him.

He was listening with his lean, handsome face politely inclined towards
the cleric's sunken features.  Both men saw her at the same time and as
she moved forward again she silently gave thanks to Jonathan Woodbridge
for his thoughtfulness.  No doubt he had noticed the stranger in their
midst and had taken it upon himself to welcome him.  The people of
Ashdowne were naturally hospitable folk.  As she now classed herself
amongst them, and was the largest landowner, she felt sadly lacking in
duty.  And duty was something Victoria had never shirked.

"Mr Hardinge."  She warmly greeted him, extending a small, gloved hand
which he courteously, fleetingly touched.  The extreme brevity of the
contact made her withdraw it quickly and shield it amongst her stiff
black skirts.  But she cordially continued,

"I'm so glad you have joined us today.  It is an honour that you have
travelled in such perilous weather to attend Daniel's funeral.  You are
very welcome.

Please come through into the warm.  " Perhaps he had misunderstood her
invitation to seek the fire in the drawing room, she thought when he
neither moved nor spoke, but she felt the intensity of his blue gaze
prickling the top of her head.

"May I fetch you some mulled wine?

Something to eat?  There is a spread upon the dining table,"

she coaxed huskily, including Jonathan Woodbridge in this invitation so
she could avoid those penetrating sapphire eyes.

"That sounds very good, Victoria," Jonathan said, with a twinkle to his
watering eyes, his skeletal gloved hands clasping together before him as
he purposely made for the drawing-room door.

Left alone in the marble-flagged hall, Victoria realised that now the
parson had withdrawn there was no one else on whom to focus.  She
summoned a firm smile as her eyes finally raised to meet his and the
breathtaking sight of him stopped her heart.

He was as she remembered but every feature, every hard, angular plane of
his face, seemed more intense, more roughly hewn in maturity.

There was none of the bright freshness of youth left in him.  But his
eyes seemed bluer, his jaw leaner, his mouth thinner--crueller, she
realised.  His hair seemed deeper in colour, bronze-black in the dim
hallway light, and so long it curled thickly onto the collar of his
coat.

"Please have something to drink at least," she quickly rattled off,
aware that she had been staring.

"I would hate you to set back on the road having partaken of nothing at
all."

"Well, I'll accept a little refreshment, then, Mrs Hart, for I'd hate to
offend you," David Hardinge smoothly said.

Victoria visibly relaxed and smiled at him with an unconscious sweet
familiarity that hinted at their distant courtship.  For a moment the
charm bound him.  Long fingers were raised to her face, lifting and
slowly folding back the lacy veil over the crown of her hat, revealing
her features.

His eyes scanned her countenance and she watched his back teeth meet,
shooting his jaw out of alignment.  Her smile and budding confidence
faltered as she waited for a comment or sign as to how their reunion
would proceed.

As the silence between them tautened, she obliquely recalled addressing
him incorrectly and seized on that for further conversation.

"Oh, I'm so sorry.  You are now Lord Courtenay.  How stupid of me to
have forgotten.  I knew, of course, because I attended your brother's
funeral with Daniel.  It must have been... five years ago.  But I didn't
see you then ... you weren't there... I believe you were abroad ...the
war..."  She was babbling, she realised wildly, and abruptly clamped
together tremulous lips and bit down on the lower one.

David's eyes were drawn immediately to the small white teeth gripping at
that soft full curve.  His lids swept down, shielding the expression
darkening his eyes to midnight, and a muttered curse was hastily choked
in his throat. Fat?  Blowsy?  Matronly?  If she had children and this
was how they'd left her.  She was everything he remembered, but so much
more.  More beautiful, if possible: she'd lost the youthful fullness in
her face and now had cheekbones like ivory razors.  Her inky lashes
seemed lusher, her eyes more storm-violet than grey, her hair gleaming,
glossy jet.  Her nature seemed as sweet; that poignant melancholy she
was trying to disguise with tentative friendliness made him want to do
something idiotic like comfort her; cuddle her against him in a way he
remembered doing so long ago.  His eyes ripped from her upturned face to
stare across her dark head.

The sooner he was out of here the better.  He'd been a fool to come.

There had been no need.  A simple note of condolence would have
sufficed. He'd take a glass of wine then get the hell out back to the
Swan tavern at St Albans and pray that Dickie had found them some
diversion to occupy his body and mind before they set off on the road
back to London in the morning.

"Lord Courtenay?"  a male voice queried uncertainly.

Victoria and David both immediately, gratefully looked about, glad of
the distraction as the tension between them strained unbearably.

Sir Peter Grayson, Laura's husband, had just entered through the great
arched oaken doors of Hartfield and was clapping together his
leather-gloved palms to warm them.  He brushed flakes of snow from his
caped shoulders and knocked them from the brim of his hat.

"It's snowing..."  Victoria murmured.

"I thought I recognised you," Sir Peter said at the same time, directing
a huge grin at David Hardinge.

David smiled as recognition dawned.

"Peter, how nice to see you."  He gripped the hand extended to him,
while trying to block the memory of the last time this man and he had
socialised. It had been about a year ago at a discreet private salon run
by a personable widow.  The evening of music and cards had terminated in
its customary drunken orgy.  The amusing memory of this young buck,
cavorting naked except for his cravat, was difficult to banish.

As though abruptly recalling the same event.  Sir Peter flushed, making
Victoria look curiously at him.  An embarrassed cough preceded Peter's
hasty,

"I must introduce you to my wife.  Lord Courtenay.

Where is Laura, Vicky?  Have you seen her?  " He chattered on.

"It must be more than a year since last I spoke to you.  How have you
been? I rarely get to London now, you know.  I spend all my time here in
Hertfordshire.  I was married in October of last year... and have never
been happier."

David inclined his head, acknowledging the caution.

"Of course..."  he soothed.

"Ah, here she is..."  Sir Peter said with a mix of relief and horror as
Laura's slim, black-clad figure drifted into the hallway from the
drawing room.

Aware that a perfect opportunity for her to escape and compose her
thoughts and a perfect opportunity to waylay David Hardinge longer had
presented itself, Victoria ap 5 pealed to her friends.

"Please show Lord Courtenay the fire and the refreshments.  I must just
check that my papa is comfortable.

"It is freezing out.  Papa, and snowing again too," Victoria consoled
her father a few moments later.

"It is bitterly cold.  Far too cold for you."  She raised a cool, pale
hand and laid it gently against his papery cheek.

"See how chilled I still am, and I have been indoors for some while.
Daniel would not have wished you to endure such inclement weather by the
graveside. You know it would make you cough."  She tucked in the rugs
more closely about his bony frame but he grumbled incoherently and
plucked at the blankets as she neatened them.

"I'm hungry.  Is there some wine?"  he demanded testily, making Victoria
smile wryly.  At times her poor, confused papa had no difficulty at all
in making himself understood.

"I'll fetch a little porter for you," she promised, while removing his
spectacles from where he had wedged them in the side of the chair.

He suddenly stiffened and leaned forward to hiss,

"Who is that?  Do I know him?"  Victoria half turned, still bending
slightly over him, and even before she saw him, she knew to whom her
father referred.

David Hardinge was grouped with Laura, Sir Peter and several other
neighbours who, curious as to his relationship with the deceased, had
come forward to be introduced to this handsome, charming stranger.

And he was both, Victoria had to acknowledge.  His manners and
appearance were exceptional.  He had removed his greatcoat and handed it
to Samuel Prescott, her male servant, on entering the drawing room, and
now stood, superbly attired in black superfine tailcoat and trousers of
expert cut and finest quality.  A large black pearl nestled in a silver
silk cravat at his throat.  That he was now fabulously wealthy was
beyond doubt.  Everyone in his vicinity was fbcussed on him, and
although he returned conversation his attention soon drifted elsewhere.
He raised his glass of warm ruby wine and tasted it while watching her
and her father over the rim.

"Who is that?"  her father demanded stridently, making several people
close by turn and sympathetically smile at her.

"I recognise that devil..."

"Papa... hush..."  Victoria soothed, feeling her face heating.  As she
turned away, she caught sight of a strange, humourless slant to David
Hardinge's thin lips, and heard his murmured excuses to his companions
before he strolled over.

He looked down impassively at the brain-sick, elderly man for several
seconds before quietly saying,

"Hello, Mr Lorrimer."

Charles Lorrimer peered up at him.  He dug frantically in the sides of
his chair for his spectacles but, finding nothing, he simply squinted
foxily.

"I suppose it's been two months, then," he finally snapped, running his
rheumy grey eyes over the man's supremely distinguished figure, 'and
you've come back to buy my daughter.  "

Chapter Two.

You have a fine memory, Mr Lorrimer," David Hardinge " Yc quietly, drily
commented.

Long, sooty lashes swept to shield the horrified embarrassment darkening
her eyes before Victoria snatched a glance through them.

David's face gave nothing away.  He was watching her father with what
could have been wry amusement twisting his hard-moulded mouth.  Any
anger or umbrage was admirably concealed.  Victoria steeled herself to
hold the narrowed blue gaze that sliced to her, hoping he could detect
in her expressive eyes her heartfelt regret at her father's
indiscretion.

"Hah, you see, I have a fine memory."  Charles Lorrimer smugly
emphasised his point by clawing at his chair with skeletal fingers and
inclining his fragile frame towards them.

"She will not believe me when I tell her so," he conspiratorially
confided to David Hardinge.

"She says I am confused.  But it suits her to say such things... to be
cruel to her father and to lie to me."

"Papa!"  Victoria gasped, hurt and shame hoarsening her voice.

"I remember she said she would fetch me a nice glass of warm brandy, but
she has not," was next sniped craftily at his white-faced daughter.

"I said a glass of porter.  Papa.  And I will fetch it, or get Sally to
do so, if you are just patient a moment--' " And where is Daniel?  " Her
father tetchily cut short her hushed placation.

"Danny said today I could have snuff.  Where is my son-in-law?  He
treats me better than my own flesh and blood; I swear he does.  He is a
true friend, a fine fellow.  He will fetch me snuff and brandy..."

"What is up with you now, Charles?"  a female voice boomed into his
senile self-pity.

"What are you blathering on about?"  Matilda Sweeting's
black-bombazine-clad figure pushed forward and she thrust one of her
glasses of mulled wine towards her brother.

"Here, take this and cease crabbing," she ordered him bluntly.

"And don't guzzle it so or 'twill make you cough.  No doubt your lungs
will then be my concern..."

As Matilda continued to upbraid her brother good- naturedly while
tugging at his blankets to neaten them, and Charles ignored her advice
and gave hearty attention to his wine glass, Victoria instinctively
withdrew.  The past few fortifying minutes had drained her complexion
and dilated her pupils to glossy gunmetal.  She thankfully noticed that
none of those standing close seemed to have overheard her father's
impropriety.  Or, if they had, they were paying scant attention to
Charles Lorrimer's latest odd ramblings. Indeed, there was an atmosphere
of pleasant gregariousness about the mourners now that Sally and Beryl
had set to and mulled wine was being freely distributed and imbibed.
Victoria finally allowed her dusky eyes to glide up to David Hardinge's
face, for she was aware he had moved away from her father's chair as she
did.

"I'm so sorry..."  she breathed.

"I have to be going..."  he said.

Their quiet words collided and they fell silent together too.  After an
awkward pause, Victoria resumed her low apology.

"I

assure you he meant no real offence.  He cannot help the way he is.  I
sincerely regret if he has caused you--' "He has caused me nothing.
Nothing at all," David interrupted lightly, his eyes on a spot on the
ceiling.

"But you have every right to feel slighted.  Is he often so?"

Victoria glanced hastily away from eyes that had swooped to hers,
feeling more humiliated by this man's pity than by her father's
rudeness.  She simply nodded quickly, casting about in her mind for a
change of subject in case he enquired further.

He did not.  He repeated mildly,

"I have to go now, Mrs Hart.  I'm not offended, I promise.  My leaving
has nothing to do with your father..,."

David glanced down into her beautiful, solemn face.  Well, that's the
whole truth, ran self-mockingly through his mind as he forced his eyes
away again. It certainly was nothing to do with her decrepit father.  It
was everything to do with her.  If he stayed longer she might tempt him
to do or say something he was sure to regret.  The urge to touch her was
tormenting him. He longed to discover if her hair was as silken; even
now he could recall its fine texture slipping beneath his fingers.  He
wanted to glide his thumb across her sculpted jaw, the delicate ridge of
her cheek- bones--repossess skin that looked so incredibly pale and
soft.

But he could control it, he sardonically reminded himself, because he
was different now.  He readily acknowledged burgeoning lust; more
worrying was a stirring of emotional commitment.  But it was a while
since that had mangled him and the notion of ever again allowing such
vulnerability was so ludicrous, it almost prompted him to laugh.

So what if her father treated her ill?  It was none of his concern.  So
what if she was now widowed?  It was hardly the time or place to
capitalise on it. Propositioning a woman on the day she buried her
husband was beyond even his amoral sensibilities.

So he was still leaving, right now, and going back to what he knew he
wanted: a good tavern, a good friend and a good night of uncomplicated
roistering. Because that was what he was good at.  And then tomorrow, as
he journeyed home to Mayfair and his life of luxury and debauchery, he
could leisurely castigate himself for ever being idiotic enough to come
here at all.  God only knew why he had.

Travelling in freezing weather to watch earth shovelled atop some
distant relative he barely knew.  sheer madness!

David nicked a glance at the elderly man he had once despised and felt
nothing.  No disgust, no hatred.  But he avoided looking back at that
man's daughter, because he knew he couldn't pretend the same apathy,
much as he wanted to.

"I shall just find one of the servants to fetch your coat," Victoria
politely informed him, feeling ridiculously hurt that he would not stay
longer; that he could not even seem to look at her for longer than a
second.

Cool hallway air fanned welcomingly against her flushed cheeks as she
sped to find Samuel.  Her head hammered with tension and haunting words
she'd believed she had successfully buried so long ago but never would
stay forgotten.

"He wanted to buy you... he said he would do it.  He wanted to buy my
daughter as though she was some common whore.  But then that is all he
is used to and all you mean to him..."

Her father's bellowed words of seven years ago throbbed in her head.

She had dismissed it all as lies.  Everything she had heard whispered
abroad about David and his family she had rejected as vile rumour.

She was aware that the beau monde loved nothing better than to
maliciously dissect reputations, especially those of their peers.  Even
when Aunt Matilda had tendered cautions about her socialising with
roguish David Hardinge or his wayward friends, Victoria would have none
of it.  She was too much in love, too obsessed with this man who wooed
her with a captivating, tender passion yet never once attempted to
coerce or take advantage of her.  And she knew there had been times when
he could have, when fate and obliging friends had allowed them a stolen
hour alone, and she would have summoned little resistance had he decided
to seduce her.

During their short, six-month courtship, David had shown her more
affection, more gentleness and respect than any other man she had known.
Even her own father.  And she'd told her father that, earnestly, and it
had earned her a hefty blow and her immediate banishment from Ham-
mersmith to Hertfordshire. Following her father's ranting censure, still
she would not believe that David Hardinge was a callous rogue who did
not love or want her.

Unknown to her father, she had managed to smuggle out two letters to
David and had been certain he would soon rescue her.  In them she'd made
so plain her love for him, and the fact that she was prepared to wait,
to elope, to do whatever he wanted, so long as he still loved her and
would soon come for her.  Yet the weeks had passed with no message, no
reply.  Then one afternoon, when her father was away from home, Matilda
had managed to sneak to her room to gently break the news that David had
left the country and was believed to be travelling abroad.  With those
few whispered words had come real despair.  The first inkling that she
had been duped.  abandoned had iced her skin and made her stomach churn
so violently, so indelibly that she could taste the fear again now.
Curled on her bed on that autumn afternoon, she had finally given way to
a keening, draining grief that no amount of calming draughts or soothing
platitudes from Matilda could ease, and only exhaustion could curtail.
The redolence of that earthy, rain-spattered October day teased her
nostrils anew; the memory of the incongruous perfection of the rainbow
that had later bridged the house dazzled her mind.  Swollen-eyed at her
window, she had watched the drizzle soften into a harvest evening of
such serene beauty that somehow she had found the strength to weep
again.

Yet still she would have waited.  so desperate was she to believe David
honourable and her trust in him justified.  But the empty days had
crawled by, her father's rancour had escalated to new, demented heights
and a final, painful decision had had to be made.

And now she finally knew the truth of it.  The awful fear that she had
been wrong to marry so soon, that she should have suffered in that
harsh, soulless environment longer, had evaporated.  Her decision to
accept Daniel's offer of shelter in an unconventional marriage had been
vindicated.

7 suppose.  you've come back to buy my daughter.  " her father had just
said in his painfully honest way, and David Hardinge had simply smiled
and complimented him on his fine memory.

Her black lacy veil tumbled forward onto her brow and Victoria swiftly
unpinned the hat, dropped it carelessly onto a hall table and hurried
on.

What did any of it matter now?  It was all seven years old!  she
impressed upon herself, furious that a wedge of melancholy was blocking
her throat. How could she even dwell on it?  She had just buried her
dear husband.  He had been a fine, generous husband for seven long
years.  David Hardinge had been a reprobate playing a convincing role
for just six months.

Daniel's selfless goodness had stirred feelings of guilt: he might have
made a second marriage to rival the consummate success of his first. But
whenever Victoria had mentioned such doubts he would smile, with his
pale eyes distant, and tell her that such love came but once and that
once was a privilege.  But a daughter to care for.  God had never been
that kind to him. until now.

Victoria sighed, dragging her thoughts to the present.  If only Daniel
had not made her promise to write to David Hardinge, she would have been
as oblivious to his disturbing presence today as she had been last week.
last month.  last year.  But for the worry of Danny's illness and her
papa's worsening dementia, she had been virtually content with her lot
in life here at Hartfield.  Now she felt hot and restless.  and queasy,
as though a nest of vipers writhed in the pit of her stomach.

Nearing the kitchens, she spied Samuel's broad back huddled close to the
short, plump figure of Sally, one of the domestics.  She had believed
Sally still to be serving refreshments in the drawing room.

A sigh of impatience escaped her.

"Samuel, Lord Courtenay is leaving.  His coat, please..."  The young
couple immediately shifted away from each other.  Sally bustled past
with a deferential dip of her brunette head but her face was blotchy
from weeping.

Victoria closed her eyes in sheer exasperation.  She could not
countenance dealing with any histrionics from the servants.  not today.
She already felt as though she was wound as tightly as a spring.  Just
one more twist and she would snap; of that she was sure.

Samuel tried to pass her too with a gruff, cooperative, "I'll fetch it
straight away, ma'am."

Victoria placed a restraining hand on his beefy arm.  "Samuel ... this
is too much today.  Can you and Sally--and I suppose it's Beryl involved
too--can you not at least i cease your bickering on a day such as this?"
she stressed J in a voice quivering with emotion, j "Sorry, ma'am..."
Samuel mumbled, his coarsely attractive features ruddying in
embarrassment and remorse.  | Straightening his waistcoat with a
businesslike jerk, he sedately walked on.

Victoria stared at the kitchen door then momentarily closed her eyes,
composing herself, before swishing about and calmly retracing her steps.

She emptied her mind.  Nothing was allowed other than the need to get
through this day.  She concentrated on whether any mourners would expect
bed and board.  The weather was now so inclement it would invariably
come to that, she decided.  That would entail arranging chambers and
linen, further meals. She was exhausted and desirous of solitude, not
extended company.  But it was her duty and she would deal with it, just
as she always had since Danny's illness had shifted such mundane matters
onto her slender shoulders.  For with his declining health had come
declining fortune when he'd no longer devoted attention to his business
affairs.  And as their income had reduced so had the number of servants
they could employ at Hartfield.

But she had been happy to take over housekeeping duties when Mrs
Whittaker had retired and gone to live with her sister in Brighton.

And thus the first economies had been made.

Victoria completely ignored the reflexive jump of her heart as she
rounded the corner into the main hallway and immediately spied David
Hardinge's tall, imposing figure.  He was chatting to Sir Peter by the
double arched entrance doors.  She focussed on being relieved that
Samuel had speedily set about the task of returning the Viscount his
coat.  That comforting emotion was immediately whipped from her as she
anxiously noticed Beryl's neat, black- uniformed figure sidling up to
Samuel by the hall table.  But they both appeared fully occupied
attending to guests' cloaks and gloves and quite oblivious and uncaring
of each other.

A grateful sigh escaped.  Any further embarrassing domestic situations
and she was sure she would scream or weep.  Instead she stifled a wry
laugh at the very idea; such selfish indulgence was a luxury, and there
would be no more of those.

Having cordially shaken hands with his old acquaintance, Sir Peter
turned back to the warmth of the drawing room.  Victoria received a
friendly, slightly inebriated grin as he passed.

"Thank you once again.  Lord Courtenay, for being good enough to attend
Daniel's funeral.  I hope the weather improves for your safe journey
home."

David inclined his dark head, acknowledging her civil good wishes, even
though they held the same arctic quality as the air outside.  His eyes
reluctantly shifted from her face to gaze at something distracting
behind her.

"One of your servants seems a little upset,"

he mentioned impartially.

Victoria felt a stinging surge of blood heat her cheeks.  So Beryl and
Samuel had not contained their differences, not even for the five short
minutes that would have been necessary for David Hardinge to have taken
his leave. Narrowed blue eyes scanned her pink, tense face as he said,
"You already know about it...?"

The hint of mild concern in his tone snapped up her glossy black head.
She had no use for his pity and would have liked to tell him so. Instead
she murmured stiffly, "Yes, I do know, thank you," while wishing the
floor would open up and swallow her.  or this taciturn man who assuredly
never tolerated tantrums from his domestics.

Pride aided her swift composure.

"It has been a very sad time for us all.  My husband was well liked and
respected by the servants... by all who knew him."  It was a quite
truthful prevarication.  The rustling of Beryl's stiff skirts as she
scurried away was all that broke the ensuing silence.

"I believe I've been remiss in not yet offering condolences on your
loss, Mrs Hart," David eventually said.

"Was he a good husband?"

Grey and blue eyes linked then strained.

"I'm sure there was never better," Victoria quietly stated, and
something about the way he found that cool sincerity amusing twisted her
stomach.

He extended a hand in farewell and she allowed him one of hers for the
briefest moment.  His smile quirked sardonically as she exactly matched
his reaction to her touch earlier.  Then all that was left with her in
the hallway was an icy draught and a dusting of snowflakes melting on
the marble flags.

The sun was lost early today, Victoria realised glumly as she glanced
out through the casement window in Hart- field's small library at the
clouding sky.  She finished lot ting up the column of figures in the
household accounts before pushing the ledger away from her and laying
the quill back on the blotter.  It mattered little how many times she
did the sums; the balances never looked any healthier.  But she had made
economies before; it was simply a case of cutting, back a little
further.

Daniel had always praised her housekeeping skills, in the early days of
her undertaking the task, marvelling at the way she could make do and
mend, bargain with tradesmen and generally pinch a penny until it
squeaked.  As he'd grown weaker, she'd known he no longer had strength
enough to worry or enquire as to how she did.

She had no idea where her talents for parsimony came from: until her
marriage she'd had no experience of household budgeting or hiring
servants or paying wages.  But she had been reared on thrift.  Her
father had never been a generous man where she was concerned--either in
his time, his affection or his coin.

She withdrew her mother's locket from the pocket of her serviceable
serge gown and laid it on the blotter.  A finger traced the carved gold
surface before she opened it with gentle reverence and looked at the
miniature portraits of her parents.  The likenesses had been painted
shortly after their marriage, some twenty-eight years ago.

Her father was strong and handsome, his hair as black as her own,
despite the fact that he was then in his forties, and his eyes bright
and alert.  Her mother looked serene: her luxuriant auburn tresses swept
back from the delicate bone-structure of her ivory-skinned, heart-shaped
face.  She had been more than twenty years younger than her husband.

Whenever Victoria feasted her hungry eyes upon the beautiful mother she
had never known, she understood how awful it must have been for the man
who'd doted on her to have lost her.  She understood why her father
resented her; why she had grown up shunned as an unwanted burden rather
than a cherished child.  For her mother had relinquished life in order
that Victoria could have hers and she knew her father had found that
impossible to forgive.  The sad irony was that her late husband had lost
both his newborn daughter and his first wife in childbed and had
cherished Victoria as his child-wife.

In her early years, her dear aunt Matty had done her best to substitute
herself as the mother Victoria had never known.  She had also upbraided
her brother many times for his coldness and neglect of his only child.
Victoria had overheard their cross words on occasion, and knowing she
was causing her father that family pain too had served only to turn the
screws of the awful guilt that racked her.

And she marvelled at her aunt Matty's temerity.  For she had been,
during their days in Hammersmith, an impecunious widow reliant on her
brother's charity, and to scold him as she did, and on another's
account.  Matilda Sweeting's life had never been easy.  She had married
a penniless scoundrel who purported to be a naval officer, given birth
to a son and been widowed all in the space of two years.  Despite her
wastrel husband having frittered away all his own money and then hers
too, Matilda had managed to retain her pride and her sanity.  And then
when her only son, Justin, had disappeared in his sixteenth year, she
had again drawn on that unbreachable resilience to overcome the
disaster.  He had been press-ganged, or so they believed, for there was
no other credible solution to his disappearance some eleven years ago in
the vicinity of the London dock land Matilda spoke rarely of him now,
but when she did it was as though he was alive and well but just too
busy and successful to visit yet awhile.

Victoria focussed again on her parents' youthful, attractive faces.

There had been a lot of heartache for the Lorrimers in the past
twenty-five years.  A troubled sigh escaped as she dwelt on her father's
dementia. Heartache wasn't yet over.

A bar of warmth gilded her clasped hands on the desk as the sun escaped
cloud.  She turned her dark head to the window.  The bitter winter was
extending into late March but had not prevented spring bulbs spearing
the frozen ground.  The sight of yellow and mauve crocuses interspersed
with snowdrops bobbing their drooping heads prompted a wistful smile.
The sky was clouding again already, slowly obliterating the lucid
sunlight, but she resolved to go.  Each afternoon in the hour between
finishing her bookkeeping duties and organising preparation of the
evening meal, she would walk the short distance to the chapel and tend
her husband's grave.

"I thought I might find you here."  Victoria started, gasped and twisted
about so quickly that she almost pitched forward onto her knees.  She
shielded her eyes as she peered up at the man standing a few paces away
on the shingle path.  He stepped jerkily forward, belatedly steadying
her with a meaty hand.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hart; I didn't mean to frighten you," he earnestly
apologised.

"Samuel said you're to be found here most afternoons.

I.  I needed to speak with you.  " He looked at the grave, the pretty
arrangement of pastel spring flowers atop the cropped grassy mound.

"I apologise for intruding on a private moment... I just... I'm afraid
it is important...."

Victoria banged earth from her gloved hands.

"Please don't apologise, Mr Beresford.  In any case, I was just about to
return to Hartfield.

"Twill soon be time for dinner.  Will you stay and dine?"  she
pleasantly invited her late husband's attorney.

Alexander Beresford reluctantly demurred but with grateful thanks for
the kind offer as he gallantly helped Victoria to her feet.  She was
surprised to see him.  He usually made the trip from the town of St
Albans to the village of Ashdowne about once every six weeks to advise
her on Daniel's investments and her current financial situation.  She
was sure not yet a fortnight had passed since last she had seen him.  He
was a pleasant, stocky man of perhaps thirty-five.

He seemed efficient in all he did and had been a great deal of help to
her in the weeks following Daniel's death, patiently explaining exactly
what provision Daniel had made for her and that, with careful
administration and a tight grip on the purse-strings, the funds would
prove adequate to frugally maintain Hartfield.

She noticed he seemed more nervous than usual.  Despite the chill
afternoon air, a beading of perspiration glistened along his hairline.

"Is something amiss, Mr Beresford?"

He cleared his throat, thrusting large hands into his great n coat
pockets while gazing off into the distance.  This was to be a momentous
day for both of them and he still wasn't sure how or where to start.  So
he didn't.

"You have made that look very nice indeed, Mrs Hart.  Those bright flow-
erheads can be seen from beyond the chapel gate."  His praise was
fulsome yet not once did he glance at the crocuses he so admired.

"Is there something amiss, Mr Beresford?"  Victoria persisted, seeking
contact with his evasive brown eyes.

"Yes, Mrs Hart, there is," Alexander Beresford told her bluntly, his
gaze finally colliding with hers.

"But I think we should leave further discussion until we're back at
Hart- field."  With a solemn air of finality he offered her his arm.

"Surely the warehouse ought to have been insured against fire?"

Victoria demanded of Alexander Beresford, seated opposite her, his
papers spread across her small library desk.

The man raked some chubby fingers through his brown hair.

"It seems it was not, Mrs Hart.  I have to admit to being equally amazed
and angry at this discovery."  A stubby finger poked between his
neckcloth and his red-' mottled throat.

"The clerk charged with dealing with insurance cover on the premises at
the East India Dock had not paid over the cash to the insurance company.
In short, the man appears to have fraudently used the money as his own
and allowed the policy to lapse."  Mr Beresford clapped both hands down
on the table, pushed himself back in his chair and issued a hearty blow
of mingled annoyance and resignation.

"None of which helps your cause, I'm afraid, Mrs Hart.  Practically all
Daniel's stock was lost in the inferno.  The rogue could possibly be
punished, if the theft was proven and his whereabouts discovered.  I
have it from a reliable source that the coward is gone to ground.  No
doubt he trusted the theft would go undetected."

Victoria gazed at him with wide grey eyes.  The enormity of what he was
saying was slowly penetrating her mind, in terrifying fragments.

"Just how badly will I... will Hart- field... be affected by this loss,
Mr Beresford?"  she asked quietly, determinedly.

His thick fingers plucked distractedly at the papers in front of him
before clasping together.

"To pay off creditors Hartfield must be sold," he eventually burst out.

"Never!"  Victoria whispered in fierce astonishment.  She certainly had
not anticipated that things were as bad as that.  "Daniel bequeathed
Hartfield to me to provide a home for us all.  And also to retain the
servants who have served him... us so faithfully.  Some have been at
Hartfield for twenty years or more.  Samuel was but nine years old when
he commenced work in the stables.  I would feel I had utterly failed
Daniel... betrayed him, and so soon.  It is barely eight weeks since his
death.  No!  There must be some other way..."

"I have searched for other ways, I assure you," Alexander Beresford
stressed quite truthfully, his fleshy face ruddying in indignation.

"The bank that forwarded loans to Daniel for the speculative purchase of
those silks and cottons, now mere ashes, is pressing for payment.

I need to forward some cash soon.  An interim payment might appease them
for a short while.  I suggest sale of the last of the sterling bonds.  "
He swivelled some papers towards her as he spoke, but they barely
received a cursory glance.  Her grey eyes were pinned back on his face,
desperate for some reassurance that this awful, unexpected situation
wasn't as dire as it seemed.  None came.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but Hartfield will need to be sold.  And as soon as
possible.  There is no stock now to sell to meet the interest or the
principal.  You probably know that during your late husband's illness
his finances declined quite considerably.  There is the matter of the
overdue rent from the Holdbrook farm, but I know Daniel was not keen to
sue for that while the family were suffering such tribulations."

Victoria nodded, murmuring her wholehearted agreement with Daniel's
forbearance.  The tenants at that farm were experiencing dreadful
hardship: two of the sons had been taken with consumption and just
before Daniel had died of the same pitiless condition they'd had word
that the youths' mother was also afflicted.  Adam Holdbrook, a man in
his late forties, was now struggling to run his farm single- handed and
rear three young children under five years of age.  To insist on payment
of overdue rent at such a time would have been beneath humanity.  In
fact, it was time she visited the family with a little of Hartfield's
butter and cheese.  Samuel had told her only that week that, in
desperation, Adam Holdbrook had sold the family's last dairy cow.  At
one time, Daniel had been in a position to help luckless villagers. It
had cemented good relationships between landlord and tenant.  Now there
was very little she could offer at such times.  Her thoughts raced back
to her own predicament.  The awful truth was that she might soon be in
need of a little charity herself.

"Will there be any residue from the sale?  Enough to provide a home for
myself and my father and aunt?"

"There will be very little, my dear... very little indeed."  Alexander
knew there would be nothing but voicing as much was beyond his courage.

Victoria stared at him, obliquely aware that he was kindly trying to
comfort her.  He had done so before on the fateful evening Dr Gibson had
told them that Daniel would be dead before mom.  And when reading
Daniel's will to her and explaining that everything her late husband
owned was to be hers.

Hartfield was to be hers to keep or sell as she would but no other man
would ever lay hands on it.  Codicils had been added to the deeds to
Daniel's estate so it could be bequeathed to her yet never pass out of
her control and into the unworthy clutches of a future husband, should
she remarry.

Alexander Beresford's brown eyes settled on the woman he secretly
desired and admired.  He strove for the boldness to voice his proposal.

"There is another way, Victoria."

The immediate bright hope in her eyes made him blurt quickly,

"You could... you should remarry."

Victoria frowned across the library table at him.

"Remarry?  My husband is barely eight weeks buried.  It is far too soon;
besides, I have no wish..."

"I realise, my dear, that so soon might seem indelicate but in
circumstances such as these... desperate circumstances... people
understand such behaviour. What choices have you?  A man to support you
or employment are the only options if you are to avoid the parish
relief."

"Well, which man would take on a widow with an estate and property to
upkeep that will never be his own?  He would need to be a wealthy saint.
No such man exists."

"Well, naturally, Victoria," Alexander Beresford said mildly, 'no man
would burden himself so.  Hartfield must be sold to meet your debts, for
no man would take on such losses.  But you still need protection and
security.  And any amount of gentlemen would be proud.  happy to have
you grace their home. " And their bed, ran involuntarily through
Alexander Beresford's mind, making his chubby features perspire at such
lustful thoughts.  He repeated quickly,

"No, Hartfield must be sold to pay your debts and I expect you would
feel obliged to make provision for your relatives before you wed, if at
all possible."

"My relatives?  You mean my papa and Aunt Matilda?  Well, naturally they
would live with me..."

"Daniel Hart was indeed philanthropic.  But a new husband might not
countenance such an arrangement, my dear," Alexander warned firmly.  His
brown eyes roved discreetly over her fitted buttoned bodice.  Even the
drab mourning grey and serviceable material could not deflect an
appreciative glance at her slender ribcage and small rounded breasts.

He was determined to make his offer and in the circumstances was
reasonably confident of it being successful.  But his means and
generosity, would never stretch to her extended family.  He earned a
reasonable salary, had good prospects, and a comfortable home in St
Albans.  Victoria was very welcome to share it as his wife but his duty
ended there.  He had no intention of charitably boarding and lodging her
brain-sick father or her outspoken widowed aunt, no matter what
precedent Daniel Hart had vexingly set.

She would lose Hartfield.  She had debts to pay and would thus lose the
home her husband had had in his family for three generations.

This was all that dominated Victoria's mind.  Daniel had left it in her
safekeeping and within two months of his death it was to be lost.

But how could she have prevented it?  She could never have averted this
disaster.  Was there sense in Alexander's proposal that another good man
might be her salvation?  She had married one, kindly husband who had
cared for her and her family.  But then Daniel Hart and Charles Lorrimer
had been old acquaintances: she had known her late husband all her life.
She had always liked him.  trusted him implicitly.  It was the reason
she had agreed to marry him when her future looked so bleak.  She sighed
dejectedly.

"My papa and my aunt are settled here.  I so wish my father could see
out his remaining days at Hartfield."

"Well, I would do all in my power to please you, my dear," Alexander
said.

"But retaining Hartfield even for one more month is, I believe, quite
beyond me."

Victoria looked at him with wary grey eyes.  Surely he didn't mean.

"I see you have guessed, and I can't say I'm surprised for I know I have
difficulty at times in shielding my feelings for you.  I have long
admired you, Victoria.  To my shame, I held you in great affection even
when Daniel was alive.  I envied him so..."  The admission seemed ripped
from him.

"Please, I feel I should stress that I... that I..."  Victoria could
think of nothing to add quickly to make him stop.

"No, let me finish.  I must say these things, my dear.  I have loved and
admired you for a long while.  It would make me the proudest man alive
if you would consent to be my wife.  I have a comfortable villa in St
Albans and good prospects and salary.  I have my business premises there
and ambitions to expand and take on a partner--' " Please, I have to
speak.  " Victoria softly interrupted him.  She smiled and it prompted
the florid-faced man to spontaneously reach across the table and grasp
one of her small- boned hands in his pudgy fingers.  The instinct to
withdraw from his moist palm was not easily curbed.

"I truly thank you, Mr Beresford, for your proposal.  But I cannot... I
cannot even countenance remarrying at present.  Your kindness in
offering to share your home with me does you great credit and me great
honour.  But at present I cannot consent..."

"I understand; of course I do.  A year at least to mourn one's dear
departed is usual... indeed expected.  I have spoken too soon in the
normal way.  But circumstances are no longer normal.  People understand
that financial hardship countermands such codes.  But I understand you
need time to think." He gave her a rather sweet smile.

"I pray you will consider quickly and favourably, Victoria."  He
hurriedly collected together his papers and within five minutes was gone
from Hartfield.

As Victoria pivoted on her heel in the hallway after the great door
closed behind him, she pondered on all he had  I

1 told her.  She thought of her father and her aunt and, because e was a
kind man, she knew Alexander would provide for them.  She turned back
and stared at the arched s oaken doors of Hartfield.  He was quite
right: her circum- | stances were eexceptional.  Protection for herself
and her | family was a priority; clinging to social niceties was not.  I
She suddenly felt sorely tempted to run after him and give him her
answer now.

Chapter Three.

Well, I think it is an admirable idea!  "

"You do?"  Victoria quizzed her aunt, amazed.

"Of course.  What you have to bear in mind, Vicky, my dear, is that you
are property-rich but income-poor.  You need an alliance with a man who
is the reverse.  That would solve everything."

"I am not property-rich, Aunt Many," Victoria patiently explained.

"The bank will seize Hartfield, and Alexander Beresford is hardly
rich..."

"Tush, not him!"  Matilda Sweeting dismissed, contemptuously flapping a
hand.

"We can do better than him, I'll warrant.  We want a man of serious
wealth, not reasonable prospects.  No, what we will have to do, my dear
Vicky, is take a trip to London and put you on the marriage block!"

"You are simply priceless.  Aunt Many," Victoria censured on a giggle.

"In case it's slipped your mind, I am not a debutante of eighteen with
an enticing dowry but an impecunious recent widow in her twenty-sixth
year. Husband- hunting so soon and so blatantly would be frightfully
unseemly. Besides, how many rich saints do you know that we can impose
upon?  For such a man is indeed what we need.  Someone willing to take
on all the responsibilities of Hartfield, and yet be content never to
own it himself. A man prepared to support with equanimity a wife and her
relations..." Victoria glanced anxiously at Matilda's reaction to that;
she hadn't meant to imply her aunt was a burden.

"Keep your head still," Matilda ordered, unperturbed by Victoria's
tactless comment.  She gently drew a silver- backed hairbrush through
her niece's thick hair, fanned ebony tresses over the shoulders of her
white cotton nightgown and teased strands to frame her ivory complexion.
Satisfied with her artistry, she curved her age-spotted hands over
Victoria's silken scalp, showing her her reflection in the glass.

"Now tell me which man would not like that beautiful sight greeting him
nightly."

"Aunt Matilda!"  Victoria admonished in an outraged squeak.

"Now don't get prudish with me, my girl.  What you have to bear in mind
is that what always counts with gentlemen when the chips are down--or
more importantly aren't down in our case, as we are all now so poor--is
the lure of beauty.  I suppose that tubby solicitor courting you told
soppy tales of admiration and respect," Matilda fawned, contorting her
lined cheeks into further wrinkles.

"Pah!  He desires you.  So does every lusty male who claps eyes on
you... that's the truth of it."

Placing her elbows on the dressing table, Victoria rested her slender
chin in her cupped hands and looked.  Limpid grey eyes roved across her
creamy brow from where ebony satin hair curtained her small,
heart-shaped face.  She swivelled her pointed chin in her palm,
examining her features.  Her nose was too short and narrow, she was
sure, and her mouth too full and wide.  But throughout her life she had
been told she was pretty.  Even her papa had once grudgingly admitted
that she mirrored her mother's pale beauty and not a scrap of him. apart
from his black hair.  But she could only recall him complimenting her
that once, when mellow with brandy and bonhomie after a successful
afternoon's gambling at his club.  There had been very few such cheering
incidents.  He'd invariably lost, and heavily.  Yet he would return to
St James's confident of recouping the previous day's misfortunes.

Daniel had constantly said how proud he was of his child-wife, as he
affectionately termed her.  But the man who had pleased her most with
his quiet compliments.  she no longer thought of, she firmly reminded
herself, abruptly sitting back in her velvet chair.  But her grey eyes
held with her reflection.  She rubbed at her high cheekbones, stirring
some colour into them.

"Leave yourself be!"  Matilda whipped pins from her own greying locks in
readiness for retirement.

"You weren't meant to be one of those milky-pinky misses with yellow
hair and baby-blue eyes," she lisped through the pins lodged temporarily
between her teeth.  They soon scattered on the dressing table.

"You're just fine as you are.  I noticed David Hardinge couldn't keep
his eyes from you... when he thought you were looking elsewhere, of
course.  I swear you quite took that wealthy bachelor's breath away,"
she innocently declared, sliding a pale blue eye sideways at her niece.

Victoria stood up abruptly.

"Indeed I did," she admitted sourly.

"So breathless was he in my company, he had difficulty speaking at all.
We barely exchanged a dozen words, in the short while he deigned to stay
at his kinsman's wake."

"Well, the memory of him has certainly cured the lack of roses in your
cheeks," Matilda lightly remarked, eyeing the becoming flush warning
Victoria's face.

"I've heard from my sources in London that he is now so eligible he is
sought by all the top hostesses, yet shuns most in favour of carrying on
regardless. Of course his affluence and title ensure he is welcome
whatever his character and reputation."  A reflective pause preceded her
next words.

"I thought he seemed much older and rather cynical about the eyes and
mouth. But then it hasn't detracted at all from his looks; quite the
reverse. Maturity sits well on some men: gives them presence and
sophistication.  To look at him, so handsome and dignified, you would
judge him a paragon of propriety."

"Perhaps he is," Victoria remarked lightly, as though, truth or not, it
concerned her little.

"Indeed, he's not!"  Matilda scoffed.

"Last time I sat down to a hand of brag with Colonel Waiting and his
lady, I overheard the gentlemen tattling about Viscount Courtenay. Never
mind."  She drily anticipated and answered Victoria's unspoken
inquisitiveness.

"They sounded quite green with envy and were no doubt vastly
embellishing it all.  They must have been!  The few snippets I caught
would have shocked the devil himself!"

"How can you intrigue me so then refuse to say more?  You have to tell
me now," Victoria petitioned with a brittle little laugh.

"Indeed, I shall not!  It's not fit for these old ears."  Matilda batted
at them in emphasis.

"I'll certainly not repeat such lewd, shameless behaviour to a genteel
young female."

"It concerned his lady friends, then?"  Victoria probed, dipping her
head and brushing her hair.

"Friends, maybe... ladies, never!"  Matilda snorted.

"And you'll prise no more from me, my girl.  You've tricked me into
saying too much as it is.  Now I'm off to find my bed.  These old bones
need some rest."

She halted with her hand on the doorknob.

"What you have to bear in mind, Victoria, is that there are far worse
things than marrying a libertine for his money and his title.  After
all, once you were prepared to marry him when he had neither," she added
wryly, closing the bedroom door.

"I thought I ought to bring this to your immediate attention, my lord.

Albert Gibbons had it hand-delivered.  As you and the lady are almost
related, he probably guessed you'd be concerned at the news.  "

David Hardinge frowned at this cryptic comment and immediately took the
proffered note.  It had to be news of some import from his solicitor, he
supposed, breaking the seal, that had brought Jacob out in the sleety
rain to seek him at his club.  A frown and narrowing of incredulous blue
eyes were swiftly followed by an exceedingly contented smile.  As David
relaxed back into his chair, leisurely rereading the note, he gave a
throaty, satisfied laugh, thereby prompting Jacob to sigh and give an
imperceptible shake of his head.

He had anticipated a mood of shock and sorrow at the calamitous
information contained in the missive, but his master was merely
surprised.  and pleased.

He had always believed he knew this Lord Courtenay well.  He would have
held him up as a charitable man; not one apt to crow over others'
misfortune.  It was true he was ruthless in his business dealings,
especially with any foolish enough to attempt trickery.

Nevertheless, he could be outstandingly generous.  William Branch, not
even one of his closest chums, had fallen foul of the dice once too
often, yet had been saved from the Fleet by the Viscount's funds
forwarded at a paltry percentage.  Was not his lordship also invariably
generous to his women, past and present?  Redundant paramours were amply
compensated.  In fact, Jacob was prone to tut and mutter about economies
every time he dealt with such pension funds.

Yet Lord Courtenay learned of disasters affecting his late cousin's
family and it gave him cause to chuckle.  Jacob had heard about the
inferno that had decimated a warehouse on the East India Dock and knew,
unofficially, that Mrs Hart was now destitute because of it.

Well, perhaps the hard-hearted devil wouldn't find it quite so amusing
if his kinsman's widow decided to petition for his charity.  Jacob
glared through his spectacles at his master's hard face.  Yes, that
might just test his generosity and his humour, for he'd heard her losses
were colossal.

Having folded his hand of poker and taken leave of Dickie Du Quesne and
various other acquaintances at White's, David Hardinge walked back
through the cold drizzle towards Beauchamp Place.  His thoughts would
have surprised his clerk, half running beside him to keep up with his
long stride, had Jacob but known them.  Far from maliciously relishing
Victoria's fate, what he sardonically savoured was his own.

At one time, and not so many years ago, nothing in his life had ever
gone the way he wanted.  Now luck ran so persistently in his favour that
it tended to rouse his sceptical amusement.

During the past two months, a plausible reason to approach Victoria Hart
and offer her his protection would have had him bartering his soul.  And
now he had one.  Not only that, but after what he'd just learned he was
quite confident she would be readily amenable to his overtures.
Contrarily that disappointed him: nothing and no one seemed to be a
worthy challenge any more.

In the first month following their reunion he had striven daily to
exclude her from his mind.  Finally accepting that as utterly impossible
and therefore utterly infuriating, the second month he'd given in,
succumbed to self-torment and had cast about desperately for some
tenable excuse to return to Hartfield.

Now he had it, and just in time: this irritating obsession he had with
possessing her had vexed him long enough.  Deliverance from it lay in
indulging it until it palled, and that was exactly what he intended to
do. So her impending bankruptcy aroused little sympathy for it suited
him and need never harm her.  She would be well cared for.  His women
always were.

Dwelling on her delicate beauty softened the hard set of his features.
Despite her grief on the day of her husband's funeral, she had clung
tightly to her composure, admirably dealing with her servants and her
deranged father.  She had dealt admirably with him too.  Yet she had
wanted him to stay longer and had poignantly lacked the guile to conceal
it.  Pride had made her try, he allowed with a wry smile, recalling her
aloof civility and how sweetly vulnerable it had made her seem.

From the moment he had walked away and into the snow he had wished
himself back with her.  It was only later, at the Swan tavern, that he'd
grudgingly accepted he'd run for cover.  No other woman had ever rattled
him the way she did, or made him feel simultaneously lecherous and
caring.

On hearing another low, private chuckle, Jacob muttered beneath his
breath, sprinted ahead up the steps of his master's magnificent town
house and rapped impatiently on the enormous stately door.  Turning
back, he watched his employer stroll on through the icy mist as though
promenading on a summer's day, hands thrust deep in his pockets, a vague
smile about his narrow mouth.

"It's fate, that's what it is.  The stars have decided the matter for
us," Aunt Matilda announced breathlessly on entering the dining room two
mornings later.

Victoria enquiringly raised dark brows, while carrying to her father his
tea and toast.  She placed his breakfast close by him, retrieved his
napkin from the carpet, replaced it on the polished mahogany table, then
gave her aunt her full attention.

Matilda held out a letter towards her niece, shaking it excitedly.

"See what the express has just brought.  There, read that!"  she
ordered.

"It's a sign.  I swear it is.  Charles, if you drop it again, you remain
jam my-mouthed," she warned her brother as he furtively lowered white
linen towards the persian rug.

"Where are the kippers?"  Charles Lorrimer demanded, through the napkin
scrubbing at his mouth.

"I don't want this..."  He sent the plate of toast and jam skidding away
across the table's glossy surface.

"Where is my proper breakfast?"

"You know kippers give you indigestion.  Papa, and the bones catch in
your teeth," Victoria calmly answered, while reading the letter in her
hand.  It was from her aunt's sister- in-law, Margaret Worthington, and
its purpose was to invite Matilda and a companion to Cheapside in London
to attend her daughter's birthday celebration in two weeks' time.

"Well, you must go, of course," Victoria told her gleeful aunt as she
handed back her letter.

"We must go," Matilda stressed for Victoria.

"You and I now have a reason for a trip to town and the perfect venue to
socialise.

Margaret has some very influential friends.  You must remember her
daughter, Emma.  Nice enough but a plain little thing.  I'll warrant
Margaret must be fair despairing of ever shifting her.  She must be
twenty-four now if a day. But the girl always was too much of an
opinionated blue-stocking.  " Matilda halted mid-flow.

"Of course!

She has probably invited every eligible man for miles around to attend.
It will be just perfect for us.  You'll outshine every female there.
Margaret will be spitting mad.  "

"Aunt!"  Victoria cautioned, noticing that her father was leaning
towards them in his chair, straining to listen, a crafty look crinkling
his eyes and mouth.

"You must go and enjoy yourself.  Aunt Matty, but much as I would love
to join you it's impossible," she stated quietly and firmly as she
noticed her aunt about to protest.

"I am a recent widow.  I know I promised Daniel not to mope and weep but
extravagant socialising is too much.  Besides, Papa needs me and so does
Hartfield."

"Well, what you have to bear in mind, my girl, is that this might be
your last chance for either of them to need you," Aunt Matilda hissed in
an undertone.

"There will soon be no more Hartfield to concern you.  Every stick of
furniture, every acre and barn will be sold... gone unless you find a
man to take it all on.  And as for your papa..."  She nodded
meaningfully at her brain-sick brother, polishing the dining table with
his napkin dipped in tea.

"How long do you think he will stand the rigours of the parish relief?
Or a lunatic asylum, for that matter?  Your chubby solicitor suitor has
no intention of burdening himself with either of us old 'uns, you know."

She gave Victoria's arm an encouraging shake.

"Daniel doted on you.  He would want you safe and happy.  With his last
breath he decreed you enjoy your youth.  You know that's the truth.
Besides, Margaret is my late husband's half-sister and it is an age
since we met.  We are not gadding, simply visiting relations."

Victoria started awake from her snooze as the carriage jolted.  As it
slowed a small exclamation of dismay escaped her.  But mercifully it
picked up speed.  If they had halted once again and she had had to
endure George Prescott pacing to and fro mumbling and grumbling that he
was in a bit of a quandary, she was sure she would have resorted to
hysteria.

Her tapered fingers whitened on the battered upholstery of Hartfield's
travelling coach as she leaned forward to blink sleepy eyes at the
passing shadowy scenery.

The cottages were getting closer together and there were fewer intervals
of wooded countryside--a sure sign that they were approaching the
outskirts of the city.  They had already lost several hours while
Samuel's uncle had dithered about going this way or that.

As Samuel could not be spared from managing Hartfield or caring for her
papa in her absence to drive them to Lon- don, he had suggested that an
uncle of his, now retired, would be happy to take on the job for a small
consideration.  A reciprocal small consideration from Samuel's uncle
would have been very welcome: to wit, an admission that the man had not
travelled this route either as coachman or passenger for more than
sixteen years and that his sight and his memory were useless.

Twice they had turned into narrow lanes leading nowhere.  Maneuvering
their small carriage and two elderly greys about had proved arduous and
almost impossible.

Twice Victoria had suggested cancelling the trip and returning to
Hartfield. Then later in the week they could catch the stage from St
Albans and travel to town in a sane and relaxed manner.

Beryl, for her own reasons, had heartily concurred with this.  Her aunt
had told Beryl to mind her business before impressing on Victoria, with
a cautionary wag of the head, that they bear in mind the importance of
this trip.  Also, that Margaret Worthington was expecting them and would
be horrified should they not arrive, suspecting all sorts of devilry had
befallen them on the journey.

This genuinely concerned Victoria.  There was no way a message could
speedily be sent to their hostess, who was kind enough to be putting
them up for a week at Rosemary House in Cheapside.  She was probably
even now preparing for their arrival.

When George Prescott had then insisted that he was out of his quandary
and into his stride, Victoria had relented.  So they persevered towards
London but were several hours behind schedule.

She glanced across at her two female companions, one propped in either
corner of the creaking carriage, both sleeping soundly.

Neither had spoken a word to the other since the clash of opinion about
continuing to London.  Thereafter, simmering resentment was limited to
ostentatiously shifting as far apart as the small travelling coach
allowed.

Beryl had sulked from the moment she had learned she would be acting as
maid to Victoria and Matilda on this trip.  Victoria knew it was not the
thought of dressing a head of hair, which she did remarkably well, but
the thought of Sally exerting influence over Samuel in her absence.  But
it would have been impossible to leave the two women together,
sharpening their claws on each other while, vying for Samuel's favours.
Separating the housemaids was the only option in her absence from
Hartfield.

The carriage juddered and slowed.  Victoria immediately pulled herself
towards the window and peered out.  There were two conveyances in front
of them now and, on the right-hand side, a row of grimy building
tenements.

London!  At last!  A few hawkers' shouts were audible amongst the
rattling of carriage wheels and as they proceeded they merged into a
thrum of sound. Victoria inhaled carefully, sure she could detect tar
and brine in amongst the pungent whiffs assaulting her nostrils.  She
squinted into the gloom and in the distance made out rigging and masts
rising like grey skeletons against a velvet night sky.  They were
obviously near the Thames.

A young boy, perhaps seven years old, caught her attention by waving a
hand; he then held it out, calling for coins.  Even in the twilight,
Victoria could discern his ragged, emaciated body and it tweaked her
heartstrings.

The babble and stench of the city increased, permeating the coach.  A
mouth-watering aroma of savoury pies became submerged beneath the
stomach-churning stink of ordure.  Victoria drew the leather curtain
over the draughty window.  She glanced at her female companions; neither
was in the least disturbed by the city hullaballoo and both gently
snored on.

The thought of Rosemary House--warm refreshment and a soft bed close at
hand--made Victoria simultaneously contented and conscience-stricken as
she thought of the filthy urchin she'd just spied.  As she shifted to
find a comfortable spot on the cracked hide seat, her weary head lolled
back into the squabs and her eyelids drooped.

They flicked up within a few minutes.  The coach had stopped.  She
waited tensely, then felt the vehicle rock on its axle as George
Prescott descended from his perch.  Victoria fought to budge the coach
window to speak to him; he was now conversing with someone by the greys'
heads.

George looked searchingly about in the manner of someone locating their
bearings and Victoria groaned despairingly.  He scratched his head
thoughtfully, then, urged by his rough-looking companion, walked towards
a crowd of people.

Without sensible thought, Victoria was out of the coach and running to
apprehend him.

"Mr Prescott!"  she called loudly, holding her skirts as she skipped and
dodged the debris in the street.

"What is happening?  Where do you think you are off to?  Are we arrived
at Cheapside?  Why have we stopped here?"  Her queries and accusations
came tumbling out.

"I'm in a bit of a quandary, you see, Mrs Hart..."  he began sheepishly.

"Now you get yourself back in the coach while I finds out from these
folks jest where we are.  This kind gent reckons Rosemary Lane be up
there and a turn back towards the Ratcliffe Highway where I believe we
jest came through. Er... we've been around in a circle, like..."

"We're lost again?"  Victoria demanded incredulously, and then,
horrified, corrected,

"We require Rosemary House, in Cheapside, Mr Prescott.  Not Rosemary
Lane." She glanced warily at the scruffy, stocky man with George
Prescott.  His features were virtually lost beneath a tangle of beard
that seemed almost attached to scraggy brows.  His sharp black eyes were
distinguishable: they slipped assessingly over her fine clothes before
sliding sideways to the unattended carriage behind her.

Victoria stiffened.  Two sleeping women were left there alone and
unprotected.  She attempted to divert the man's astute stare.

"Are there street entertainers?"  She was sure her voice sounded
squeakily unnatural and quickly indicated a crowd of people forming a
circle.

Raucous shouts and laughter crescendoed as people began spilling onto
the cobbles from brightly lit inns and gin shops situated on either side
of the narrow street.  Flares formed moving pools of glowing gold amid
flickering patches of darkness.  She watched in increasing alarm as
drunkards linked arms, holding each other up, yet still up-ended
tankards and tots.  Two blowsy, rouged women passed close by and
subjected Victoria to a spiteful-eyed stare.

"Look at 'er ... proper Miss

"Oity-Toity, ain't she?"  one spat coarsely.  They both screeched with
laughter as the scruffy man gave them a playful shove and told them to
mind their manners.  Before weaving on, they swore and gesticulated
good-naturedly at him.

"Why not look, my lady?"  her unkempt champion challenged her.

"We gets people o' quality about here on cock fighting night.  Lords 'n
all sorts.  They comes to wager and partake o' the sport.  Jugglers in
the market there.  Plenty to see 'n buy.  Yer'll judge us proper decent
folk compared to the Ratcliffe Highway scum.  Come, yer'll not be alone
wi' ruffians.  I'll look out fer yer and finds out direkshuns to... What
was that address agin? Rosemary sum think He solicitously lowered his
head for her response but his intention was closer inspection of what
delightful promise Victoria's cloak concealed.

Cautiously stepping back, Victoria glanced appealingly at old George
Prescott.  Her driver was scratching at his head again.

"As I recall, Cheapside is..."  He rotated on the spot with a searching
finger in the air.

"Cock-fighting, you say?"  Victoria gulped, feigning interest in the
barbaric pastime.  Their carriage was still intermittently drawing this
rough stranger's acquisitive attention, and, hoping to distance him from
it, Victoria said breathlessly,

"I've never before seen such a spectacle..."

The man obstructed her as she made to speed past him.  "Nor never likely
to see agin, I reckons.  What you doin' 'ere?  Sweet little lady like
you?  Come fer the sport, did yer?  Bored little lady, is yer?"  he
breathed close to her face with a foxy smile.

"Well, I'll shows yer some better sport than yer'11 get off them
cocks..." He howled with laughter, painfully tightening dirty fingers
about an evasive arm.

"Unhand me at once," Victoria demanded, her alarm now backed by anger,
her grey eyes sparking jet-black in her white face.

"Unhand you ... is it?"  he mimicked.

"You ain't in May- fair now, duckie.  Yer on my manor and yer'll..."

Victoria was no longer listening.  She was staring wide- eyed past her
tormentor and at that precise moment the focus of her amazement turned,
laughing, from his male companion and saw her.

"David..."  Victoria whispered in shock and stupendous relief.

"Victoria?"

She was too far away from him to hear her name, but she saw it on his
lips, just as she saw her own disbelief and astonishment mirrored in his
face.  His blond companion took money from his unresisting fingers then
wandered off towards some stalls set up.

There was a small group of gentlemen present, clearly distinguishable by
their arrogant bearing and expensive dress.  And they were, indeed,
wagering, she obliquely realised This local ruffian hadn't lied on that
score.  As though sensing he was favourably considered, the man fumbled
two large hands inside her cloak.

For little more than a second Victoria desperately fended him off, then
he was savagely spun away from her and sent tottering back on his heels.

David Hardinge stood facing the giddy Lothario with his back to her.

"Not your type, Toby," he stated, in an odd mix of lazy drawl and steely
threat.

The man regained his balance, simultaneously shaking his shaggy head and
whipping up ham-like fists in aggression.  But, instead of charging,
grimy fingers scraped across his bristly, bashful face.

"Sorry, milord.  Didn't know she was yours, honest."  He shifted
uncomfortably then executed an incongruous sort of bow-cum-curtsey
before sloping off, muttering,

"Some looka."

Before Victoria could draw breath to thank him, she was propelled
backwards, fast up against the licheny brickwork of a building.  Two
rigid, barring arms slammed at either side of her, shielding her face
from view.

Everything once dear and familiar about him bombarded her senses: his
warmth and muscular strength, his fresh cologne, so welcome a fragrance
in the hotchpotch of odours.  Instinctively she swayed closer then
started back.

"What the hell are you doing here?"  David Hardinge bit out so
ferociously through his teeth, his thin lips barely parted.

Victoria winced as though he'd hit her.  His intense, almost tangible
fury dried her mouth and her head throbbed with tension.

The shabby stranger had alarmed her; this elegantly dressed man she
believed she knew terrified her.  Yet, paradoxically, a serene sense of
safety let her rest back against the brickwork and raise languid eyes to
his.  Flickering torchlight threw into stark relief his fierce, anxious
expression.  Fear for her safety had prompted his anger.  The instinct
to protect radiated from him.  It was in his rigid stance, in the way he
used his body to shield her as people pressed close by them.

Hard, unsteady fingers lifted to her cheek before sliding across her
jaw.

Mesmerised by the soothing caress, Victoria simply stared up at him.

She had thought this all forgotten, banished from her life for ever.

This touch.  this man inclined towards her, his mouth close to hers.

Long sooty lashes parted to reveal tortured relief in his sapphire eyes.

"What in damnation do you think you're doing here?"  he gritted out.

"Looking for you," Victoria answered with rash honesty.

Chapter Four.

Looking for me?  " he repeated.

Victoria dipped her head, feeling her face heating at her unguarded
confession.  But it was honest, she remotely realised.  It was the
absolute truth.  She now accepted in this noxious London marketplace
what she had refused to acknowledge in the quiet sanctuary of
Hertfordshire: the only reason she had agreed to leave her papa and
Hartfield in the servants' care was to come to London with her aunt,
seek out this man and ask him to marry her.  To save them all from
destitution, she needed him to want her again.

"Looking for me?"  David persisted, a light finger sliding beneath her
oval chin to try to make her meet his eyes.

Victoria subtly shielded her chagrin by turning her face into his
shoulder. Everything had gone so awfully wrong!  And so soon!  He would
naturally expect some explanation for such an outrageous declaration.

She had seen this man but once in seven years.  That reunion had hardly
been auspicious, yet, despite it, she had just freely implied searching
an insalubrious London district for him on a chilly spring night.

Subconsciously she had planned a far more favourable meeting.  Perhaps
when she was finely dressed in her beau n tiful lilac silk gown, when
she could attempt to charm him as she once had.  As it was, she knew she
looked fatigued and dishevelled.

Her grey velvet bonnet had been discarded in the carriage and dusky
tresses wisped untidily about her face in the biting night breeze.

Her dark woollen travelling cloak had been chosen for warmth rather than
fashion.  Oh, there couldn't have been a worse time for her to have let
slip such vital information!

"I'm flattered, Mrs Hart, that you wanted me so desperately you tracked
me to one of London's most notorious rookeries.  Nevertheless, a
visiting card delivered to Beau- champ Place would definitely have been
wiser."

His bored irony and the way he formally addressed her both froze and
fired Victoria.  So she was

"Mrs Hart', and no doubt a tiresome nuisance who was ruining his
evening's entertainment.

Her cool, dignified expression clashed with one of sardonic intensity.

"I intended to do exactly that, Mr Hardinge.  I have certainly not
sought you out specifically this evening.  How could I possibly have
known of your whereabouts?"  she demanded on a derisive little laugh.

"I had no idea you would be here... I had no idea / would be here, for
that matter.  We are lost and..."  Her scornful defence faltered.

"We are lost' ran back through her mind.  Oh, God!  She had completely
forgotten about her aunt and Beryl, still in the coach.  Oh, she hoped
they were still in the coach.  They could have been abducted or robbed
or murdered because she had been foolish enough to abandon them
defenceless and sleeping.

"Thank you for your aid, sir.  I apologise for detaining you," tumbled
from her lips as she attempted dodging past him.

It was impossible to go anywhere.  His arms remained stationed at either
side of her.  Her small hands rose, yanking desperately at his forearms
to remove them.  Iron muscle flexed within the fine wool of his coat as
he thwarted her attempts to shift him.

"Do you really want to roam unescorted through this drunken rabble, Mrs
Hart?"  he quietly asked.

"You've met Toby and should deem yourself fortunate: in comparison to
some of the stevedores around here, he's a reasonably decent chap.  He,
and many others about here tonight, are also in my employ.  Were they
not, both you and I and my companions would now be fighting to keep our
valuables... and our lives.  You haven't the vaguest idea where you are,
have you?  This isn't a charming Hertfordshire village, Mrs Hart.
There's a deplorable lack of chivalrous squires in these parts."

"I am being made perfectly aware of that, Mr Hardinge," Victoria tartly
retaliated, incensed by his ironic allusion to her dear, late husband.

"Please allow me to pass.  I have to return to my companions and I have
no wish to detain you from rejoining yours."

"Companions?  There are more of you?"  David demanded on an incredulous
laugh.

"Indeed.  And I am anxious for their welfare after what you have told
me..." Her voice quavered as her fragile composure finally cracked.

She heard him curse beneath his breath and frantically blinked away the
betraying, humiliated tears glossing her eyes.

She had been such a stupid fool!  In every single way!  She railed at
herself.  She should never have voiced her intention to approach him
while in London.  She should never have clung to her idiotic hope that
he might treat her with respect and kindness.  If he could abandon her
to seek diversion abroad merely weeks after proposing and declaring
undying love, then there could be no chance of courteous indulgence now,
after seven years.  He had forgotten their youthful friendship and had
made that much perfectly clear two months ago at Hartfield.

She almost laughed hysterically; it had been her intention to come and
appeal to his good nature!

She knew bored, wealthy gentlemen mixed with all levels of society in
their quest for diversion, but for this viscount to mingle with these
vagabonds. And, worse still, to seem quite at ease and accepted by them.
She recalled the painted-faced vulgar women who had verbally abused her.
She also recalled her aunt's genuine shock and disgust when recounting
details of his debauchery.  Surely not with such as were hereabouts.  It
was too much!  With a choked, woeful sob, she shoved fists against his
solid torso, desperate to escape.

Firm, gentle fingers slid into her hair, holding her close, as he
wordlessly allayed her alarm and anger.  And, despite all her
misgivings, her face instinctively sought the familiar muscled nook
below his shoulder as though it were only yesterday when last she'd
found comfort there.

"I have to go back to my aunt.  Please let me go back.  I'm worried some
ill might have befallen her and my maid..."

Shielding her slender body with the solid strength of his, David began
shouldering a path through the throng.  Even in her agitated state she
realised people were deferentially clearing a path for him to move
through. One woman bobbed a curtsey and several men dipped heads or
tugged forelocks as he approached.

A press of people milling on all sides forced them to a halt and David's
arms circled her protectively.  Victoria darted anxious glances this way
and that and spied Toby; with him was a woman whose neat, fashionable
attire made her seem oddly out of place.  At that precise moment the
woman's blonde head turned and almond eyes glanced idly about then swept
back to her.

They narrowed to slits and Victoria was horrified to read not only
recognition but cold hatred there too.  Those feline eyes shifted to
David, lingering covetously on him.

Victoria stared, mesmerised, as the woman spoke to Toby.  He looked
startled and stared over at them before dropping his dark, wiry head
close to his companion's elegant coiffure.  The woman began hurriedly
moving away from him.  They were arguing, Victoria realised, and quite
violently, judging by the way people close by were turning to laughingly
watch.  Then the couple were disappearing into the bobbing, seething
throng.

Feeling unaccountably alarmed, Victoria nestled instinctively into
David. Her disquiet took on a keener edge as long, controlling fingers
urged her body into even closer contact with his.  Her senses were
chafed raw by the heat of him warming her, a muscled thigh melding
against her hip, a hypnotic gaze drawing grey eyes to blue.

Slowly, inexorably, her ebony head was angling back.  She sensed him
inclining towards her, his mouth a mere sigh away.

Cherished, buried memories surfaced immediately.  She had loved it when
he kissed her.  Leisurely, drugging assaults inflicted with narrow,
sensual lips that looked so selfish, so savage.  yet had often been
unbearably attentive and kind.  Her thick, lush lashes un meshed she
glimpsed what she yearned to touch her as her eyes swept upwards to his
face.  and through a break in the crowd she spied her coach.

Drenching guilt that she had momentarily forgotten it and relief that it
hadn't, after all, been misappropriated vied for supremacy.  She prayed
her aunt and Beryl were still safely within.

They weren't!  Victoria ripped free of David's grip.  Dodging the last
few folk weaving about, she skipped over the filth on the cobbles and
ran lightly to her travelling companions.

"You are a most stupid man!"  met Victoria's ears as she came close to
her indomitable aunt.

"Anyone knows this is not Cheapside.  Look about you!  Gin houses--flash
houses too, I'll warrant.  Rogues and doxies everywhere..."  Matilda
halted mid-flow, catching sight of Victoria and then of David walking
behind her.

"We'll all be murdered in our beds.-.deaded by mom..."  Beryl wailed,
enfolding herself tightly into her cloak and jamming her bonnet hard
down over her pretty fair hair to conceal it.

"Foolish girl!  We'll be lucky to get to our beds tonight, let alone be
murdered in them.  Cease that shrieking and moaning.  You'll draw every
wretch's attention to us with your caterwauling."

Victoria wrapped her arms about her rigid-backed aunt and then drew
Beryl's shivering form into her embrace.  "Quick ... get back into the
coach... please.  Don't fret... I'm sure these people will let us leave
unchallenged. They are far too busy with their entertainment to bother
with us," she encouraged.  She addressed George Prescott sharply.

"Let us be moving on immediately..."

He nodded his sparse grey head knowledgeably at her.  "Well, I reckons,
if we keep the Thames to the left and the moon to the right..."

"You'll end up back here in about ten minutes," David Hardinge remarked
drily, nonchalantly leaning his immaculate figure against the battered
coach.

Matilda beamed at him then sent her niece such a look of explicit
congratulation that Victoria felt mortification and anger heat her face.
She glanced at the focus of her aunt's appreciation, hoping he had not
noticed the woman's tacit approval.  A cynical smile told her he had, as
did the very blue eyes watching her.  And all at once an awful
realisation struck her: he had not seemed as surprised as he ought to on
learning that she was seeking him!

"Mr Hardinge was by lucky chance here with some friends."  Victoria
quickly put both of them right, sure he quite believed she had somehow
managed to engineer the whole incident to waylay him.

"How fortunate," her aunt said in a tone which only served to endorse
this theory.

"Get in the coach now.  Aunt, and you.  Beryl.  We must leave here
immediately."  Beryl needed no further prompting.  She scrambled aboard
with Aunt Matilda quickly following.

"No doubt you'll want to thank and take your leave of the Viscount."

Matilda reminded Victoria of his status through the window she had
forced open then jammed shut again.

Her aunt was, of course, right.  He was most certainly owed her
gratitude. She didn't dare guess what might have befallen her at these
scoundrels' hands.

"Thank you for your protection, my lord..."

she dutifully said.

"You're very welcome to it, Mrs Hart."

The insinuation in his immediate, husky reply made Victoria blush
although she was unsure why such innocuous words should make her feel so
uncomfortable.  Or why he should look at her in that sleepy yet intent
way.

"If you're hoping to arrive at your destination some time this evening,
Mrs Hart, perhaps I ought to accompany you.  Your coachman still seems
confused." David indicatively raised his eyes to George Prescott, now
perched on the driver's seat but swivelling about on his posterior
muttering to himself about left and right and moon and stars.

It was a sensible and welcome offer.  Victoria was aware that they could
indeed end up returning to this unsavoury stew, or find a worse London
slum, should George Prescott again come upon his quandary.

"You're very kind," she said, inclining her head in acceptance and
allowing him to hand her into the coach.

Ten minutes later, almost at the same minute that their tired greys
clopped into Cheapside, Margaret Worthington appeared silhouetted in her
open doorway with a glow of honey light at her elegant back.  The
elderly mares whinnied to a grateful halt by black railings fronting a
neat, redbrick mansion.

David Hardinge alighted nimbly from the seat he had shared with George
Prescott.  Ensuring the man stayed alert and travelling west as they
negotiated the maze of dim city streets had necessitated him sitting
close by his side to give explicit instructions.  So exasperated had he
become with his colleague's failing faculties at one point that he'd
nearly snatched the reins to drive himself.

He held the carriage door and had helped each of the three women alight
before old George Prescott's rickety joints had allowed him to gain the
cobbles.

"So kind of you..."  Matilda beamed up at David, reluctant to relinquish
his long fingers.  She turned triumphantly to her old friend, to find
her squinting through the dusk at her.

Margaret Worthington shook her greying ringlets.  No.  it couldn't be.
It was a trick of the light .  or rather the lack of it.  She had seen
Lord Courtenay before, several times at a distance, and it did indeed
look like him.  But then it was almost nine of the clock.  Apart from
milky moonbeams and.  the flickering coach lamps there was only the
muted glow spilling from her open front door.  All was patchy and
shadowy.

But then again, she had heard that he and his friends indulged in some
quite outrageous pranks.  But to act as a footman.  No, it couldn't be.
But then she also knew that young men today wagered on the most bizarre
events and dares.  And, to top it all, she had never seen a groom quite
so sartorially splendid.  or handsome.  "Lord Courtenay has been kind
enough to show our man directions to Cheapside..."  Matilda gladly put
the woman's confusion to rest, with every intention of making her seethe
with envy.

She did not need to wait long.  Margaret Worthington grasped at a
speared railing and her crushed handkerchief went to her mouth.  She
almost ate it in sheer frustration.

More than a dozen times she had invited this viscount to her soirees;
never had he once deigned to grace her doorstep.  Now he did.  late in
the evening, unexpectedly, and with Emma's hair needing a wash and curl
to it.  It was beyond bearing.

"How wonderful to see you, Matilda," Margaret Worthington enthused.

"I

was so worried when you didn't arrive by six of the clock.  I have been
stationed by my windows these past three hours.  Please.  let us all
remove inside for warmth and refreshment.  " This was directed to the
party as a whole yet her sugary smile was for his lordship.  She
daintily tripped down the steps and got behind him somehow, cutting off
his retreat.

Once they had reached the drawing room and Matilda and Victoria were
seated, David announced his intention to leave.  Mrs Worthington
immediately demurred.

"Oh, come, my lord, you must at least take a sip of wine with us.  I
know gentlemen are not great tea drinkers.

Indeed, my own Mr Worthington is not.  He is a port and brandy man.

Had he known you were to visit he would never have retired so early.

He is usually up and about till well past midnight.  I'll just send
Rawlings to fetch him.  I know you gentlemen like another such to talk
to.  No interest in ladies' chatter, naturally.  " Margaret Worthington
paused for breath and started for the door.

David immediately put out a hand to detain her and insist she did not
needlessly disturb her sleeping husband; he was most definitely ready to
depart.  Margaret, spying a chance, grabbed it, in the shape of an empty
crystal goblet on a side table.  She immediately stuck it in his hand.

"There.

Just hold that while Rawlings fetches some wine.  " The middle-aged
woman sped to the door and began hissing something to someone outside
with much flapping of the chewed handkerchief in her hand.

Victoria avoided her aunt's eye.  She knew that the harder Margaret
Worthington endeavoured to detain David, the better Matilda liked it and
was not above showing it.  He had so far declined beverages, cinnamon
cake, alcohol, a male companion, a tour of the conservatory stocked with
exotic blooms--which Emma would be delighted to show him, Margaret had
sweetly assured him, ignoring her daughter's whiplash look.

As she sipped at her weak, warm tea, Victoria's grey gaze roved the
over-furnished drawing room of Rosemary House.  She replaced her
wafer-thin cup and saucer on a table close by the comfortable fireside
chair she sat in and glanced across at Emma.  The young woman's
honey-brown head was inclined towards the book she read as though for
all the world she had little interest in any guest who had joined them
this evening.

Despite the fact that Emma seemed a little meek and unassuming, Victoria
now knew she was not.  On their ar, rival, Margaret Worthington had
attempted to shut her daughter away in a side room as they entered the
house.  It had looked almost comical.  Emma had been about to emerge
into the hallway and had just avoided having herself squashed in the
door.

But Emma had refused to be pushed out of sight until primped in
readiness to receive their unexpected, but exceedingly welcome, male
guest.  Angrily side-stepping her mother, she had snapped shut the book
she held in her hand, serenely walked into the drawing room and welcomed
everyone with an odd detached warmth.  Having dutifully taken care of
the expected niceties, she had then sat quietly reading.  She now
appeared oblivious to her mother's staring, glaring and hissing words
through the lacy scrap she clutched.

Exasperated by the muttered asides, Emma finally looked up from her tome
and met Victoria's watching grey eyes.  The two young women exchanged a
small, exclusive smile.  one of instinctive empathy and friendship.
Victoria relaxed into her chair.  She was going to like Emma.

Margaret cautiously shook her handkerchief at her daughter to gain her
attention and then began mouthing through it.  Most of the undercover
comments issued so far, as Margaret skimmed back and forth close to her
daughter, had concerned Emma removing herself and reappearing in her
purple gown.

Politely looking at her agitated parent, Emma loudly enquired,

"I beg your pardon.  Mama?  What was that you said?  I didn't quite
catch it."

Margaret coughed daintily into her hankie.

"Nothing... nothing, Emma.

Just wondering why your papa's not down," she snarled, shooting a glance
Lord Courtenay's way.  Matilda choked a gleeful laugh and then grunted
as her china cup caught against her teeth in her haste to smother it.
She also looked at his lordship.

Victoria found her own eyes wandering his way too.  He had that effect
on people, she realised.  His physical stature, dark good looks and
louche sophistication would always draw eyes.

David was unaware that he was the focus of quite so much female
attention. He was studying the goblet, spinning its slender stem between
his long fingers as though confused as to how to rid himself of it.  He
glanced about, sapphire eyes flicking from ledge to ledge for a suitable
repository.  Then he caught Victoria's eyes on him and his restless gaze
stilled.  She smiled, unable to disguise her amusement at his
discomfort.  Rogues and ruffians he could deal with.  Scheming mamas
were obviously another matter entirely.

He smiled back, wryly acknowledging the fact that she was relishing his
predicament.  Then he strolled towards her and quite unselfconsciously
hunkered down by her chair and looked straight at her fatigued, wan
face.  He leisurely positioned his empty glass by her cup and saucer on
the small wine table close to her chair.

"So... We never got around to finishing our conversation in Hounsditch,
Mrs Hart.  As I recall, you've come to Lon- don looking for me," he
softly reminded her, just for her hearing.  Very blue eyes roved her
tense face and immediately dropped to her mouth as she began nervously
chewing her full lower lip.

"If you were to visit me tomorrow afternoon at Beau- champ Place, you
could explain why you want to see me.  Will you do that?  But just you
and your aunt.  Please don't bring your hostess," he added as a dry
afterthought.

Victoria hastily reached for her cup and sipped, unable to answer or
credit that he would pay her such obvious, intimate attention.  Her eyes
skipped to Margaret Worthing- ton but that woman was fanning herself
with her shredded scrap of lace and peering out of the door, obviously
awaiting Rawlings.

"Shall I bring her daughter instead?"  Victoria nervously, softly
taunted, wondering how he liked the fact that Emma was patently unmoved
by his illustrious, eligible self.

"Well, you might have to drag her screaming away from her literary
pursuits. She might not thank you for it."

Victoria touched her lower lip to her cup but slowly raised her dusky
thick lashes and damson-grey eyes merged with blue.  She was exhausted,
she was anxious, she was uncertain how to deal with this man and yet she
was flirting with him, she realised.  It seemed the most natural thing
in the world, and so familiar.  She could even remember his usual
reaction to her coquetry. He would close his eyes, throw back his head
and give a small defeated laugh. For whenever they had crossed swords
and she'd employed feminine wiles she had invariably got her
way--whether which park to drive in, which dance to dance together,
which tea shop.  theatre.  friends.  She watched him intently, barely
breathing as she waited.  Blue eyes rose above her head, lengthy lashes
swept down to shield them and a throaty laugh was just audible to her .
followed by a hard muttered curse.  That she didn't remember!

She hadn't been expecting Margaret Worthington to come bearing down on
them either.  The reed-thin woman whispered towards them, clutching a
decanter. Her astute brown eyes fixed on the handsome man and the
beautiful, unwanted female visitor, their dark heads close, and her
aspirations plummeted.  The last person she had expected.  hoped her
sister-in-law would bring as companion was a lovely young widowed
relation who made her own homely Emma look dull as ditch-water.  An
unseen glare arrowed to her uncaring daughter as she sat, unkempt head
bowed towards her Jane Austen novel.

"Do have a little brandy, my lord," Margaret insisted, splashing the
fine cognac into his wine goblet abandoned on the table.

David stood slowly, bestowing on Margaret a charismatic smile.  Raising
the glass to his lips, he downed the considerable quantity in two
swallows and replaced his glass.

"I really have to be going now, Mrs Worthington.  Thank you for your
hospitality."

Having bowed politely to all the ladies, David made for the door,
Margaret hot on his heels.

"We are having a birthday celebration for Emma this Saturday evening,"
she breathed at his back, thinking she might as well try as not.

"You may remember my invitation to it.  I know you have declined with a
prior engagement... but I do so hope you might find a spare hour to
honour us with your presence."

Margaret's crafty brain whirred on.  They were lacking gentlemen of any
consequence at the weekend.

"And do bring along that charming friend of yours... Mr Du Quesne.-too.
I can assure you of delicious food and fine wines, wonderful music and
entertainment, and, of course, most beautiful dancing partners..."

David glanced back thoughtfully at Victoria.  Margaret Worthington
intercepted the look.  Nevertheless, she sweetly lured through gritted
teeth,

"Of course, Mrs Hart and my dear sister-in-law, Matilda Sweeting, have
journeyed from Hertfordshire especially for the event."

David mused idly back over his invitations.  He couldn't recall this
card; but then Jacob now knew him so well and was so efficient at
sorting his correspondence into accept and reject that he barely glanced
at the latter. To be fair to his clerk, yesterday he would never have
dreamed of attending.

"I shall be delighted to come along for an hour or so, if I find it is
at all possible, Mrs Worthington."

David dipped his head politely, in thanks.

"I shall convey your invitation to Mr Du Quesne, also.  I'm sure his
sentiments will be as mine," he told an ecstatic Margaret, and with
another courteous bow to the assembled company he was gone.

Once outside, David swore aloud as he glanced up at the lighted window
but strolled on past.  He owned the house, paid handsomely for the
services of the woman who occupied it and yet found himself unwilling to
enter.

Annabelle was probably expecting him; not only that, she would make
perfectly apparent her delight at seeing him.  She was a city draper's
daughter and both she and her parents were extremely appreciative of his
attention and protection.  Annabelle had no coy inhibitions about
proving that to him in any way she could.  She was fresh, pretty enough,
curvaceous and tonight he needed a woman.  and yet he knew she was the
wrong woman.

The fact that the woman he did want was probably even now retiring for
the night at Rosemary House, barely a minute's walk away, made things
worse.  He cursed the fact she was so close.  He felt, ridiculously, as
though visiting his auburn-haired mistress tonight would somehow be
tantamount to infidelity. Yet nothing between him and Victoria was even
agreed.  But he was confident enough that tomorrow it would be.  A smile
just quirked his thin mouth. Fidelity?  What was that?  And why had it
reared its unwanted, meddlesome head?

He deliberately turned his thoughts elsewhere.  He'd been saved a trip
to Hertfordshire this weekend after all.  Not only that, the fact that
Victoria's situation was dire enough to bring her out seeking him meant
he could easily dictate terms.  Not that he was about to be
parsimonious.  Far from it.  But he was well aware she had dependents
and that she would allow them prior claim on her time, given half a
chance.

He halted close to a street lamp, took a cheroot from his pocket and lit
it. He drew deeply on it and arrowed a look back towards number ten
Gracechurch Street wherein he had every damned right to spend a few
hours in sensual pleasure and comfort.

But, however much he tried to force himself to dwell on the erotic
welcome Annabelle would provide for him, she couldn't sustain his
interest for more than a few minutes.

Pitching the virtually un smoked cheroot into the gutter and shoving his
hands deep into his pockets, he walked on, towards Hounsditch and his
carriage home to Mayfair.

"Will you look at that?"  Matilda expostulated, aiming the peak of her
bonnet at a barouche just turning into Hyde Park.

"Hood down and barely a stitch to cover their shoulders.  No wonder
these young females end up lying abed half the day asniffling and
asnuffling.  What you have to bear in mind in spring is that the climate
is unpredictable. Sunny it may be now, but by three of the clock today
it could blow a gale or sleet or rain in stair-rods..."  Aware that
Victoria was not impressed by her seasonal knowledge, nor had even
bothered to glance at the open-topped carriage bowling away into the
park conveying two improperly attired young ladies, Matilda pressed
together puckered lips.

She was well aware of the reason for Victoria's apprehensive quiet and,
as they drew ever closer to Beauchamp Place, again endeavoured to
introduce a little lightness to the atmosphere.

"Thank goodness Margaret allowed us to use her carriage.  Now where do
you imagine we might have landed had George Prescott had the reins this
afternoon?

The docks?  The Thames?  I hear from Margaret that parts are only lately
thawed.  There was a frost fair, you know.  People skating on the river.
Only think.  with that fool George Prescott, it could have been us.  "

Victoria managed a weak smile for her aunt.  She knew she was trying to
engage her attention and take her mind off the purpose of this outing
but it was impossible to simply chat.  Her head had started to pulse
with tension and her mouth was so parched her tongue felt glued to the
roof of her mouth. She wished now she had taken breakfast this morning;
it might have settled the churning of her stomach.

Matilda leaned towards her, determined to draw her niece into bland
conversation.

"Margaret thinks we are to visit my old schoolfriend Felicity Walsh.  I
knew I had only to mention her name to keep Margaret indoors this
afternoon.  They detest one another, you know.

Have done so since Felicity stole Desmond Walsh from under Margaret's
nose. All three of us were but sixteen then.  Felicity was the first to
marry at seventeen and I was the last, when I wed your uncle Harry ten
years later.  "

Victoria suddenly sat forward, blurting,

"It's no use, I can't go through with this."  A hand rose to rap for the
driver to halt, but Matilda grabbed at it.

"You can and you must!"  She looked fiercely at Victoria.  "All he can
say is no.  And if that is what he does, then we shall know him for a
fool and that you have had a lucky escape."

Victoria closed her eyes, praying for the confidence that had forced her
from Rosemary House at one of the clock this afternoon.  In the quiet,
pretty bedroom she and her aunt shared at the Worthingtons', it was easy
to forget just how dismal a situation she had left behind at Hartfield.

She had but a week in London and during that time she needed to do her
utmost to find a husband.  It was humiliating, it was degrading but it
was a realistic plan.  And one which women through the centuries had
employed to keep them from penury.  She was hardly unique in
husbandhunting, she consoled herself.  A great many females throughout
the land, of every age and class, were engaged in it with her.  But most
genteel ladies had a good deal more to offer, she acknowledged
miserably, and might not set their sights so high.

Neither might they set convention on its head by seeking to marry so
soon. before a husband was cold in his grave.  Society's scandalised
matrons would doubtless be whispering behind their jewelled fingers as
they calculated the months since Daniel's demise.

But her debts deprived her of the year's mourning that etiquette
demanded, and if she returned to Hartfield next Tuesday unengaged
Alexander Beresford was her only hope.  And her father and aunt had
none.  And Hartfield would be lost for ever.  That was not what Daniel
would have wanted!

David Hardinge was still her best bet, she reminded herself again and
again. He was wealthy, she was sure he had once cared for her a little
and she still.  She put the next thought from her mind.  Emotions need
play no part.

He was a businessman.  a very successful financier, so she had learned
from Margaret Worthington last evening after he had left.

Well, she had a business proposition to lay before him.  That was all it
was, she stressed to herself.  He would either show interest in the deal
or decline it.  In which case she would have to pray that Emma's ball at
the weekend provided other opportunities for her to meet wealthy men in
need of a wife and a cash-eating country estate to upkeep but never own.
The absurd futility of it made a small choke of laughter escape her
before her head dropped forward into her hands.

"There."  Matilda patted her bowed head encouragingly.  "I knew you'd
cheer up and see the sense of it.  Your papa will be jolly proud of
you..."

Hollow cheeks and a gaunt frame filled Victoria's mind.  Dr Gibson had
told her with barely concealed pity that, although mentally frail,
Charles Lorrimer's constitution was strong and he might expect to
survive for years. Neither she nor Dr Gibson had said more but she knew
their troubled musings were the same: Charles Lorrimer would remain a
burden on his daughter for quite some while yet.  Victoria immediately
felt guilty.  She had barely spared her father a thought since departing
Hertfordshire early yesterday. She prayed he was behaving himself and
not giving Samuel too many problems. So lost was she in her anxious
musing on her cantankerous papa and Hartfield that it was a moment
before Victoria realised Matilda was hissing words at her.

"Oh, my.  Look, Victoria.  Did you ever see anything quite so
magnificent?"

Victoria did look then.  Her grey eyes took in first the be- wigged
footmen standing impassively by their motionless carriage; they then
slowly climbed the cream stucco of the most palatial double-fronted town
house she had ever seen.  Its sumptuous splendour, and that of
neighbouring properties, made her immediately sink back into the
cushioned squabs and close her eyes.

What on earth have I done?  ran screaming through her mind.  This man
doesn't want an impoverished widow; he could have a duke's daughter.

He probably already does have one.  as a neighbour.

Matilda fell back against the cushions opposite, mirroring Victoria's
pose.

"Oh, my!"  she breathed, awe struck, her small pale eyes wide and
apprehensive.

"Aunt Matty?"  Victoria prompted with a shaky laugh, while garnering
every ounce of courage and pride she possessed, for it was most
certainly too late to turn about now.  A phlegmatic footman resplendent
in blue and gold livery held the door for them.

Noting that her aunt still lay back against the squabs as though she was
going nowhere, Victoria slid forward on the seat, ready to alight.  She
clutched at one of her aunt's thin hands and gave it a fond shake.

"I would certainly prefer not to enter alone, you know.  I have my
reputation to think of," she weakly joked.

"Come, what can he do to us?  What can he say?  Only no."  She echoed
Matilda's recent assurances with a rueful smile.

Chapter Five.

You're making a mistake, David.  "

Dickie Du Quesne had guessed his cautiously tendered opinion might be
ignored.  His tall, dark-haired comrade carefully adjusted his
cornflower silk cravat then shrugged into a superbly cut charcoal
tail-coat. Straightening snowy linen cuffs, David turned from the
mirror.

"You think so?"  he finally said, bored, his attention on his diamond
shirt studs.  A lazy blue gaze rose to meet Dickie's watchful eyes.

"What makes you say so?"

"I remember Victoria well," Dickie quietly explained.  "She is ... she
is ... oh, I don't know," he dismissed, with a laugh and an idle
gesture.

"I suppose I mean that unless her character is drastically changed she
is no man's mistress, of that I'm sure."

"Good," David said with studied irony.

"That makes having her as mine simpler."

Dickie gazed out over Beauchamp Place, his eyes skimming the carriage
that had recently deposited David's female guests.  He wasn't sure why
he was championing a woman he had neither seen nor spoken to for seven
years.  But he did remember her well.  and not just because of her
unique black and white beauty.  He could recall her sweetness, her
simplicity, her innocence. Mostly he recollected being astonished at how
easily and quickly she had gentled this man.

David had fallen so hard that practically overnight the wildest
reprobate of Dickie's acquaintance was tamed, and by an elfin,
slender-bodied virgin, barely eighteen years old.  He glanced sideways
at his friend.  And there of course lay the crux of the matter.

Despite all David's vigilance and territorial prowling--and several
prospective suitors had nervously withdrawn on learning David Hardinge
was laying claim to Victoria Lorrimer--another man had, after all, got
to her first.  And he'd never got over it, no matter how insouciant he
liked to appear.

He had known David since their school days Even as a youth David had
permitted very little to disturb him.  Because of his mother's
scandalous history, his friend had once been the butt of cruel jokes and
abuse.  As a youngster David had fought for the honour of the "Courtenay
Courtesan', as Maria Hardinge, nee Poole, was sneeringly styled.  Later,
on realising she had none, he'd fought for the hell of it.  Any foolish
enough to think of bullying or tormenting him about his family had soon
regretted it.  David Hardinge could and did defend himself with a skill
that would not have shamed a street fighter.

Yet following Victoria's marriage to an elderly widower Dickie had
witnessed his hard, ruthless comrade in black, inconsolable despair.

And the fact that this private man had allowed him to see it was a
measure of just how distraught David had been in that first month.

Yet he had disciplined himself out of it and into becoming one of the
finest financial successes Dickie was ever likely to know in his
lifetime. Gentlemen didn't sully their hands with commerce .  the, beau
monde loved to sneer.  Well, this one did, and his wealth and
investments were now the envy of many of his aristocratic peers.

Jeremiah Clavering put his stately, steel-grey head about the study
door.

"I have showed Mrs Hart and Mrs Sweeting into the blue salon, my lord."

David nodded.

"Have refreshments sent there in ten minutes," he directed at his
phlegmatic butler.

"Well, let's not keep the ladies waiting," he said to his reflective
friend.

"I hope you've been brushing up on topics likely to engage the interest
of a genteel lady of advanced years," David remarked as the clack of
their heels resounded against polished mahogany, echoing away to the
vast ceiling.

"My knowledge of embroidery is second to none," Dickie responded,
deadpan, as they halted before a pair of gilt- scrolled doors.

"I am well versed in all the scandalous on dits, probably because most
concern you and me, and as for the latest Paris fashions..."

"You're well aware of how much they cost," David chipped in, recalling
Dickie moaning about his current amour's tendency to greatly overspend
her allowance.

"Mrs Hart... Mrs Sweeting... how nice of you to call," was David's suave
welcome on entering his spacious blue salon.  He walked towards the two
seated women with an easy, confident stride.

Victoria jerked to her feet.  She automatically dipped a curtsey to the
two elegant gentlemen approaching even though she could barely rally a
coherent thought, her heart was racing so frantically.

During the ten minutes or so that she and her aunt had sat in almost
total silence in this sumptuous room she had striven desperately for
courage and composure and was sure she had achieved both.  The cause of
her turmoil had now arrived and, with a charming greeting, destroyed it
all.  Her wide grey eyes clung to his handsome, imposing figure before
skittering to Dickie Du Quesne.  She recognised him at once.

He had retained his boyish blond looks although his overall bearing held
a mature sophistication.  She remembered she had rather liked him.
Dickie's friendly smile elicited a hesitant one from her in return.

A swift, imploring glance at her aunt went unheeded; the woman was still
huddled, mesmerised, in her chair, unable to take in the extent of the
grandeur all around.  Victoria swallowed a hysterical laugh.  If there
was one thing she had been sure she could draw comfort from this
afternoon it was her aunt's solid, unflappable strength.  To discover
her mainstay reduced to a dumbfounded, gawking wreck and herself
suddenly abandoned.  "I'm not sure if you remember Mr Du Quesne, Mrs
Hart."  David's cool, level tone sliced through her mental agitation.

"Yes, of course," Victoria forced out lightly, steadying her smile.

"How are you, Mr Du Quesne?"

"I'm very well, Mrs Hart," Dickie said gently.

"How are you?  And your aunt, I believe, has accompanied you?"  Dickie
couldn't take his eyes off her: her raven-haired beauty was still
stunning, if anything enhanced by the passage of time, but the demure
vivacity he remembered was gone.  There was an air of wistful fragility
cloaking her, as though the cares of the world burdened her slender
shoulders.

Victoria flushed unhappily.

"Oh, I'm so sorry.  Yes, indeed.  Please let me introduce you to Mrs
Sweeting.  Aunt Matilda, this is Mr Du Quesne, a friend of Lord
Courtenay's. Do you remember we were acquainted some years ago when we
lived in London?  I believe you met once or twice then."

Matilda smiled and nodded then made as though to rise belatedly to dip a
curtsey.

David lifted a languid hand.  Please don't disturb yourself, Mrs
Sweeting. Ah, here's tea.  "

Two female staff attired in smart blue and gold uniforms filed in
bearing laden trays.  They efficiently, discreetly rustied between the
room's silent occupants, offering refreshments.

Victoria graciously accepted both tea and cake simply for the respite of
fully occupying her attention.  Such conspicuous wealth and power
bombarding her senses was oppressive; it made her dejectedly sure only
an arrogant fool would ever dream this man might agree to marry a poor
widow.

A quiet tension hummed in the sedate room and Victoria fiddled nervously
with positioning her gilt-edged plate on a polished rosewood side table.

Dickie Du Quesne, bearing his teacup, noiselessly strolled across the
plush carpeting to her aunt.  Pulling an ebonised chair close to
Matilda, he sat down and began casually chatting about the beneficial
effects of countryside air and the rigours of highway travelling.

Victoria overheard Matilda's brief, awkward responses and winced
inwardly for her; she was still overwhelmed.

With Dickie's patient persistence Matilda slowly regained a little of
her normal gregariousness.  A pithy opinion of the imprudence of
patronising the King and Tinker over the Bell Inn at Enfield had
Victoria slowly relaxing, and Dickie politely promising to store away
that useful titbit for future reference.

The light conversation to one side of her was soothing and inspiriting.
At some time she would have to look at him.  she would have to speak to
him. She could either pretend that she and her aunt were simply paying a
brief social call, and hope he would gallantly not mention her odd
declaration yesterday evening that she was in London seeking him, or she
could persevere with the futile aim that had really propelled her to
Mayfair.

She glanced at her aunt, dwarfed by a regal velvet armchair, then raised
her lashes slowly, finally meeting deep blue eyes she knew were quite
openly studying her.

He didn't smile; he didn't do anything.  He simply held her gaze as
though he knew exactly what she wanted and it gave him an amount of
private amusement.

Victoria hastily looked away, her flimsy valour disintegrating, and
wished herself miles away in Hertfordshire.

Oh, why had she come?  She was sure she had never in her life felt more
mortified than she did right now.  And so far she had asked for nothing,
"You have a beautiful home, Mr Hardinge ... I ... I'm sorry.  Lord
Courtenay.  I forget..."  The words tumbled out in a breathy rush.

"That's quite all right, Mrs Hart.  At times, I forget myself.  Call me
David, if it's easier," he challenged softly.  After a brief pause in
which her lack of response occasioned a wry smile at the immaculate arm
lounging against the marble mantel, he added,

"I'm pleased you like my house.  Would you care to see more of it?"

The offer was casually made but Victoria knew its purpose.  She had come
to speak to him on a matter of some delicacy and he was introducing the
opportunity for privacy.

"Yes.  Thank you," she agreed, in little above a whisper.  He believed
she had come to plead for charity, was the thought that suddenly,
awfully, penetrated her mind.  She was an impoverished widow of one of
his relations and he thought she had come abegging.  Had he already
decided to refuse?  Was that what amused him?  That they were bothering
with pointless civilities?

He walked away from the magnificent marble chimney- piece and held out a
hand to her.

With a fleeting glance at her chatting aunt, Victoria took David's arm
and allowed him to lead her into the corridor.  She sensed the hard
muscle beneath her shaking fingers and attempted to lighten their
already faint contact with his sleeve.  They proceeded silently,
Victoria banishing thoughts of their closeness yesterday in that noisome
mar n ketplace.  But memories of long fingers soothing her face, in her
hair, his mouth close to her cheek.  her certainty that he had been on
the point of kissing her.  He halted abruptly by a door, swung it open
and indicated she should enter.

"The study, where I spend most of my time.  Do sit down, Mrs Hart."

Victoria did so, choosing a corner chair by the large casement window
which offered a view of the quiet, majestic square below.  She glanced
down at the Worthingtons' carriage, idle in front of the house.

"This... this is also a very nicely proportioned room."  She shattered
the tension, with an encompassing flitting of her grey eyes about mellow
polished panelling.  They settled on the leaping flames in the ornate
grate.  Her tongue lightly moistened her parched lips.  Why on earth was
she bothering with the sham that they were on a tour of the house?

"Indeed it is," he agreed, so wryly that she knew his thoughts were
identical.

Nervous palms smoothed along the pearl-grey silk of her mourning dress
as Victoria took stock.  She would not be intimidated.  He was as keen
to know exactly what had brought her here as she was reluctant to let it
out.  He obviously knew of her financial difficulties and had guessed
she was about to petition for aid, but she sensed he was very curious as
to how she would go about it.  He had invited her to visit; she was not
here on sufferance.  Not yet.  They could at least make an attempt at
polite conversation.  They had once been close friends, after all. Then,
when she finally set out her proposal.  "How is your mother.  Lord
Courtenay?  I hope she is well and..." She could think of nothing to
add, belatedly remembering that David had only ever mentioned his
parents with sarcasm or subdued bitterness.

He would always avoid meeting them when out.

"I hope she is well,"

she finally resorted to repeating softly.

"I can't answer with any certainty, Mrs Hart.  When last I saw her she
seemed healthy enough, but that was a year or more ago.  I imagine she
goes on tolerably well or I should have been informed of how much I owe
the physician," was his curt summary.

Mesmerised by his emotionless face, Victoria sensed her heart squeezing
at his chilling callousness.  One of his parents was still alive yet he
never visited, and spoke of her with such open indifference.  How could
she even imagine he would treat her otherwise?  She should excuse
herself now, flee this graceful, soulless house, and seek the sanctuary
of rustic Hertfordshire and Alexander Beresford's placid presence.

"And your sister, Clarissa?"

Victoria whispered, desperate to establish some scrap of rapport between
them.

She recalled he had little fondness for her either.  But Clarissa had
been a newly married woman when Victoria had first met David.  Perhaps
she now had children; perhaps he held them in affection.

"Have you nephews or nieces?"  she asked, sweetly optimistic.

"One of each."  His terseness made Victoria's incipient smile fade away.

David thought of his blonde sister and his mouth curled unpleasantly.

She was most definitely her mother's daughter.  Her father's identity
was open to conjecture.  Most had guessed at the flaxen-haired head
groom at Hawkesmere at the time of her birth.  It certainly would give
credence to Clarissa's proclivity for the stables and rolling about in
hay with, quite literally, any man who would have her.  He hadn't seen
her or the elderly fop she'd married since July of last year when she
had inveigled to use his house and position to enjoy the London season
for a month before returning to Shropshire where she now resided.

David strolled to the window close to Victoria's chair and looked out
and just for a moment he allowed himself to dwell on his family, if one
could call it that.  for he knew that of the three children of his
parents' marriage only his brother Michael had been a product of their
union.  He and his sister were merely fly blows A travesty of a smile
twisted his lips, for despite technically being a bastard he could claim
the most august sire.

He put it all from his mind, acutely conscious of the uneasy silence to
one side of him.  He glanced down at a bowed ebony head, his blue gaze
caressing her alabaster profile.  He could quite clearly see the tremor
in slender white fingers gripped together in an effort to disguise it.

Her nervousness soothed him.  He had instinctively known that she'd had
no illicit lovers during her marriage and would be inexperienced in
opening negotiations.  As he had more expertise in amorous exchanges
than he cared now to bring to mind, he really ought to make things
easier for her and take over.  His jaw gritted.  Seven years ago she
hadn't made it at all easy for him.  He'd risked his life for her; she'd
not even risked waiting a few more crucial days.  The recalled anguish
on learning she'd wed could still tumble his insides and clench his face
into an aching mask.  It did so now with sickening virulence;
nevertheless, his hand moved spontaneously, seeking to touch her.
reassure her.  At the last moment it skimmed past instead and gripped
the back of the chair she sat in.

"How is your father?  Is his health at all improved?"  He relented a
little and indulged her need for small-talk.

A sweet, grateful smile as she looked up nearly melted his vengeful
resolve to make her do all the running in this cat-and-mouse game.

"He... he is very well, thank you," Victoria said, so quickly, so
appreciatively, she stumbled over the words.

"He has days... weeks when he is completely lucid.  Then at other times
he can barely remember any of us.  Or where he lives.  He believes
himself still in Hammersmith... and my mama still alive."  Mention of
her mother brought a painful lump to her throat.  She huskily soldiered
on.

"But his physical health is robust.  He has a hearty appetite..."

The words faded, her face aglow beneath fiery sapphire eyes roving her
features.

He was not really interested in anything she told him regarding her
papa. But he was interested in her: a solid, expectant tension was
building between them.  He wanted to touch her.  White knuckles gripping
her chair-back were on the edge of her vision and powerful, muscular
thighs encased in soft buff material were close to her cheek.

"I think... I think perhaps we ought to open the door," she choked out
in a rush.

"My aunt will wonder where I am.  She might search for me..."

"Are you fretting about your reputation, Mrs Hart?"  David asked on a
grunt of hard laughter.

"One of us has to worry about our reputations.  Lord Courtenay,"

Victoria shot back.

"Are you including mine in that statement?"

"Yes."

"You believe it worth the saving?"

"Yes," Victoria said simply.

David looked down at her solemn, beautiful face.  He remembered that
sweet, guileless expression so well.  Long fingers unclenched from her
chair-back and just one trailed the smooth satin of her jaw.

"Tell me why," he softly demanded.

No better opening was likely to present itself, Victoria realised.

"Because a husband should have his wife's respect," she slowly said.

She watched his face minutely-- saw disbelief and uncertainty narrowing
his eyes and slanting his sensual mouth.  And she knew there was no
going back.

"I must first beg your pardon for speaking so plainly.  I'm sure you
understand how dire my situation is to force me to humiliate myself in
such a way.  It is not yet three months since my husband's funeral and I
know it will be deemed scandalously unseemly for me to so soon socialise
or think of remarrying.  So I must apologise in advance for any
embarrassment I might cause you.  But my circumstances are such that I
cannot afford niceties or to dissemble.  I have just one week in London
and must try to resolve my difficulties before I return to Hartfield on
Tuesday."  She couldn't bear to read his expression.  Whether amusement
or disgust or interest was there, she couldn't yet summon courage to
find out.

"I shall not try to make out that my debts are less than they are," she
rushed on.

"My late husband's attorney tells me they are extremely worrying..."

"Approaching forty thousand pounds/ David Hardinge supplied coolly over
his shoulder as he walked to the study door and opened it a little.

"Forty thousand pounds...?"  Victoria repeated in a horrified whisper at
his back, the shock of the sum obscuring the question of how he could
possibly know.

David strolled to his desk and rested his weight against it.  His face
was inscrutable as he moved a hand in an explicit gesture for her to
continue.

"I... I would like you to marry me."  The words scattered like small
pebbles into stony silence.

"I'm sure... most certainly sure you must be wondering what on earth you
would gain from such a marriage of convenience..."

"Marriage of convenience...?"  whipped into her speech.  "Explain that."

"Well... I realise that we no longer... there is no affection between
us.  We are virtually strangers with our own lives.  I know you are...
that you have a life in London that you would not wish me to share.

You have your own friends and.  social circle, whereas I have Hartfield
and my relatives to care for.  A marriage in name only, a marriage of
convenience, would inconvenience neither of us.  "

"So..  .1 marry you, pay off your debts, maintain the estate left to you
by another man--a freehold which I believe will nonetheless never be
mine--provide for you and, I imagine, your depend ants and in return I
get...."  His sardonic summary tailed off.

"What do I get, Mrs Hart?"  he asked with soft irony.

Victoria felt blood surge into her face, her chagrin uncontrollable.

Stated so baldly, it did, indeed, seem an outrageous arrogance on her
part that he would ever entertain such a one-sided proposal.

"Hartfield is a very beautiful estate," she hastily explained.

"When you attended Daniel's funeral you would have seen very little of
what it has to offer."  She stole a fleeting glance at his closed
expression.

"I know when your father died you lost your family seat at Hawkesmere. I
was very sad to learn at your brother's funeral that it had been seized
by the bank because of your family's misfortune.

Most gentlemen like to hunt and shoot and fish when the London season is
come to an end.  I know you have the means to lease an estate for such
pursuits, if you wish.  Perhaps you do so.  But if we were married you
could have Hartfield as your own.  It has extensive parkland and woods.
It is a fine riding estate.  It has much to recommend it.  You could
come and see for yourself.  " She gazed beseechingly up at him.

"Because no gentlemen have hunted there for so long the wildlife
proliferates.  The lake and streams are teeming with tench and bream and
pike," she enthused.

"My manservant tells me that even with the poachers he pursues we are
still overrun with deer and hare, and pheasant and fowl of every
description.  You and your friends would be most welcome to spend as
much time as you will at Hart- field.  The house is comfortable and
large enough to accommodate guests.  If you would only just come and see
what Hartfield has to offer..."

David pushed abruptly away from the desk and seemed about to speak, but
at that moment Matilda Sweeting's voice became audible.  Her silver-grey
figure swept into the room followed by Dickie Du Quesne's long stride.

There was an awkward silence for no more than a second as four people
looked startled.  Then David bit out,

"Why don't you show Mrs Sweeting some of the other apartments, Dickie?"

"I believe this is the last room we have to see.  Lord Courtenay,"

Matilda said, with a brief, calculating look at the furnishings and then
a longer one at her niece seated by the window.  She could detect
nothing encouraging in her solemn when.

"It is the most opulent house I believe I have ever entered," Matilda
stated while rotating on the spot to inspect the walnut-panelled study.
Once her back was presented to the gentlemen she began mouthing
encouragement and making eye signals at Victoria.

"You must need armies of domestics.  I expect the kitchens must be
huge..."

"Take a look," David ordered bluntly.

"At the kitchens?"  Dickie interjected, swiping a horrified sideways
glance at his friend.

"At the kitchens.  They're huge.  It should take some while," David said
with straining patience as he paced to the window and stared out,
grim-faced.

"I imagine the cooking ranges must be huge as well..."  Matilda added,
glancing over her shoulder at her silent niece.  With a covert,
unintelligible aside for Victoria, she exited the room on Dickie Du
Quesne's stiff arm.

In the taut silence following their departure Victoria reflected on all
her pleas so far.  Stinging humiliation in smoky grey eyes was swiftly
shuttered by pearly translus- cent lids.  There had been an opportunity
for her and her aunt to take their leave.  And she-had allowed it to
slip.  She could, even now, have been travelling back to Rosemary House.
She had said all there was to say.  She had set out all she had to
offer.  almost all she had to offer.

"So," David said quietly, splintering her regret, 'you get my money and
I get your estate to use for sport in season.  Is that it?  " He gazed
sideways down at the top of her glossy, raven head.

The mocking disbelief in his tone made her face snap up and she proudly
met his eyes.

"You also benefit from the respectability conferred by marriage and get
a wife who will make no other demands on you... who will never
interfere.  She will simply be grateful if you exercise a little
discretion and restraint in all your... in the way you go on.  You might
find that your reputation does indeed repair under such an arrangement."

David gave a hard choke of laughter and abruptly sat in a chair
opposite.  He leaned towards her, his long fingers loosely clasped
together.

"And you believe that's an inducement?  Why would I care to improve
something of so little consequence, Mrs Hart?  My reputation has long
been lost to me. In fact I was born without one to my name.

But it's to no real detriment.  I have a title and more money than I
know what to do with; those things ensure I can act with impunity and
still be welcomed everywhere.  "

Victoria moistened her lips.  All that was left was her trump card.  If
this failed, there really was nothing else.

"I realise you might want heirs and your wife to be... to come to you...
that you were the first to... to be chaste," she finally stammered out.

"No..."  David softly soothed her embarrassment.

"Perhaps at one time it might have mattered but not any more.  In fact,
if there's anything I've definitely no desire for, it's righteous
virgins.  But then from what you've implied so far I imagine you're well
aware of tales of my debauchery.  I won't insult your intelligence by
denying them.  As for heirs, I've no intention of inflicting on society
any more dissolute Hardinges.  In short, experienced women like you
interest me, children and continuing my line don't."

Victoria stared, unblinking, at him.  His brazen immorality was
frightening. He had no interest in virgins.  Not any more.

And only desired sophisticated women.  And that was what he thought her.
What she had naively believed to be her most precious asset had
unknowingly been tossed back at her as valueless.

"Did you and your late husband not want children?"  he asked abruptly.

This unexpected interrogation left Victoria floundering.  "I ... we ...
I don't know.  We just ... we just never had children," she finished
lamely.

"Ah," David said softly, sardonically.

"Such an exemplary husband..."

he murmured.

"Well, as we're being painfully honest this afternoon, Mrs Hart, I'll
tell you that your proposition is the third I've received this week. And
I'll admit that the others were more... persuasively executed and of
less cost and greater personal benefit.

I should also add that I am a confirmed bachelor and have no intention
of ever marrying.  "

Victoria froze as though summarily doused in icy water.  Then just as
swiftly anger burned white-hot.  He had let her.  no, helped her make an
utter fool of herself and no doubt enjoyed every minute watching her
squirm.  Now he casually let her know she had abased herself in vain.
Not only that, she was just another petitioner and inept, too.

She had always known there was very little chance of a successful
outcome but he had deliberately toyed with her, ruthlessly prevaricated
to prolong her agony.  She had set out her proposal quickly and
honestly, yet he had withheld vital information until sure she had
nothing further to divulge.

She had been manipulated, encouraged to talk.  She had told him private
things .  things that a prospective husband should know: of her father's
mental frailty, of her beloved Hartfield.  She had been on the point of
confiding her own intimate secret too.  How he would have relished that!
She was well aware of his mordant amusement at any mention of Daniel or
their marriage.  His scorn would now target her too.  for she was not at
all what he happily assumed.  She quickly got to her feet and he, too,
slowly unwound from his chair.  They faced each other, storm-grey and
gentian-blue eyes inextricable.

"Had you said so sooner, Mr Hardinge, I would have removed myself and
saved us both a wasted afternoon.  As I have said, I am in London for
just one week and need to make expeditious use of my time.  If you will
excuse me for troubling you, I shall seek my aunt and leave, for I have
other visits to make..."  Victoria approached the door while speaking,
desperate to escape him before her fragile veneer of composure cracked.
Humiliation would then get the better of the smarting fury that clenched
her fists and her insides and it might send her scuttling meekly away.

Her pace increased as she drew level and she attempted to sweep swiftly
past but long fingers fastened about the tops of her slender arms.  She
shook herself in his grasp, striving to break free, but he jerked her
against him and blue-black eyes stared down into her white, set face.

"Other visits?  What do you intend?  To tout yourself about London
seeking someone with forty thousand pounds?"

"Of course," Victoria lied glibly, hugely gratified at inciting such
disapproval that for a second he neglected to camouflage it.

"That's exactly what I intend to do, Mr Hardinge she lightly stressed.

"I

simply came here first because yesterday you invited me to.  "

Lean fingers tightened painfully about her soft flesh.  "You won't find
anyone willing to match what I offer you," he emphasised slowly, with a
return to control and narrow- eyed mockery.

"You've set out your terms; now I'll let you know mine.  In return for
settling your debts, I'll expect you to move to London.  I'll provide
you with a fully maintainec house of your choosing, a staff of your
choosing, a generous allowance and..."  he looked at her, his expression
hard and unsmiling 'and anything else you care to stipulate.  In fact,
at the outset, you can have carte blanche, Mrs Hart.  "

As the significance of his brusque words was absorbed, Victoria bit down
ferociously on her soft lower lip, stilling its tremor.  Her eyes
focussed on the blue silk cravat close to her face; she concentrated on
the slub in the weave, the extraordinary brilliance of the diamond
nestling in its sheeny folds.  But the awful realisation would not be
denied and wormed back into her mind: he'd not thought her here
abegging, after all, just awhoring.

"I see," she finally whispered at his throat.

"Good," he said.

She wrenched free of him and proceeded towards the door.

David intercepted her with one pace and she stepped back a little to
avoid touching him.  She raised glacial grey eyes to his handsome,
angular face.

"I should like to find my aunt now.  It is time we left."

"Is that all you have to say while we still have some privacy, Mrs
Hart?"

His wry, amused confidence was not lost on Victoria and.  made her
seethe.

"Oh, of course, you're right," she dulcetly concurred.

"Perhaps I should discreetly let you know that your arrogance and vile
lechery make me sincerely regret ever having renewed our acquaintance."
A cool, disdainful look swept his sardonic features then settled on a
delicate oriental jar to one side of him.

"And I must agree with you on one other point, Mr Hardinge: I, also, do
not expect any gentleman to match your offer to me.  I'm sure some will
exceed it.  In fact, one already has.  Before I came to Lon- don, I
received a proposal of marriage from a kind and decent man."

"Kind and decent... but short on cash, I take it," David dismissed, with
a shrewd, cynical look.  He laughed unpleasantly as she blushed.

"So who will you go for?  The decent man or the rich one?  But we both
already know, Mrs Hart, don't we?  Or you wouldn't be here."

She was unable to control her humiliated gasp or a slender hand from
flying impulsively towards his face.  His reflexes were so impossibly
swift she barely saw him move.  Her wrist was arrested mid-arc and
imprisoned in a grip of steel.

"I should be grateful if you would now allow me to leave," Victoria
said, breathing hard, with an explicit, contemptuous look at his
custodial fingers.

"Do I receive an answer before you go?"

"If you require one," Victoria murmured.

"Although I would have thought it quite obvious I would sooner entertain
the poorhouse than you, Mr Hardinge.  You might revel in your own
disgrace, I have no intention of letting you revel in mine."

A slow smile met this speech.

"From that I deduce, then, you are declining my protection and my forty
thousand pounds?"

Victoria's small, savaging teeth drew blood from her lip this time as
she steeled herself against the urge to wrestle free of his clasp.

"I

have said so.  Let me go.  I wish to find my aunt and leave.  "

"When you come back at the end of the week, and beg me to reinstate this
derisory offer, I wouldn't be able to call myself a successful
businessman if I didn't renegotiate terms in my favour.  At the moment I
will agree to whatever you want.  If you want me to provide for your
father, your aunt, maintain this estate... Hartfield, isn't it?... I
will do it."

"You would provide me with a house in London and maintain Hartfield
too?" Victoria whispered, frowning disbelief at the fiery jewel below
his shadowy square chin.

"I have said so."  He mimicked her earlier response and inclined his
head a little in emphasis.  Thoughtfully narrowed eyes studied her
reaction.

"Oh, I expect you to actually reside in the house in London.

Disappearing to Hertfordshire seven nights a week would not be
acceptable.  " His ironic smile deepened as Victoria's ivory complexion
flushed rose.

"You can have a day to ponder on it.  Think carefully before you
definitely refuse me, Mrs Hart.  For when you next approach me, your
father and your aunt... and this Hartfield that seems to mean so much...
you will no longer be in a position to plead for them."

Victoria's lush ebony lashes lifted then, revealing stormy eyes glossy
with hatred and tears.

"I need no thinking time and I will never again seek you, Mr Hardinge. I
beg your pardon.  Lord Courtenay.

But I am grateful to have finally come to know you better.  You will
laugh when I tell you that when younger I actually rejected gossip and
believed you an honourable man.  "

A movement beyond the door drew her attention.  Her lids lowered in
utter thankfulness as she glimpsed her aunt's peculiarly mottled face
peering in.

"Aunt Matilda," Victoria greeted her huskily, deliberately.  letting her
captor know they were no longer alone.

David immediately released her wrist and walked away from her before
turning to the new arrivals.

Dickie Du Quesne, his face pink and his blond hair lank with
perspiration, entered the room.  Matilda, feverishly fanning herself,
followed, clutching his elbow with a moist palm.  Dickie thrust two
fingers between his stiff collar and his sticky neck.  He glanced
uneasily from David to Victoria.

"Er, the kitchens and cooking ranges are indeed huge," he dropped
lightly into the thick atmosphere.

"Hot too..."  David drily observed, jamming his hands into his pockets.
He jerked his head back and stared up at the lofty, ornate ceiling, his
mouth thrust consideringly.  A muscle started to pull in his cheek.  He
arrowed a searing, determined look at Victoria.

He was aiming to rid them of company yet again, she fearfully realised.
The thought of once more being alone with him, once more being baited
with his calm, callous contract, was beyond bearing.  The more so
because she knew herself susceptible to the lure.  And so did he.  Oh,
so did he!  No doubt he was well practised in such heartless strategies.
She hastily addressed her aunt with a constrained little smile.

"I hope you have finished your tour, for we really must leave now."

Without awaiting a response, Victoria turned her attention to Dickie Du
Quesne.  She politely took her leave and had gained the door within a
few moments and stood waiting until her aunt joined her.

"Thank you for your time and hospitality.  Lord Courtenay," Victoria
tonelessly said into the mellow, fire- flickering room.

"Thank you for your visit, Mrs Hart," David returned in the same
impassive way.

"Well?"  Dickie interrogated impatiently once the women had gone,
yanking off his cravat and blotting his damp brow.  The material was
then waved about in front of his warm face.

"Shut... up," David bit out irritably as he strode to the window and
stared down at the carriage and the two women in the process of boarding
it.

"Well?"  Matilda asked as soon as the coach door closed and she and her
niece were settling into the squabs.

Victoria feigned frowning interest in the noble portal through which she
had just escaped.  Unsteady white fingers guarded her face from her
aunt's astute gaze while pushing stray tendrils of ebony hair into
place.  She shook her head and murmured a simple, husky,

"No."

David watched the gesture, watched her dark sheeny head bow into a
slender hand before she turned away from the window.

The carriage had turned out of the square before his eyes rose, his back
teeth unclenched and he swore savagely.

Dickie strolled to the door.

"I told you..."  he muttered inaudibly with a smug shake of the head.

"I need a drink," he amiably sent back over his shoulder.

"I'll find us something.  Don't worry, it won't be tea!"

Chapter Six.

It isn't really my shade, is it?  " Emma asked, with a frown at her
reflection in the pier-glass.

"The amber silk is perhaps better suited to your colouring," Victoria
suggested tactfully.

"It's Mama's favourite, but only because it's the most expensive.  I
hate it," Emma groaned, tossing the heavy purple gown onto the bed to
join some others, similarly discarded.

"It makes me look like a dowager in mourning."  She bit her lip, her
peachy complexion pinking in embarrassment.

"Oh, I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean..."

"Please don't worry.  I'm not offended.  I honestly had not realised I
am a dowager.  It sounds so ancient."  Victoria brushed her fingers
along her lavender silk.

"Luckily I like the colours grey and lavender."

"They suit you so well too.  I expect most shades suit you.  You're so
very pretty, Victoria."

Happy with the change of subject, Emma said,

"You probably don't remember me from when you lived in Lon- don.  I
wasn't out then.  When shopping with Mama, I recall seeing you with your
aunt several times and thinking how much I would like to be like you...
so pretty and popular.  Lord Courtenay was always close by... although
he would not have been a, viscount then, of course."  Emma sighed
wistfully.

"I

was but sixteen and you seemed so poised and sophisticated.  I would
dearly have liked you as my friend--' A bitter choke of laughter
interrupted Emma. She blushed again, a trifle indignantly now.

"I didn't mean to be over-familiar... I just..."

"I'm so sorry, Emma; I didn't mean to imply you were.  I'm laughing ...
no, not really laughing..."  Victoria offered quietly, staring at her
hands.

"It is just a little ironic: when I was eighteen, and living in
Hammersmith with my aunt Matilda and my father, the last thing I
actually achieved was a sensible sophistication.  I have only recently
discovered just how immature and foolish I was then."  A small wry smile
emphasised the point.

"But thank you for your compliments.  It's comforting to know I didn't
actually look as stupid and credulous as I was.  And I'm very glad we
are now friends.  You must promise to come and visit me at Hartfield..."
Her happy invitation faded away.  Soon Hartfield would be hers no more.
Once back in Ashdowne next week the sale of the estate would need to be
pursued.

Forcing a lightness into her tone, Victoria mock-chided,

"We are not so fusty and dull in the country as we are made out.

"Tis not all tilling and turnips.  We have some fine assembly rooms and
soirees and balls amongst friends and neighbours.

"I have a good friend close by," Victoria continued, clearing herself a
space next to Emma on the bed strewn with gowns.

"Laura is married to Sir Peter Grayson and they live near the village of
Ashdowne at Willowthorpe.  Before Clan- iel's illness, we used to have
some fine entertainments, sometimes at Willowthorpe, sometimes at
Hartfield.

Many a dull winter evening has been brightened with gay music and good
company.  " She paused.

"Then in the summer months the countryside is incredibly beautiful, the
meadow greens spotted with every shade of wildflower: buttercups,
cornflowers, poppies... Oh, the list is endless.  The woods are a cool
Eden on hot days.  Often, at luncheon or tea times we picnic by the
lake... on the wooded side... and watch the swallows soar and swoop low
to skim its shimmering surface.  The bees and blooms and larks all
contribute to the scent and music all around... a mesmerising hum that
makes one want to rest back into the long grass and drowse..."

She trailed off, her eyes distant.

"So you must come and visit.  Your mama too..."

Emma grimaced at the idea of her mother's company but murmured dreamily,

"It sounds wonderful.  I wish I could go there right now."

Picking idly at the dresses, she casually remarked,

"When Lord Courtenay was here the other evening, he seemed to pay you a
lot of attention.  Mama says he is one of the most eligible men around
at present.  She is desperate for him to come to my ball at the weekend.

It's all foolishness in any case.  Eligible he is, I'm sure, and very
content to stay that way.  But because you are here I believe he might
actually attend.  "

"I... he is one of my late husband's cousins," Victoria hastily
explained, conscious of her friend's astute observation.

"We recently met again after many years, when he attended Daniel's
funeral. He and his sister are, in fact, Daniel's only surviving kin.
Although they were not close cousins.  Lord Courtenay was good enough to
pay his last respects," Victoria truthfully told her.  She gave Emma a
small smile.

"I imagine you know of his objectionable reputation.  I noticed you were
very sensibly unimpressed by him."

Victoria busied herself sorting through the gowns.  Lifting a plain
empire-line amber silk, she handed it to Emma.  "This would set off your
lovely tawny eyes remarkably well.  Look in the mirror; the colour is
perfect."

"It is a favourite of mine.  But Mama would disapprove.

Not nearly elaborate enough for her taste.  But I shall wear it.  with
my amber drop earrings.  Mama says they make me look like a heathen,"
she confided with a grin.

"Would your maid.  Beryl, dress my hair, do you think?  Yours always
looks so elegant."

"Of course," Victoria readily agreed.

"You will come to the Blairs' tonight, won't you?  I simply can't endure
an evening of cards and out-of-tune warbling with no one interesting to
talk to."  A crafty little smile quirked Emma's lips.

"Yes, please do come.  The Blair girls will hate it!  The eldest
daughter, Moira, rather thinks herself an incomparable beauty.  Just
wait till she spies you!  I swear those big blue eyes might just pop out
of her head."

Victoria grimaced disgust at the picture.

"I'm not sure Aunt Matilda and I have received an invitation.  Besides,
I've no wish to set tongues wagging by socialising too frequently."

"Your late husband must have been a very kind, selfless man to insist
you waste none of your youth on mourning him."

"Indeed he was.  He was truly a fine gentleman," Victoria said softly,
but her thoughts involuntarily turned to the man she now knew to be the
opposite.

Since leaving Beauchamp Place two afternoons ago she had shut David
Hardinge and his mercenary offer from her mind.  But she had not been
able to exclude an uneasiness that other men she met might view her as
he did.  And, worse, that they might believe, as he had, that she would
be amenable to their lecherous schemes.

Never in her life had she been a suspicious cynic.  The fact that he had
managed to affect her attitude so fundamentally infuriated her and made
her the more determined not to hide herself away like a pariah.

Her troubled thoughts returned to the blonde woman who had stared at her
with such malevolence in her slanted eyes.

Victoria didn't want to recall the noise and odours and the ghastly fear
experienced on that first evening in one of Lon- don's most unwholesome
stews.  But banishing it all from her mind was impossible.

So was ignoring the reason for the woman's antipathy: David had been
holding her in his arms at the time and now Victoria recognised that
green- eyed spite for what it was: rivalry and jealousy.  The woman was
obviously one of the Viscount's mistresses.  Perhaps one he had no
further use for.  She had certainly had a possessive hunger in her
slitted, angry stare.

Victoria swung her head miserably to sightlessly frown out of the
window. Had her own desperation been so patently obvious when she looked
at David? Was it already being whispered that she was prowling society
so soon after her husband's death, eager to attract male attention?  But
then wasn't that the truth?  She was.  The conflict raged on in her
battleground mind until logic was defeated and all she yearned for was
Hartfield.  Yet even that haven was soon to be snatched from her.  and
her sick father and vulnerable aunt.  For, as proud and outspoken as her
aunt might seem, Victoria knew Matilda would have no answer for real
poverty.

"It's not that I was unimpressed by your Lord Courtenay."  Emma's voice
scattered Victoria's tortured thoughts.

"I do understand why he is so popular with the ladies.  He is the most
roguishly attractive man I have ever seen," Emma continued.

"It's just that I'm still carrying a torch for someone else... and Mama
despises him because he's a widower with children."  She stared at her
reflection, her honey-brown head to one side as she viewed the amber
silk against her skin.

"Oh, and unforgivably for Mama, he's poor too.  And, unforgivably for
me, he is still carrying a torch... beacon, I should say... for his late
wife.  He simply wants someone to care for his brood and quite
tactlessly told me so when he asked me to marry him."  Catching sight of
Victoria's stunned expression in the glass prompted Emma to smile wryly.

"I get the distinct impression I have astonished you, Vicky.  I also
believe you would love to be back at your Hartfield."

Emma swished about and dropped the amber silk gown onto the bed.

"I

would gladly bolt there with you.  I'm not sure I can endure Mama's
unsubtle matchmaking this weekend.  Or the sight of Papa sprawling drunk
in a chair. Mama makes excuses for him all the time.  He was intoxicated
by eight of the clock the evening you arrived.  He usually is every
evening when he shambles home from his club.  Thank goodness Lord
Courtenay was gentleman enough to dissuade Mama from disturbing him.  "

Yes, when he wanted, he could be so charming, was Victoria's acid
thought. So charming and so very, seducingly generous.  If she could
punish him for treating her with such hateful disrespect by allowing him
to settle her debts before she absconded to Hartfield and Alexander Be-
res ford care, she would be sorely tempted to do it.  If she could
summon courage enough, she hysterically inwardly laughed.

She was quite sure that David Hardinge would not take such ill usage
lightly or philosophically.

He was a ruthless degenerate.  She recalled her papa hissing that at her
seven years ago.  Despite the fact that her poor papa had even then been
displaying the first signs of dementia, he had been perfectly reasonable
in his opinion of the man she had once idiotically idolised.

"Did that come from the top of the pack?"  The whining query was
followed by an odd, eerie stillness in the gaming room.

Piercing blue eyes pinned down the weak brown gaze of the man opposite
him.

"What did you say?"  David Hardinge asked in a level tone as he fanned
out his winning hand in front of him and leaned back in his chair.

Scenting blood, groups of men abandoned gaming tables in Watier's and
silently sauntered over to watch and wait.  Glasses froze by lips.  No
one dared to speak or swallow lest something be missed.

Frederick Worthington attempted to lower his eyes from those of his
opponent but found he couldn't.  He couldn't even rake his gaze to the
appalling sight of all his money clustered in the centre of the table.
Even a last, yearning glance before it disappeared into another's
pockets was beyond him.  He vainly attempted to dampen his fleshy mouth
with a dry tongue.  He was desperate for a drink and was furious not
even to have enough left for a tot from some cheap, seedy gin house on
his trek home through the suburbs.  The possibility of purchasing other
tempting pleasures likely to waylay his progress back to Rosemary House
was definitely gone.  No matter; the urge had expired along with his
credit at Watier's.  His membership of this exclusive gentleman's club
might too unless he was exceedingly careful.

He wasn't sure whether David Hardinge had been cheating or not.

Probably he had not.  The man had the devil's own luck in every single
thing he turned his hand to.  Whether women, cards or commerce, he
invariably came out on top.  The unguarded accusation had simply slipped
out as he resentfully saw his last chance of recouping some gin money
finally drain away.

"Sorry, old man.  Just a joke," Frederick Worthington rasped, his Adam's
apple jerking fitfully, his hands apologetically gesturing.

"You won fair and square, I know that."  He attempted a hoarse laugh and
took refuge in what he knew best: acting the fool.

"Mustn't upset you, in any case.  The dear lady wife is expecting your
presence at Emma's little ball at the weekend.  I'd sooner crawl home,
tongue hanging out and on me uppers, than face her wrath by offending
you, y'know." This self-mocking titbit indeed gained an appreciative
chuckle from several of the spectators and caused a quirk to soften
David Hardinge's mouth.  But he neither confirmed nor denied his plans
for the weekend.

Frederick visibly relaxed.  His tongue lizarded about his mouth before a
shaky hand wiped across it.  Perhaps it would be worth performing again;
there was the possibility of a drink in it for him.

"A snippet of inside information, Courtenay, just for you, as I've
allowed me mouth to run away with me this afternoon.  We've got a tasty
little widow as house guest at present.  Very pretty little piece.  I'd
attend the ball if I was you.  You'll be straight up her street, if
y'know what I mean.-.Cheap side A crepey eyelid drooped in a
conspiratorial wink and he paused for laughter.

It indeed came, uproariously and immediately, and many a hand clapped
his chubby back in tribute to his wit.  Then just as quickly it died
away.

David Hardinge's reaction to this punning flattery about his prowess and
the mistresses he installed in Cheapside was not as expected.  And those
that knew him were aware he could easily take a joke about his
popularity with the' petticoat set.  He had once held court, in this
very room, giving advice on seduction to some green young blades keen to
learn tips prior to their first foray into Vauxhall Gardens.

"You've allowed your mouth to run away with you again, Worthington,"

David quietly told him, shattering the tension.

"I believe you are referring to Victoria Hart, my late cousin's widow. I
do have a very special interest in her welfare, actually, and am happy
to let it be known."

David suppressed a smile.  Oddly enough the buffoon had just done him a
great favour.  Frederick Worthington had conveniently provided him with
a prime opportunity to warn off any prospective suitors interested in
wedding.  or bedding.  her, while letting them assume his own
attentiveness arose from duty to his late kinsman.  He really owed the
fool a drink.

Frederick looked stricken.  His wine-bloated face puffed further.  He
yanked at his cravat, loosening it from his blotchy neck, unable to
credit what he'd done.  He had just unwittingly insulted a relative of
the man who held an unparalleled sparring and duelling record.

"So sorry, Courtenay.  No offence meant, a'course.  Had I known of your
family's connection..."  he croaked.

David smiled at his long fingers idly tapping against the cards that had
cleaned Frederick out.  The other hand moved in a patronising,
dismissing gesture.

The spectating men started to wander disappointedly away, pitying,
disgusted glances and muttered asides directed at Frederick.

Humiliation and relief vied for dominance as Frederick scraped back his
chair, about to scurry away.

"Buy you a drink, Worthington?"

Frederick sat down again immediately, as David had known he would.

"Just the one, old man," Frederick gratefully accepted.  "Got to be home
on time this evening.  Lady wife's dragging me off to the Blairs'
soiree. Promised this time I'd not be late."

Better and better, David smiled to himself.  The man had just proved
useful again.  He signalled to the steward for drinks.

"Simon and Petra Blair?"  he probed casually.

"Yes.  Dashed boring lot.  Comely daughters, though.  Especially the
eldest, Moira.  Not so tedious when one's got a decent poppet to eye,
eh?"

Frederick gulped greedily at his drink as soon as it arrived.  He
smacked his lips appreciatively.

"Nice to see that homebody daughter of mine with a companion, y'know.
Victoria Hart and she seem firm friends.  They've been shopping 'n all
sorts together.  Sweet-natured young lady, your cousin's widow."  He
smiled nervously but was sure this time he'd said nothing offensive.

"Another?"  David asked, indicating Frederick's empty tumbler and
watching the man lick his lips.

Frederick pushed the glass away in irritation.

"Damned if I wouldn't like one, but best be off now.  As I say, all the
ladies will be waiting on me."

Dickie Du Quesne sat in the chair Frederick had just vacated.  He stared
across the table at his friend, noting the satisfied thrust to his
moulded mouth.  Deep blue eyes met Dickie's over the rim of a whisky
tumbler.

"Wainwright says he's been charged to issue us with an invitation to Mrs
Crawford's ... er ... bacchanalian extravaganza this evening."

"Has he, now?"  David said, his eyes on the pile of money still heaped
on the table.

"I take it we're not going," Dickie muttered.

"Did you get an invitation to the Blairs' at home?"  He didn't expect a
reply and answered himself drily.

"Yes, so did I.  I have to say I've been looking forward to it all
week."

David smiled, leaned back in his chair with a sigh and stretched his
long legs out under the baize-topped table.  "You'll be bored stiff.

You needn't come.  "

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Davey," the blond man grinned.

"I

need a little tutoring in dignified remorse.  I'll be watching closely.
"

David's eyes narrowed on his friend's back as Dickie sauntered,
whistling, towards the door.  Thin lips compressed before an expletive
blew through them, then, shoving his chair back, he followed his friend
into the six o'clock dusk.

"Well, I think it's scandalous..."  Despite her resolution that she
would not react, Victoria felt her cheeks heating under the middle-aged
woman's continuing sibilant censure.

Emma caught her eye and smiled encouragingly.  She then turned
innocently to Ahe two matrons ensconced in a settee, their fat, satin
bodies rolled together in the soft cush.  long .

"I beg your pardon, Mrs Porter?  Did you say something?"

Victoria pressed her lips to disguise her smile.  Emma had no qualms
about confrontational discourse; that much was apparent.

"No... no, my dear Emma.  I was not addressing you.  I was just
commiserating with Mrs Plumb, here beside me, about how sad it is for
your new companion to be widowed so young.  How grief-stricken she must
be..."  she studiedly hinted, her eyes boring into Victoria's radiant
profile.

"I thank you for your concern on my behalf, Mrs Porter," Victoria said
quietly, twisting to face them.

"My husband was a fine man and I am indeed sorely missing him."

"Yes... we can see..."  the woman simpered, eliciting a muted snigger
from her sly-eyed companion.

"In the normal way, of course... in polite society... one would not
venture out so soon.  But I know you're from the country.  Standards
differ so much. And, indeed, I'm sensible of that..."

"I beg to disagree, Mrs Porter," Victoria said coolly, drawing a
smothered snort of approval from Emma.

"We can be polite in Hertfordshire too, and dedicated to cherishing the
memory of people we care about.  My husband decreed I neither wear black
nor shut myself indoors after his funeral.  By complying with those fond
wishes, I seek to honour him rather than strangers' notions of
etiquette."

Mrs Porter's jowls wobbled, her companion's pinched mouth slackened and
Emma gurgled a laugh before gulping from her teacup.

"No doubt Viscount Courtenay was being apprised of your lofty ideals,
Mrs Hart, when you called on him the other afternoon," Mrs Porter
sneered, purposely drawing attention and her fat, shiny shoulders up
about her ears.

"Mrs Plumb noticed the Worthingtons' carriage stopped by his door in
Mayfair. Margaret recalls loaning it to you and your aunt that
afternoon."

Victoria's face blanched with fury and disgust at this malicious woman's
aim to publicly humiliate her.

"You are entirely correct in your assumption, Mrs Porter," she quietly
said, and almost laughed at the absurd truth of it.  Oh, yes, indeed!
She had set out her lofty ideals for his lordship and had never rued
anything more.  How these spiteful women would love to know the details
of that afternoon's negotiations.  What sport they would then have,
shredding her character and reputation.  She swallowed pride and anger,
eager to defuse this verbal duel before it became a full- blown battle.

"As you seem keen to know the nature of our connection, my late husband
and Lord Courtenay were blood relations."

Mrs Porter looked startled by this revelation but forged a smile for the
spectators.

"Kinsmen... indeed?"

"Indeed they were," Emma chipped in innocently.

"Perhaps Lord Courtenay might confirm it.  Why do you not ask him, dear
Mrs Porter, for a list of his cousins?"  Emma's steady gaze past the
harridans had them eyeing each other warily.  Then turbanned heads
turned slowly inwards, feathers colliding as they peered over the
sofa-back.

Victoria's glossy, dark head spun that way too.

Moira Blair was dangling prettily on one midnight-blue arm while her
younger sister Daphne clutched at the other.  Both had their blonde
heads angled up to his handsome, laughing face as they proceeded further
into the drawing room.  \ "It is him.  Indeed it is..."  Mrs Porter
breathed at Mrs Plumb. Both simultaneously struggled to free their broad
hips from the snuggling confines of the sofa.  They beat a path across
the carpet towards him.  A good deal of the other guests appeared to be
heading the same way.  Some even abandoned their card games to rise and
greet him.

He certainly wasn't expected, Victoria hysterically realised from
glancing at awed expressions and the impromptu stampede.  And she
understood why: a prosperous merchant banker and his wife were hardly
likely to tempt a jaded peer of the realm away from his sophisticated
pleasures with an evening of hazard and whist and unaccomplished music.
Had she herself ever believed they might, she would never have ventured
out of Rosemary House this evening.

Her heartbeat was so fast and irregular, she felt quite light-headed.

She had hoped never to see him again.  Despite what Emma had said about
expecting him at her birthday ball, she had been sure he would avoid
attending.  There was nothing polite left for them to say to each other.

Blue eyes were raised from Daphne's upturned face and slanted across the
room at her.

Victoria immediately swung her face away, furious with herself for
staring just that second too long.

"The Blairs must be wondering what brings them such exalted company
tonight," Emma remarked softly.

"I feel most inclined to tell them."

Victoria was again made aware of just how perceptive her friend could
be.

"Is there a terrace, Emma, do you know?  Or a cool corridor to refresh
oneself in?  I feel quite hot and thirsty..."

"Yes ... come on, let's escape," Emma whispered conspiratorially, giving
one of Victoria's hands a comforting squeeze.

"Let's leave these simpering females to waste their time with the
infamous Viscount and his equally rakish friend.  I believe the Blairs
have a small conservatory, rather like ours.  Mama is always denigrating
the size of their plants."

Victoria gave a wry smile.

"Let's go and ridicule their blooms to our hearts' content, then."

Brilliant blue eyes, heavy-lidded with mingling desire and irritation,
tracked glossy raven hair and lavender silk slipping by unobtrusively on
the perimeter of the people milling about him.  David barely recognised
the Worthing- tons' daughter, looking attractive in a dark gold gown,
until she raised her topaz eyes challengingly to his while passing.

"Please do partner me at cards.  Lord Courtenay," Moira Blair
petitioned, a fluttering fan shielding rosebud lips, fluttering
eyelashes screening ice-blue eyes.

"Please do let my girls lead you to some refreshment in the dining room
before you play, Lord Courtenay," her mother insisted.

"First things first, m'dear," her husband jovially countermanded.

"What will you have to drink, Courtenay?"  he so- licitiously asked
their honoured guest.

"Is there a chance I might win some of me money back tonight, old man?"
Frederick Worthington slurred drunkenly over the crowd, raising a
chuckle from the men who had heard tell of his afternoon antics at
Watier's.

"Is there a chance ypu might be regretting this already?"  Dickie
needled in an undertone as he sauntered past David, allowing Daphne
Blair to triumphantly steer him towards; some inharmonious noise issuing
forth from the music room.

Victoria held the cool crystal tumbler against her flushed face and then
sipped a little of the bitter-sweet lemonade "This is very good," she
said to Emma, sitting next to he| on the iron bench nestling amid the
foliage in the conservatory.  a; Emma nodded in agreement and broke in
half the piece!  of madeira cake she had snatched from the dining tabtt|
when the pair of them had subtly withdrawn.

"This isn't so good."  Emma voiced Victoria's thoughts.  Glancing about
for somewhere to deposit the cake and finding nowhere, she dipped a
little of it into her glass of lemonade to soften it then persevered
with chewing it.

The sweet, exotic perfume of foreign flowers and the cool quiet were
welcomingly soothing.  *I believe I can detect the scent of jasmine,"

Victoria murmured, resting back into the seat.

Emma pointed to a climber some feet away.

"Shall we share a headache and return to Cheapside?"  Victoria wrinkled
her nose appealingly.

"I don't think I can endure any more of that ill-toned soprano.  Or the
ill- mannered Mrs Porter, Mrs Plumb or Misses Blair."

"Or the ill-reputed Viscount...?"  Emma suggested with a sideways smile.

Victoria returned her a defeated one.

"Yes... especially not him."

"I'll find Mama and discreetly say we are poorly.  It will make her
determined to pack us off home, lest I am still ailing at the weekend.
We can send the carriage back for her and Papa and your aunt.  Two
grooms are in attendance tonight so we'll be perfectly safe and
respectable."

Once Emma had disappeared, Victoria became aware of a sound which their
muted chatting had covered.  She rose and idly strolled along the cool
avenue of greenery, her fingers lightly slipping over large, glossy
leaves, until she found the little fountain playing.  She had arrived at
the Blairs' most pleasing musical offering, she wryly realised as she
allowed the crystal-clear water to splash her fingers.  And then she
noticed the gilt cage suspended above it.

"I don't believe we've been introduced."

Emma slowed her speedy pace at the unexpected greeting and twisted
towards the tall blond man who had stepped from a doorway to block her
entrance to the conservatory.

She gave him a cool smile.

"Your reputation precedes you, Mr Du Quesne.  I know perfectly well who
you are and I'm sure you have little real interest in who I am."

Dickie choked an admiring laugh at her unfazed composure and candour.

"Well, don't beat about the bush.  Miss Worthington.  Please say what
you really mean," he wryly retaliated.

Now Emma suppressed a smile.

"Very well, Mr Du Quesne, I will do so.

I really mean.  that I am aware I am being waylaid for a purpose.  I
shall allow your friend no more than a few minutes with Mrs Hart.  If it
should ever become necessary, I shall swear I never left her alone with
him for one second.  And if I hear one sound that makes me think she
wishes not to be alone with him I shall scream blue murder and accuse
you both of behaviour most unbecoming toer.  gentlemen.  "

She looked thoughtful.  "And, before you tell me, I am aware that our
reputations will suffer irreparable damage as a consequence, whereas
yours will not.  But scream I shall, nonetheless.  And have a fit of the
vapours while you and the Viscount explain."

Dickie's eyes narrowed on her serene golden gaze.

"Where have you been all my life?"  he drily muttered.

Emma was aware of the reluctant compliment in his sarcasm.

"Oh, I rarely mix in polite society," she mellifluously told him.

"But then, of course, neither do you."  With that parting shot she
walked away a little and began an interested perusal of the portraits
lining the corridor walls.

Victoria gazed up at the tiny silent creature and the linnet inclined
its head to put a beady eye on her.  It made no sound.  A song bird but
it simply bobbed jerkily on its perch and then grew still.  A slender
white finger was stretched out to rest against its golden prison.

"I'd set you free if I could," she whispered.

"Do they let you out to fly?  Do you remember how to fly?"

"Shall we find out?"

Victoria spun about and immediately froze before taking two careful
steps back.

David Hardinge seemed unbelievably tall and dark in the narrow,
leaf-fringed walkway, and far too close.  Glittering eyes rose from her
startled face to the linnet.

"You're not hoping to fly away too, Mrs Hart, are you?"  he deliberately
challenged her.

Victoria fought to control the thundering of her heart, grasping her
fountain-wet fingers behind her back.  "Why... why should I do that?"

she asked haughtily, completely meeting his expectations.

"I was here first.  I believe it is you who should leave.  I would be
grateful if you would do so right now--before we are discovered and the
malicious tabbies are entitled to their outrage."

David lifted the cage from its golden hook and looked at the bird.

Even thus disturbed it made no protest, simply dipping and cocking its
head this way and that.  He placed it on a high ledge close to a tilted
fanlight and opened the cage door.

"I ... I don't think you should do that, Mr Hardinge," Victoria said
nervously, but her doubt was disproved by a small, sweetly admiring
smile for the linnet's liberator.

"There are lots of things I shouldn't do," he said softly.  "Lots of
things I regret... But this isn't one of them."

Victoria felt her throat tighten, and her limpid eyes rose to his.

Just for a moment she was sure those words were a prelude to an apology.
The hope was doused on glimpsing an unmistakable lust smouldering
between his lashes.  Despite her determination not to seem intimidated
she was: she was so terribly afraid that he was simply preparing to
barter with her again.

"I should be grateful if you would leave, Mr Hardinge..."  Her voice
shook with the strength of plea in it.

"Why won't you call me David?"  he asked quietly, his eyes dark,
brilliant stars in his shadowy face.

"For the same reason you won't call me Victoria," she answered, striving
for calm and logic.

"It would imply a friendship we no longer have.  Please leave..."

"I want back what we had, Victoria.  I want us to be close..."

A choke of sour laughter interrupted him.

"I'm sure you do, Mr Hardinge.  Unfortunately, I want the reverse."  Her
unsteady fingers gripped behind her back.

"As you won't go away, would you allow me to pass?  I should like to
find Emma.  We are ready to depart..."  She trailed off, realising Emma
had had ample time to return.  She guessed at once who might be
detaining her and why.

"Have you sent your friend to intercept her...?"

David smiled.

"Dickie does as he pleases.  If he wants to talk to a pretty girl, no
doubt he will.  Emma does look very attractive tonight... And you look
quite beautiful... as usual."  David watched his compliment fire glossy
gunmetal eyes into seeking escape routes.

"Which malicious tabbies?"  he asked obliquely, confusing her.

After a moment of collecting her thoughts, Victoria laughed shortly.

"Oh, those who are scandalised by my presence here tonight, Mr
Hardinge."

"Scandalised?"  As the possibility dawned, he frowned.  "Because you and
your aunt visited me at home?"

"Partly.  But it seems respecting my late husband's wish that I should
not shut myself indoors shrouded in black is the greater sin."

"You've been insulted?"  David asked in a tight, toneless voice.

"Why so surprised, Mr Hardinge?"  was Victoria's bittersweet response.

"Did you believe that to be solely your prerogative?"

"You think offering you anything you want and forty thousand pounds is
an insult?"

Victoria's eyes flew to the bird cage while her heart raced.  She had
been desperate to avoid any mention of that afternoon's mortification
yet had stupidly led to it herself.

She watched the linnet.  It was still there, facing freedom, yet too
timid to go.

"Do you?"  David persisted softly.

"I should return to the assembled company if I were you, Mr Hardinge."
Victoria breathlessly changed the subject.  "I'm sure you're already
missed. Immoral you may be, but still very welcome--as, indeed, you said
you would be.  Whereas I, having the effrontery to come here this
evening and share a conversation and a sofa with Emma, am completely
beyond the pale and will be gladly despatched home."

"I find their hypocrisy as distasteful as you do.  When you leave, I
leave. And they can make of that what they will."

"Are you trying to ruin me?"  Victoria gasped.

"By making your attention so obvious?"

"Forty thousand pounds' worth of debts is ruination, Victoria.  But it
needn't be.  I could make sure it isn't," David reasoned softly.

"You're an impoverished widow, not a child.  You're not being sensible
or mature in this and you know it."

"Yes, I do know it," Victoria agreed in an acrid whisper.  "Even moments
ago I was naive and foolish.  You see, I thought you might include your
odious proposition to be amongst the things you regretted."  She swung
sideways, examining the closest petals as the truth in it brought a
stinging heat to her eyes and a thickening to her throat.  She forced
through it,

"I shall marry when I return to Hertford- shire and very much hope never
to see or speak to you ever again."

"And your father and your aunt?  Are you happy never to see or speak to
them again either?  Beresford can't support you all.  He certainly can't
maintain your estate on what he earns."

Victoria twisted back to face him, her complexion heating with temper.

"How did you know?  Who told you that?  You've been checking on my
affairs!" she choked furiously.

"Naturally, I take an interest in my late cousin's widow... and her
misfortunes," David remarked mildly, amused by her are.

"And that fake concern can cover a multitude of sins, I suppose.  But
only yours.  Never mine," Victoria lashed at him, revelling in this
white-hot rage that was decimating her anxiety.

"So, what is it you have regretted, Mr Hardinge, in your shameless,
selfish life?  Perhaps paying so obscenely for your pleasures.  Or
behaving in such a disgusting manner that my aunt tells me the details
would shock the devil himself.  Or perhaps that you travelled in the
snow to attend Daniel's funeral and discovered something truly
diverting... something you couldn't have.  No?  None of that?"  She
sarcastically read from his face.  A wild exhilaration emboldened her as
his sardonic features set into granite.

"How strange, for I swear I believed the last must count.  I know I have
never regretted any day more in my life.  But I don't think I can be
bothered to guess further what it is you rue.  Please allow me to pass
or I shall call for assistance and..."

She was hauled unceremoniously against his rigid body and long, hard
fingers were laid against her softly quivering mouth.  His dark head
dipped close to hers.

"I shouldn't do that, Victoria.  If you thought these genteel ladies a
trifle cruel to you before, you'll never survive them clawing into you
over this." Cool fingers slid against her trembling lips, expertly
parting them before abruptly moving so his warm mouth could take their
place.

It was unbearable.  She had expected her insolence would make it a kiss
full of lechery and revenge.  But there was no pain, no revulsion.  It
was exactly the same as the last proper kiss she had received.  seven
long years ago.  A kiss of tender, restrained passion, with stroking
lips and fingers soothing her face and spearing into her hair.

She drifted into the caress, languid, swirling, the years effortlessly
peeling away.  Even the cool greenery surrounding them, the dusky
shadows, the faint echoes of music and gaiety conspired to rejuvenate
the memory.

It was a summer evening and she was being loved in a walkway in Vauxhall
Gardens; loving back; matching him kiss for shy kiss, returning
endearments as she received them, listening to plans for their future
whispered against her upturned face in between those tender, sensual
assaults.  Listening to his husky promise that tomorrow he would speak
to her father.

The tableau was so clear, so bitter-sweet, so much at odds with her mood
and expectation that inexorable stinging tears flooded her eyes,
spilling before she had sense or will to stop them.

She knew the moment he realised she wept.  He deepened the kiss and his
arms tightened, soothingly rocked her, as though he could woo away her
sorrow. her anger.  as he always had.  Knowing he was sharing her
reminiscence caused a juddering sob to escape and mingle with his
breath.  That was the final time she had seen or heard from him until
Daniel's funeral.

David's mouth slid slowly away across her wet cheek, large hands
cradling her silken head against his shoulder.

"I'll tell you what I regret most in my life, Victoria," he finally,
hoarsely said against her hair.

"I regret waiting until I had twenty thousand pounds, seven years ago,
when ten might have been sufficient."

"You had no money seven years ago..."  Victoria sobbed into his
shoulder.

"No.  I had no money.  So I borrowed some from my father.  And because I
felt ashamed of begging money from a man I had never acknowledged, a man
I had always slapped away when he extended friendship, I waited until
I'd doubled it for I wanted some self-respect when I returned to
Hammersmith to offer for you again.  Tried to buy you, your father would
have called it.  I had twenty thousand pounds two days after you married
Daniel Hart."

Victoria trembled in his arms at the awful significance of these quiet,
harsh words.  Her mind raced back, scrambling for information.

"You said your father was without funds... that he was verging on
bankruptcy. How could he have loaned you so much?"  Victoria whispered
into his shoulder.

David grunted an unpleasant laugh.

"Not him.  Not the man who gave me his name.  The man who gave me life.
The Duke of Hawthorne."

Chapter Seven.

The jasmine is quite remarkable and this variety is particularly worth
obtaining for its perfume.  "

Alarmed by the dialogue, and the knowledge that they were no longer
alone, Victoria tugged free of David's embrace.  Emma was bearing down
on them at some speed.  An explicit, warning look from her friend had
Victoria's blood freezing.  Sweeping past, Emma grabbed at David's arm,
urging him towards the foliage.  She pointed up towards a pale flower,
while hissing,

"Please do look interested, Lord Courtenay; I believe it is the very
least you can do."

Her small fingers were picked from the crook of his arm, his expression
thunderous as he tried to jerk away, but Emma hung on.

Then David saw Dickie talking urgently to Victoria; she was listening
earnestly.  A hum of female voices became audible and he understood.

"Ah, Mama," Emma called brightly.

"Do hurry, I need your advice.  Now I am quite sure this might be an
orchid but Lord Courtenay believes it to be a lily.  What's your
opinion?"

Margaret Worthington gawped at the astonishing sight of the Blairs'
sought-after guests being advised on horticulture by her own daughter
and Matilda's pretty widowed niece.  She hurried forward, while craning
an anxious look behind at her hostess and her chattering daughters. They
had been tracking these gentlemen for some while.

"Well, my dear Emma."  She gulped.

"On closer inspection, it seems his lordship is correct."

Petra Blair sliced a steely look at the two young women usurping her own
girls' privileges.  A millionaire viscount and the heir to a rich
baronetcy were actually attending one of her soirees!  After such a
monumental achievement, the last thing she was prepared to countenance
was said gentlemen spending precious time in the greenery with young
ladies who were not her daughters.

"Moira!"  she summoned.

"You are quite an expert on the flowers.

Please show Lord Courtenay all the largest specimens.  Daphne.  " she
barked.

"Perhaps Mr Du Quesne might like to see the fountain..."  The two blonde
girls rallied at once, poisoning their rivals with darting glances while
homing in on their quarry.

Victoria and Emma exchanged private looks.  Emma even managed a small,
relieved smile until she noticed a suspicious wetness sheening her
friend's long, sooty lashes.  She then glared at David Hardinge as he
stood woodenly with his newly acquired female companion.

"Ah, there you are," Aunt Matilda called out, tripping along the pathway
towards them.

"Victoria, are you unwell?  Emma tells me the two of you have the
headache..."  Spying the two gentlemen, her pale eyes targeted David
Hardinge and she sniffed disdainfully.  No one, in Matilda Sweeting's
eyes, had the right to reject her beautiful, worthy niece when she
offered herself as a wife.  Certainly not this man, who wasn't good
enough for her in any case, however rich and regal he might now think
himself.  Having examined her niece's strained face, she joined Emma in
hating the hard, handsome profile presented to them.

Dickie strolled towards Emma with Daphne attached to his arm.

"Well, Miss Worthington, thank you for introducing me to the delights of
... er ... an unusual flower.  I should like to know more.  In fact, I'm
keen to invest a little time in becoming familiar with such a rarity."

"Oh, but it would require a great deal of time, Mr Du Quesne.  And
patience. Not a pastime for the fainthearted, I fear.  Perhaps you
should dedicate that " little time" to a more common species... much as
you do now.  They are better suited to a novice."  Emma smiled sweetly
but something in Dickie's expression made her lose no time in slipping
past them.

Victoria smothered the hysterical laugh that threatened.  She followed
Emma a few paces and then swung about.  She felt utterly confused.

Thirty minutes ago all she had wanted was to feign illness and escape to
Rosemary House with Emma.  Now, despite a genuine headache, she was
reluctant to leave: she so wanted some more time alone with David.

There was so much more she needed to know.  But it was hopeless.  No
chance of further privacy was likely to present itself.

Her mind sifted through melancholy memories.  Had he really been on the
point of offering for her again seven years ago?  She knew when David
had initially approached her father he had endured such insult and
vilification, she had panicked he might never venture back.  After
lengthy, solitary debate, she had convinced herself that mere odium
would never deter the strong man she knew and loved, despite the
prospect of such a hateful father-in-law.

Her father had unashamedly recounted to her his slanderous abuse, and
with a mean triumph that had made her forcefully renew her championship
of the man he so maligned.  Her unshakeable faith and temerity had
re-stoked her father's apopletic rage and henceforth it had been
directed at her.

A slanting, soulful glance sought David and the yearning to return to
those intimate moments they had just shared, to talk further, was like a
physical ache.  Had her faith been justified after all?  Had he then not
consoled himself with pleasure-seeking abroad following her father's
invective?  Had he actually been in London making money for their future
when she'd wed Daniel?  Or had she somehow misunderstood his meaning
moments ago?  She sighed.  If only she'd had time to confide her own
heartfelt sorrow at how abruptly and sourly it had all ended.  But
perhaps bitterness might have overtaken her, making her rail openly at
him as, long ago, she had done privately.  For, ultimately, what excuse
was there, other than cowardice or apathy, for ignoring both her letters
and abandoning her to her father's sick acrimony?

She pushed thoughts of recrimination away; it was all now far too late.
Besides, she was sure they had been on the threshold of a new
understanding and warmth.  Destroying it needlessly would be foolish.

She focussed on him properly, watching him as everyone else seemed to be
doing.  His head was angled back as though he was indeed admiring the
exotic blooms.  But his stillness and the rigidity in his jaw consoled
her; he was as intensely aware of her as she was of him.

As if attuned to her need, his dark head slowly turned and for a
fleeting, unnoticed moment their eyes were inextricable.  The longing
was in him too. So was smoky desire and such raw exasperation that
Victoria was terrified he might not control it but vent his temper.

One side of his mouth pulled in a wry smile as though he read her fears
and wanted to allay them.  His eyes lifted to the gilded bird cage and
Victoria's followed.  She smiled too.  The linnet was gone.

"Tonight I received the greatest set-down of my entire life... twice."

Having just returned in mutual thoughtful silence from the Blairs' to
Beauchamp Place, both Dickie and David now poured drinks in the study.
Dickie strode towards the blazing fire carrying his and jabbed an
irritated kick at the ornate fender.

"Are you going to call him out?"  David asked, mildly interested, as he
stretched his considerable length out on the brocade sofa, resting his
dark head back, with a weary sigh, into the scrolled arm.

"She called me a novice," Dickie thundered.  TheI A novice!  The little.
" His teeth gritted and he was unsure why the insult battering at them
wouldn't force past.

A soundless laugh softened David's chiselled features as his fingers
felt for the table and retrieved the cheroot from the ashtray.  He stuck
it between even white teeth and spoke past it.

"I told you not to come to the Blairs' tonight.  I warned you you'd be
bored and regret it."

"Bored?  Regret it?  I was insulted twice by a... a slip of a girl with
extraordinary golden eyes.  You didn't warn me about that."

"How was I to know she'd like you?"  David enigmatically excused
himself, still laughing.  He pulled his heavy gold hunter into his line
of vision.

"It's not yet midnight.  Mrs Crawfbrd will be glad to un ruffle your
feathers at her salon, you know.  Even happier now you'll be determined
to impress her with your mastery."

Dickie strode towards the door.

"Coming?"  was flung back over his shoulder.

David swung his feet off the sofa and had pushed himself upright in a
lithe, fluid second.  A lean hand went to the nape of his neck,
massaging the tension beneath his thick mahogany hair.  Stubbing the
cigar out, he downed the remaining inch of cognac in his tumbler, stood
up.  and re n mained motionless.  His long fingers massaged at his nape
again.  His eyes closed and he cursed beneath his breath.

Dickie walked slowly back towards him, biting his lip and looking
sympathetic.

"You might just as well marry her.  She's got you acting like a
husband... an unusual husband," he amended drily, 'but a husband
nonetheless.  "

David paced the room restlessly before halting by the window.  He gazed
moodily up at the full moon then down into the quiet street.

"You go," he ordered Dickie.

"You really think she likes me?"  Dickie demanded disbelievingly.

"Undoubtedly," David confirmed with a lop-sided grin through the window.

The quiet click of the door let him know Dickie was receptive to his
wish for solitude.  But then Dickie knew him well.  Better, probably,
than anyone else.  Better than his family who had never understood him
at all.  But then from his mid-teens he had never wanted them to.  He
had learned young to be secretive.  to guard his character and feelings.
It was less painful that way.  He could still remember as a young child
wanting.  needing his parents' attention and affection.

He had never received either meaningfully.

Paul and Maria Hardinge had, at times, ostentatiously paraded their
three children for friends' and visitors' compliments; for all three
were handsome of face and figure, although not alike.  Unsurprisingly
considering each had been differently sired.  But Maria Hardinge had
been a beauty and each child had inherited her perfect facial bone
structure if not her petite frame and fair colouring.  His own sire, the
Duke of Hawthorne, had also been a tall, handsome man.

But once their offspring had been admired and picked over they had been
dismissed again, banished back to the nursery or the schoolroom, their
usefulness complete, parental duty, as they saw it, accomplished.

The adults would then commence carousing.  And heaven knew some of what
he and Michael had witnessed as children from between the banisters as
their parents had entertained their guests.  or the servants.  or,
rarely, each other would have shocked the devil himself.  He smiled, his
spare features silvered by milky moonbeams slanting across his face. Now
why had that particular phrase sprung to mind?  he drily wondered.  And
which incident was it that Victoria's aunt had heard about?

He didn't want Victoria hearing any embellished tales.  He'd rather
recount it all honestly himself.  Most of his exploits had been wildly
exaggerated by the time they circulated back.  He should have told her
that he regretted his former way of life: since Daniel Hart's funeral
pangs of guilt had been niggling.  Had they not been interrupted in the
conservatory tonight, no doubt he would have.

He swung away from the window with an exasperated oath.  Former way of
life? What about it was over?  He had no intention of explaining or
modifying his behaviour for anyone.  Or apologising for it.

Dickie was right.  He was moping about like a besotted fool.  Much as he
had seven years ago, he damningly reminded himself.  And he was never
hurting like that again.

Then, she had professed to love him and had seemed so sincere.  Within a
month of her father sending her to Hertfordshire, she'd married another
man. So much for his arrogant certainty that she would have faith in
him.  That she would remain constant until he came back with enough
money to claim her. He would have sworn he knew her, yet she had
effortlessly transferred that sweet, loyal affection from a penniless,
adoring suitor, willing to die rather than see them parted, to a
landowner old enough to be her father.

He wouldn't go to this damned ball of Emma's.  He wished now he'd never
gone to the Blairs' this evening.  Kissing her had been foolish, as had
being moved by her tears.  He had promised himself that she wouldn't
sway him with feminine wiles.  And she could, he wryly recalled.  She
certainly could. He'd vowed he wouldn't touch .  not until she was
installed in one of his London properties and he was entitled to do so
whenever.  however he pleased. But he had yielded to temptation and the
scent and taste and feel of her had stirred him as overwhelmingly at a
jaded thirty years old as it had when he had been a comparatively fresh
youth falling in love for the first.  the only.  time in his life.

He wandered to the decanter and refilled his glass and downed half in
one swallow.  She would agree to his terms before she returned to
Hertfordshire; he was sure of it.  There was no dispossessed woman,
whatever her station in life, who would hold out against such ridiculous
generosity.  Most women forced to improve their prospects were
exceedingly grateful for his interest and protection and very keen to
prove that to him.

Victoria had her relations to think of and this damned estate she was so
proud of.  He was confident those things would make her sensible.

He wouldn't go the Worthingtons' at the weekend, he decided, stretching
out on the sofa again.  He'd let her ponder.  and wonder.  There was no
way she would return to Hartfield without again seeking him out.  He was
certain of that.

"Well, he's regretting it already; that much is perfectly clear.  And
don't you go accepting too soon.  He deserves to suffer."

Victoria swivelled on her dressing stool and looked at her aunt as she
rustled into the bedroom in her voluminous night robe

"What are you talking about.  Aunt Matty?"  ing that Beryl also seemed
quite intrigued by her e odd outburst and was gawping at Matilda,
Victoria toe tortoiseshell hairbrush from her slack fingers and menced
brushing her own hair.

"That will be all, thank Beryl.

You may retire for the night now.  "

Beryl closed her mouth, bobbed dutifully and qu bedroom Victoria and
Matilda shared in Rosemary H "That girl has too much to say for
herself," M, sniffed.

"Hardly fair.  Aunt," Victoria reproved on a gur laugh.

"She said nothing.  In fact she rarely says anyt Can't you see, she's
still sulking for being deprived of field... and Samuel?  But she is not
deaf and she unders a great deal," Victoria subtly warned.

"Now, what mi I accept?"

"Viscount Courtenay's proposal," her aunt explained much accentuation.

"Let him stew while you pretel consider... You may accept his apology."

Victoria continued drawing the brush through her sleek hair.

"There is nothing to accept.  Aunt.  Neither posal nor apology, and
there never will be.  I've told he considers himself a confirmed
bachelor,"

Victoria kily reminded her, 'and he is hardly likely to deem it essary
to apologise for that.  "

"Margaret has told me he rarely socialises in such ventional circles as
he has these past days.  He is obvil out seeking you.  He has let it be
known at his club th has a special interest in your welfare."

"Has he, indeed?"  Victoria gasped, shaking ebony tr back from her
shocked face.

"The gentlemen at Watier's looked suitably put in places, according to
Frederick," Matilda said smugly.  see, he is letting them all know he
has first claim on She flapped a dismissing hand.

"I have no sympathy him.  In fact, that Mr Du Quesne is rather a
handsome sort of chap and very rich too..."

Oh, he had let it be known he had first claim on her, had he?

Victoria fumed.  He had no wish to marry her himself but neither did he
want anyone else to: it would spoil his sport.  By public ising his
intentions he had cleverly deprived her of any respectable offers that
might have come her way.  His confirmed-bachelor status coupled with his
dissolute woman ising ensured all and sundry knew exactly what was meant
by his special interest.

She pressed her cool fingers to her heating face.  She would be pored
over by gentlemen in every London club.  laughed at.  ogled.  And when
their wives heard the whispered gossip they would despise and shun her.

And her dear aunt Matty, in her innocence and ignorance--for she had
kept from her David Hardinge's terms for saving Hartfield--believed that
he harboured honourable intentions towards her!

What a fool she had been again.  She knew he was an habitual philanderer
yet, merely hours ago at the Blairs', she had been ready to seek another
quiet place to be alone with him.  She had practically allowed herself
to be seduced right there and then by some clever reminiscing and an
expert kiss. No doubt he meant none of it.  And no 'doubt all his
prospective mistresses were bamboozled with a little contrived wooing at
the outset.

"When he proposes--' " He is not going to propose.  Aunt," Victoria
interrupted fiercely, her grey eyes stormy purple in her chalky face.

"It is not what he intends at all."  She drew a deep, shaky breath.

"Do you remember once refusing to tell me a scandalous anecdote of his
friends who were not ladies?  Well, / had hoped never to tell you this:
he has invited me to join their ranks.  That is the only reason he pays
me attention.

He has no other role for me in his life and you must thinking he has.  "

"He wants you to serve him at table naked?"  Ma shrieked, astonished.

"What?"  Victoria gasped, equally amazed.

Matilda sank onto the edge of her bed and a veined ] went to her
wrinkled brow.

"What did you say.  Aunt Matty?"  Victoria demands a querulous whisper.

"You had better tell me the detai what would shock the devil himself.

It might, after al what he had planned for me.  "

"It's probably not true," Matilda hastily dismissed, the very least,
it's grossly meddled with.  " Her pink ch displayed her embarrassment
and reluctance to di\ more.

"You said, " serve him at table naked".  You heard one of his mistresses
did that?"

"Not one... three.  And they were not his mistresses had every ambition
of becoming so," Matilda re countee teringly.

"These trollops were vying for his attention dubious private salon.  One
aspirant was a countess, s< story goes.  Each woman believed her figure
more coi than her rivals' and was keen to prove it to him ... mu< the
amusement of all the men present."  Matilda paused darted an anxious
glance at Victoria's stunned expres "I suppose you cannot really censure
him for 'twas no stipulation.  The harlots devised between them this
test..."

"And whom did he choose?"  Victoria gritted, unab discipline the
trembling hurt from her voice.

"Did countess win?  Did all of them win?"

"None, I believe.  He left with a young woman the the ... er ... the
profession," Matilda finished uneasily.  rather you hadn't found out,
Victoria.  "

"Why?"  Victoria choked, veering between fury and teria.

"Because had he been willing to marry me this would all be acceptable9
Is that not as shameful in its own way as what you've just recounted?"
She flung her hairbrush onto the bed.

"Oh, I wish I'd never come here!  It was foolish to ever believe a
solution to our problems could be found this way."

Matilda enclosed her trembling shoulders in a hesitant hug.

"As soon as Emma's ball is over we will depart the following morning.
I'm so sorry I ever persuaded you to accompany me," she said tearfully.

"To think you've been so insulted..."

Victoria laid slender, tapering fingers over her aunt's bumpy, mottled
hand.

"Well, it is all an experience.  Aunt Many," she managed on a woeful
laugh.

"We shall hereafter be on our guard against such... such men."  She
soldiered on brightly.

"And it has been good to see you enjoy yourself with Margaret and all
your old acquaintances.  And how wonderful to find a new friend in Emma!
Our time in Lon- don has been enjoyable.  We will not let such people
ruin it for us."

She gently put her aunt from her and stood up.

"Mr Be- res ford is a kind man ... if not wealthy.  Hartfield must be
sold but I'm sure there will be something to put by to provide a modest
home for us all.  If so, no marriage at all will be necessary and we can
make do and mend much as we do now."  She sighed.

"It will be sad to see Samuel and Sally and the others put off.  But
they are all young and strong and with references I'm quite sure they
will find work." She walked to the window and gazed up at the full moon
and suddenly wondered how the linnet fared: whether it would survive its
liberty or whether, perhaps, captivity would have been kinder, after
all.

"I thought I wouldn't be at all bothered about tonight but I feel
terribly excited.  How do I look?"  Emma demanded as she pirouetted in
front of Victoria.  She put a hand up to check her glossy ringlets and
the elegant fall of peach velvet ribbon Beryl had artfully twined into
her hair.

"You look lovely, Emma.  Absolutely radiant.  And that shade of pastel
apricot suits you."  Victoria lightly flicked an amber eardrop.

"And these suit the colour remarkably well too."  She raised enquiring
dark brows and whispered, "I take it your mama had no hand in your
attire tonight."

A gay chuckle bubbled from Emma and she shook her head.

"A successful shopping expedition I made alone some months ago."  She
cocked her head to one side.

"And you look just as stunning in lilac silk as you do in grey and
lavender... and every other shade you wear..."

"Well, now we have complimented each other very prettily, perhaps we
ought to go down," Victoria warned.

"If we do not, your mama is sure to be up the stairs again shortly,
looking for you.  Your guests have been arriving this past half-hour."

With faultless timing, Margaret Worthington burst into the room.

"Emma, come along!  The Blairs are here and the Watsons and Sophie
Greig, who I swear is wearing exactly the same shade of orange as you. I
told you it would be a common colour.  Purple is more outstanding...
more unique..."

Victoria and Emma exchanged looks and the appalling description 'orange'
could be read on both their lips.  They widened their eyes
simultaneously.

Victoria gave her friend a sympathetic smile, politely commented on the
fineness of Margaret Worthington's ensemble, then swished past and down
the sweeping stairwell of Rosemary House in search of her aunt Matilda.

"Well, I have to own that Margaret has excelled herself."  Matilda
proudly praised her sister-in-law.

Standing next to her in the drawing-room doorway, Victoria could only
murmur wholehearted agreement.  Her eyes rose to admire rainbows
sparking from the chandelier's crystal droplets as candle flames danced
upon them.  The carpets had been removed to reveal a marquetry floor for
dancing, and already many of the chairs lining both sides of the long
room were occupied by fashionably dressed guests.  A cosy hum of
conversation and laughter amongst the assembly lent a warmth to the
atmosphere that blended nicely with the blaze in the hearth.

Victoria and her aunt had already feasted their eyes upon the variety of
delicacies laid out for supper in the dining room.  Margaret had
certainly not overstated the luxury of her daughter's
twenty-fourth-birthday celebration.

"Shall we find a seat now.  Aunt Matty, before they are all taken?  I
see Mrs Plumb and Mrs Porter are heading this way," Victoria warned on a
grimace.

"Shall we beat them to the last comfortable sofa?"

"Indeed we shall not," Matilda decided with a hand-flap.  Let them have
it. We shall circulate and meet new people .  not sit with your beauty
concealed in the cushions.  "

Victoria bit her lip, a wry expression twisting her full, soft mouth and
making her grey eyes smoky.  For, despite her aunt's assurances that she
was finally resigned to the fact that Hartfield must be sold and they
must all take their chances with fate, Victoria knew the woman was
unable to relinquish her dream that this ball would educe a rich,
honourable hero bent on rescuing them.

In undoubted confirmation of this, Matilda ran her pale blue eyes the
length of her niece's slender lilac-silk figure.  She assessed from
sheeny raven head to satin-slippered toe, before nodding contentedly.

"You look exceedingly pretty in that new gown.  The scoop in the
neckline shows your fine white skin and shoulders to perfection."

Victoria immediately shielded the delicate contours of exposed
collarbone with a slender hand, aware the spiteful harridans were almost
upon them.

"Does it need a fichu, do you think?"  she asked anxiously, unable to
countenance any verbal assault from the hateful women on the subject of
her decolletage.  Not that she minded battling on her own behalf, but
she would let nothing spoil Emma's birthday ball.

"Indeed it does not."  Matilda picked her niece's white fingers from her
throat.

"You've the shapeliest bosom of any young lady here, if not the
fullest," she declared.

"Some of the wanton displays I've seen here tonight--' Matilda sniffed,
glancing disdainfully about at naked cleavages '--make your gown look
exceedingly demure and your neat figure a joy to behold."

"Dear Aunt Matty," Victoria said with a laugh.

"What would I do without you to constantly flatter me?"

"It's truth, not flattery," Matilda returned huffily, straightening her
head on her crepey neck as Victoria gave her bony arm an affectionate
squeeze.

Loud conversation and laughter in the corridor drew their attention.

They watched as a large birthday cake was carried carefully between the
butler and cook towards the dining room.

"Indeed, Margaret has done Emma proud," Matilda stated with an emphatic
nod as her eyes followed the progress of the magnificent confection.

"If the girl can't attract a man after all this expense and finery, then
Margaret might just as well pack her off to a nunnery..."

Her niece's blanching complexion and involuntary shudder made Matilda
gasp and hide her mouth with freckled fingers.  The other gripped hard
at one of Victoria's arms in comfort and remorse.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Vicky, my dear.  What a thoughtless, stupid thing to
say. I'm so very sorry," she stressed, her voice and pale eyes replete
with shame.

"It's all right.  Aunt," Victoria soothed with a wobbly smile.

"I know you meant nothing ill by it.  It was all such a long time ago.
It is time we all forgot..."  Victoria cast about for something bland to
say, to take her aunt's mind off her gaffe and restore her previous
jollity. Distraction came in the shape of a distinguished, fair-haired
man just entering the drawing room.  He saw them and smiled.

"Look, Aunt, Mr Du Quesne is arrived, and is coming our way,"

Victoria said huskily, her eyes immediately skimming past him to locate
the man she was sure must follow.  But he seemed to be alone.

"Mrs Hart... Mrs Sweeting.  How nice to see you again.  I trust you are
both well?"  Dickie charmingly greeted them.

"Indeed we are, sir," Victoria replied with a smile and a small bob.

"May I book a dance with you early, Mrs Hart, before your card is full?"
Dickie gallantly asked.

"I shall't be dancing this evening, Mr Du Quesne," Victoria told him
apologetically, unconsciously smoothing her lilac mourning dress.

"But thank you anyway."

"Of course," Dickie murmured, dipping his head a little in understanding
and regret.

"Ah, there you are, Mr Du Quesne," Margaret beamed as she swept up with
a hand fixed on Emma's elbow, propelling her along too.

"And where is your good friend this evening?  Did Viscount Courtenay
accompany you, or is he coming along later?"

"Ah, I believe he was unable to break his prior engagement, Mrs
Worthington," Dickie smoothly explained, his eyes seeking Victoria's
grey ones which immediately glided away.

"He was, of course, extremely disappointed..."

"Oh, well..."  Margaret murmured dejectedly.  She had naturally hoped
that the wealthy Viscount would attend but had known it a vain ambition.
But, she thought philosophically, she had acquired the presence of the
next best thing.  Sir Richard Du Quesne, as she already thought of him,
was also very rich and would be richer still on gaining his title and
birthright.

"Emma... do show Mr Du Quesne your birthday cake,"

Margaret suggested with a meaningful nod.

"The decoration is quite a work of art and the gentlemen rarely take
time to appreciate these things."  Realising that might be construed as
criticism, she hastily added,

"I beg pardon, sir; I only mean gentlemen prefer to physically enjoy
rather than simply admire delicious treats..."

"You're absolutely right, Mrs Worthington," Dickie admitted with an
ironic smile and a long look at the woman's daughter.

"I'd be the first to admit that, in the matter of cake icing, I am a
complete novice."  He turned to Emma, offered her a suave arm and
waited.

Victoria and Emma slanted each other private glances before Emma finally
slipped a hand onto his sleeve.  They disappeared into the hallway.

"Can I not tempt you to partner me, Mrs Hart?  Not just one quadrille?"
the short, squat man cajoled, sidling closer.

"Thank you, Mr Villiers, but no.  I am not dancing tonight... as I told
you earlier."

He half closed his bloodshot eyes and eyed her through sandy lashes.

"So, I hear tell that you and Viscount Courtenay are almost related?"

Victoria looked about in irritation, hoping that soon either Emma or her
aunt would reappear and rescue her from this unpleasant man's attention.
He had been mercilessly tracking her from room to room for more than
half an hour and her straining civility was close to snapping.

"My late husband and Viscount Courtenay were cousins, Mr Villiers."

"He's a lucky man to have such a lovely young woman to care for..."

Victoria faced him, infuriated by his sly looks and probing innuendo.

"Lord Courtenay does not care for me in any way at all, Mr Villiers.

We are not close acquaintances.  Please excuse me; my aunt is beckoning.
"

Victoria sped away from him and out into the quiet hallway.  She
positioned herself behind a cool marble pillar and leaned her hot
forehead against it. She knew exactly what the odious man was implying
and why he looked at her with such disrespect and lust in his piggy
eyes.

An unsteady hand tidied silken ebony tendrils into their pins.  She was
tempted to escape to her bedroom, for she was acquainted with few people
here tonight.  Those who had approached her to talk were more
inquisitive than friendly.  Several ladies had merely run assessing eyes
over her clothes and figure, then quizzed her over her connection to
Lord Courtenay and whether she was expecting him to attend.

With a resigned sigh, she moved out from behind the pillar then stepped
speedily back behind it.  Frederick Worthington was shuffling unsteadily
towards her in one direction and Gerald Villiers was craning his neck
about and approaching from the other.  He was obviously seeking someone
and Victoria was unhappily sure she knew who.

"Frederick!"  she heard Villiers call.

"Not seen Courtenay's uppity widow, have you?  Can understand why the
Viscount's being so damned territorial.  I'd like a taste of that sweet
madam myself.  Soon drive some of the starch from her, I can tell you."

"Best keep those thoughts to y'self, Villiers," Frederick slurred, 'lest
you want to find y'self on the sharp end of the man's rapier.  or the
blunt end of his fist.  " Frederick chuckled drunkenly.

"Heard he floored Wainwright the other day... and that was just for
trying to renege on his measly vowels."

"Damn Wainwright... and the Viscount," Villiers blustered.

"I've got a hot itch for this Hart woman... where's she got to?  D'you
think he'll give me the nod when he's done with her?  I reckon he might
tip me the wink with Suzanna Phillips, y'know, now she's spare.  He damn
well ought to. I've offered him me best chestnut gelding.  I know the
man drives a damned hard bargain so she'd better be damned worth it.
Need a reference on her too..."  he snorted, and muttered something
vilely salacious about his preferences to Frederick.

"Where is he, anyhow?

Thought the vaunted Viscount was due in Cheapside this evening.  "

"And so he is ... so he is ... is my guess," Frederick drawled.

"He's probably just around the corner in Grace- church Street giving
that red-headed hussy of his a little of his precious time.  The divine
Annabelle has finally lured him to her side, I suspect.  For I hear tell
he's been neglecting her of late."  An inebriated wink preceded his next
words,

"The man's no fool.  I'd sooner be entertained by her than this
confounded racket any day."  They both roared lustily before ambling
towards the first melodious strains of the orchestra just starting up.

Two minutes after they had gone, Victoria still stood rigidly, barely
able to breathe.  Her head was tipped forward against the marble pillar
for support. So now she knew exactly what the gentlemen of the haul ton
thought of her. She also knew which prior engagement David had refused
to break.  He was with one of his mistresses, just around the corner.
She and Emma had walked through Grace- church Street only yesterday. She
strained to recall the people they had passed, to bring to mind a woman
with red hair.

She swirled about in anguish so her back pressed into the pillar and her
black satin hair cushioned creamy marble.  She would not even think of
her. of any of them.  But her tortured mind refused to let go.  Would
that woman be passed on to the likes of Villiers?  Had she herself
yielded to David's coercion would she, in turn, have been auctioned once
he had finished with her?  It was a detail that had never once occurred
to her.  that at some point she would be cast adrift or sold on for the
price of prime horseflesh.

She battled to suppress the humiliation and anger threatening to engulf
her. And a grinding sorrow.  For she was indeed learning something new
of David Hardinge and his sordid life every day.  Yet still she wanted
to refuse to believe any of it and find excuses, despite
incontrovertible proof.

But it was stupid and futile, she impressed on herself, her slender
fingers automatically smearing the wet from her cheeks even though she
hadn't realised she was crying.  He would have destroyed her and
Hartfield too.  For her home would have been lost when her time was up
and he withdrew his money. Had she acquiesced to his terms, it would
have merely postponed the inevitable.

Retribution was suddenly, blindingly crucial.  He had kissed her.  He
had spoken gently of their past and she had cried.  mourned what they
had lost. what might have been.  Yet she was nothing to him now. Nothing
other than another female body to be used and discarded.

Well, as that was so, she was entitled to play by the same mercenary
rules and take everything she could and give nothing in return.  She
recalled thinking how satisfying it would be to dupe the infamous
Viscount into paying her debts before absconding back to the safe haven
of her beloved Hartfield. It now seemed condign to put that into
practice.

Chapter Eight.

Victoria swung open the door of the small library and sighed thankful
relief on finding the room unused but with a small lamp casting eerie,
elongated shadows onto a lofty ceiling.

Emma and she spent a great deal of daylight hours enjoying the tomes in
this sunny library.  Its atmosphere seemed friendless and gloomy now.
She hurried towards the glow illuminating the writing desk.

Having selected paper and quill, she sat down and began writing.

The flame leaping in the hearth gilded her tense, pale features as she
wrote quickly with barely a pause for reflection.  The words seemed to
flow effortlessly from the quill and even pausing to dip for ink seemed
a nuisance.

She sat back and reread the finished note twice before blotting and then
sealing it.  Her weary head leaned back into the leather chair and
tear-weighty eyelids drooped.

She had never indulged in trickery before.  never before believed she
would ever have the necessity or courage to do so.  Because of that, she
knew she should immediately give this note to a servant to post before
cowardice or conscience made her instead relinquish it to the fire in
the grate.

For in it she had deceitfully agreed to abide by his terms.  She would
move to London, she would accept his protection, his house, his money
and let him know of any other requirements once established.  All she
expected before she took up residence was written confirmation from the
bank that her debts were paid.  And all this she stipulated in her
letter to David.

Yet it was all falsehood.  She had no intention of ever again leaving
Hertfordshire once she returned home next week.  And why should she?

For he had already made it clear he wouldn't want her: she was, after
all, a righteous virgin.  one of those despised ingenues he had no
desire for.  At some point she hoped to have the sweet satisfaction of
telling him so.  How that would gall when he realised all his time and
attention and money had been spent for nothing!

But it was imperative that she avoid meeting him between now and
learning her plotting had been successful; she lied badly and could
never conceal the most trivial misdemeanours.

Years ago, David had fondly told her so!  He had once understood her so
well. And if he was to become at all suspicious.  she didn't dare
imagine how he might react.

Doubt and panic were bubbling beneath the fury that had fired her so
quickly into action.  She stood up immediately, instilling courage by
clenching her small fists and concentrating on Gerald Villiers'
nauseating ambition to be next in line when David finished with her.

A faceless red-haired woman figured in her torment too.  Would this
Annabelle have been her predecessor?  Or would David have spread his
time and attention thinly?

Victoria made determinedly for the door, the note clutched tightly in
one hand, her intention to find Rawlings, the Worthingtons' butler,
uppermost in her mind.  She was adamant the letter be despatched first
thing in the morning.

"Victoria?"

A small shriek was startled from her at horrified recognition of the
voice that had quietly summoned her.

She spun about to lean back against the library door.  Her breathing was
so laboured, milky globes of satin skin thrust seductively above her
lilac bodice.

David walked slowly towards her in the deserted hallway.

"What... what are you doing here?"  Victoria blurted, guilt and
astonishment making her stutter the first words that entered her head.

He looked quite magnificent.  His long, dark hair glinted a rich
mahogany beneath the glittering chandelier and his midnight-blue
tail-coat exactly matched the deep sapphire of his eyes.  A thick screen
of jet lashes half shielded their shrewd assessment as they scanned her
white face.

Victoria strove to determine what to do next.  what to say.  And all the
time she was obliquely aware of the serene melody issuing forth from the
heart of the house.

"What's the matter?"  sliced calmly, imperatively through her panic.

"Nothing."  She immediately rejected his concern.  She shook her head
back and met his eyes squarely.  If he recalled her agitation tomorrow
when reading her note, it might stir suspicions.

"Nothing at all, Mr Hardinge," she lightly stressed.

"I... I was simply surprised to see you, that's all.  I heard you had a
prior engagement... in Gracechurch Street."  She inwardly winced,
railing at herself for letting spite make her careless.

An immediate knowing gleam between dark lashes and the twist to his lips
mesmerised her to such a degree that she wasn't aware he'd moved until
she suddenly stumbled backwards.  Firm fingers prevented her falling
while maneuvering her safely back inside the library.

He turned immediately, closing the door and imprisoning her against it
with arms barring each side of her shoulders.

"What... what are you doing?  My aunt's looking for me, Mr Hardinge...!
have to go," Victoria said breathlessly, one small hand yanking at solid
muscle to remove it, the other shielding the letter in the folds of her
skirt.

"No, she's not," David rebuffed easily.

"Well, no doubt everyone here will be scouring the building for you...
as usual..."  Victoria sniped in desperation as she tried to dodge
beneath his braced arm.

"No, they won't.  I've only just arrived.  I told the servant not to
announce me.  I've seen no one apart from you."

Victoria flung her head back, the violent movement dislodging ebony
tendrils to drape about her white face.  She glared up at him, roiling
hurt at all she'd overheard earlier making her want to spit venom at
him.  physically attack him.

Smouldering logs in the grate highlighted the side of his lean face, his
hewn, angular features and the snowy linen of his shirt taking on a
devilish hue.  She struggled for composure; concentrating on the reason
for his delayed arrival helped her immediately achieve it.

"I

didn't expect you to attend.  Lord Courtenay, it is now so late," she
mentioned icily.

"I didn't expect to come either, Victoria," he wryly admitted.

"And if you call me Mr Hardinge or Lord Courtenay once more I'll feel
inclined to go straight home again.  I'm a little late, it's true.  But
that's not what's upset you."

"Nothing's upset me," she forced out on a brittle laugh.  "Apart from
the fact that we might be discovered here alone."

"I'll concede that's partly bothering you.  What else?"

Into the pulsing silence he said,

"You think I'm late because I've been first to Gracechurch Street to
visit a woman."

Victoria choked and sought again to escape him.  Unable to do so and
wary of meeting those intelligent dark eyes, she turned about between
his arms so she faced the door.  Slender fingers crept to the doorhandle
and gave it a subtle tug.  It infuriatingly didn't budge an inch.

As long fingers tenderly trailed the side of her neck, her eyelids
drooped. As a warm mouth skimmed a path along her smooth, pearly nape,
she instinctively swayed against him, her head angling to allow his
tantalising lips better access to those wonderfully sensitive places.
She couldn't help it: it had been so long since her starved body had
been touched like this. Firm hands relinquished the door to slide about
her tiny waist and draw her back against his hard, muscular body.

"You've been listening to gossip tonight, Victoria, haven't you?"  he
murmured against her ear.  A smile and fond fingers moving consolingly
acknowledged her involuntary whimper as his mouth withdrew from her
deliciously shivering skin.

"Ask me," he said gently into the silence.  "I'll tell you what's true
and what's false, if you want to know."

The pumping of her heart seemed to jerk them both with its violent
rhythm and a vice-like arm banded her soothingly tighter to him.

"What have you heard?"  he enquired conversationally.

"Nothing of any moment," Victoria snapped tremulously, furious with him
and also with herself, for the hurt was impossible to deny and so was
the seduction.

"What else is there for the haul ton but gossip of Viscount Courtenay?
His money and his morals occupy them all.  No doubt they're diverted by
the inequality... too much of one and not enough of the other."  She
slapped at his hand as his thumb extended upwards, brushing across her
pounding ribcage and mounting the curve of a tingling breast.  She
strained against her captivity, reaching for the door handle.

He held her easily away from it.

"Well, that's all about to remedy, isn't it, Victoria?  Settling your
debts is going to deplete my finances and you always have a remarkably
rejuvenating effect on my morals," he mocked himself.

"Let me go now," Victoria demanded, and both slender hands covered his
larger ones to try and prise them away.  It was a thoughtless move, for
he did indeed partly release her, simply to relieve her of the letter
gripped at the back of his hand.

"I take it this is for me?"

Victoria swivelled about in his arms and spontaneously made to snatch
back the note but he held it out of reach.  Having read his name and
direction on it, he then offered it to her.  She simply stared at it
while hectically deciding what to do next.

"Shall I keep it?"

"Why not?  After all, it will save me the cost of the post," she agreed,
blase.

"Please don't read it now," she nervously rattled off as he made to
break the seal.

"I'm not sure I can withstand the suspense of waiting longer," he
returned drily as probing eyes scanned her face.

Every scrap of courage and guile was desperately raked together.  Now he
knew of its existence, it might be as well to recount its content.

"There's no reason for you to open it," she pouted, sliding a glance at
him from beneath dusky lashes.

"I can tell you briefly... if you have not already guessed."  Another
coy look fluttered his way.

"I

have seen the sense in your proposition.  as you knew I would.  And I
should like you to.  to provide me with a communication from the bank
that Daniel's debts are cleared before I take up residence in London.
That is all the note contains.  Oh, and that the sooner the matter is
attended to, the better it will be for you, for I recall Alexander
Beresford telling me that the interest accrues at a ridiculous rate.  "

Watchful eyes were slowly raised to his.  She could read nothing in his
face at all.  no triumph, no suspicion, no pleasure.  He was simply
returning her gaze, steadily and unsmilingly, but with an air of
sardonic amusement about him.  He had looked that way in his elegant
blue salon at Beauchamp Place on the day she'd visited him to propose
they marry.  Shortly afterwards, in his cosy, fire lit study, he had
demolished all her hopes with deliberate callousness.  She quickly
looked away.

"Well, I'm pleased you're concerned to save me money, Victoria.  Not so
pleased you need the bank to confirm that I've kept my part of our
bargain. Don't you trust me?"  The silky challenge sent an icy shiver
racing through her and she was sure he must feel it.  She stepped away
from him and this time he allowed her to go.

"It is not a question of trust, Mr Hardinge.  Business partners do not
trust. They have terms and contracts and each is entitled to be certain
the other will honour their part."  Her voice faded into a whisper at
the rank hypocrisy of what she espoused.

"That's right, Victoria," David endorsed quietly.

"Each has that right.  Are you certain you want me to have this?"  The
letter was briefly indicated.

"Yes, of course.  Why should I not?"

He smiled at the wall before choking out a hard laugh.  His eyes lowered
to her face and, with deliberate leisure, he extended long fingers
towards her.

"There is a pleas anter way to seal an agreement than through officials,
Victoria."

Purposely misunderstanding him, Victoria caught at one of his hands and
quickly, briefly shook it before gliding surreptitiously backwards.
She'd managed two paces before she was tugged back close to his
statuesque body.

"I think you know I didn't mean that, Victoria," he murmured.  His
narrow, sensual mouth lowered tormentingly slowly and, unable to meet
the test, her face twisted away at the last moment, so his mouth grazed
the ebony silk of her hair.

He tutted disapproval close to her ear.

"That's not a very auspicious start for an auditioning mistress," he
chided with a thread of threat.

"Shall we try it again?"

"No.  I have to go," Victoria excused herself in panic.

"I have been gone for some while... I will have been missed."  The
memory of Villiers' lascivious mutterings and his repulsive interest in
her made her again negligent.  and vengeful.

"Besides, so far you have paid for nothing, Mr Hardinge.  Why should I
kiss you?"

"For forty thousand pounds and counting, I think I'm entitled to a small
sample, don't you?"  he said sweetly, but his eyes were black and
slitted as he jerked her face up to his.

Her soft, tremulous mouth was immediately bruised beneath a savage,
punishing kiss, nothing like that wonderful caress she'd received in the
Blairs' conservatory, or any other she had ever known.  Never before had
he kissed her with such force and selfishness.  She thrust her hands
between them, trying to break his hold, but it was impossible and she
yielded with a defeated sob.

He wooed her then, with the same tender cunning and patience as he had
before, until her mouth clung helplessly to his.  A warm, soothing
tongue tip traced her swollen lips before he eventually let her go.

Within a second he was halfway to the door.

"Last week I did have a mistress in Gracechurch Street.  This week I
haven't ... I've come directly from Mayfair tonight," was thrown
carelessly back at her.

"I

just thought you might like to know that.  Whether you believe it or not
is up to you," was added with crisp indifference.

His demeanour was woundingly cool and controlled and incited her to
senselessly provoke him.

"Dear me!  Did she displease you in some way.

Lord Courtenay?  Not display enough charm at table perhaps?  And pray.
do tell.  what have you done with her?  Was she traded in for a phaeton?

A hand of brag?  What will you get for me, I wonder?  A chestnut
gelding.  " Her audacious sarcasm came to an abrupt halt as she was
belatedly conscious he was no longer by the door but walking back
towards her.

"What did you say?"

Victoria froze at his calm, clipped query for no more than a moment
before retreating in time with his advance.  When would she learn to
guard her unruly tongue?  And why was it that only this man could drive
her to such impetuous aggression and recklessness?

There was no option but apology; she had been incredibly rude.

Parched, pulsing lips were moistened with a tongue-flick.

"Please forgive me.  I should not have..."

"That's right, you should not have... But then I did tell you if you
wanted to know, ask me," he ruefully admitted.  "I take it this is
partly to do with what would have... shocked the devil himself... and
almost did, Victoria.  I certainly wasn't expecting the food and the
service to come all naturel.  And as to the rest of your impudence..."

Victoria's wide grey eyes were held by the narrowed thoughtfulness of
his. Just as he backed her against the desk where she had sat to write
his letter, he said evenly,

"So, Villiers is here, is he?  He didn't actually speak directly to you
of any of this, I take it?"

Victoria remained tight-lipped, simply staring wide-eyed up at his
granite-like features.  A long blunt finger gently traced her jaw.

"Did he?"  he interrogated far too quietly.

"I don't know what you mean..."  White knuckles gripped at the desk
behind her.  If she was not now extremely subtle, the plan to save
Hartfield by her duplicity would be doomed before it started.

"Oh, I think you do.  Even Villiers wouldn't risk such indelicate talk
in front of ladies at this sort of polite gathering.  You must have been
eavesdropping.  Is that it?"

"I never eavesdrop!"  she hotly asserted.  And it was true.

Had she in any way been able to escape unseen from those gossiping men,
she would assuredly have done so.

There was nothing for it, she realised, but to somehow sidetrack him,
for if this altercation ran to its logical conclusion she would
eventually reveal all her hurt and anger at what she'd unintentionally
overheard.  Thereafter guessing the true motive behind her letter might
be easy.  She could recall only one sure way to divert and gentle him.

For the first time in seven years her slender, ivory- skinned arms slid
up about his neck.  Unable to meet his eyes, she rested her forehead
against his shady, abrasive chin and whispered,

"I'm sorry... please forgive me for being so impertinent.  I'm ... I'm
more tired... overwrought than I thought.  And I would like to kiss
you..."

While she spoke, her fingers combed instinctively into long soft hair
and a strand was wound round and round a slender finger in an old
familiar way. But there was nothing familiar in his reaction to her
flirtation.  He seemed to have turned to stone.

"I'm not nearly so easily swayed... or pleasured as I once was,
Victoria," he said with cool amusement.

"Consequently, I'm hoping your upstanding husband has tutored you well
in loving arts."

Victoria's arms fled from his neck and small hands flattened against his
shoulders and pushed.

"Daniel was a fine gentleman and I will not listen to such as you mock
him."

He didn't budge and she was still trapped between his muscular strength
and the desk behind.

"That's not mockery, Victoria, it's genuine concern that I get
satisfaction from you... and value.  Which makes trading you in for a
one-hundred-guinea horse a little unlikely.  Come," he jibed softly,
'you wanted to kiss me a moment ago.  a sensible course of action now
conflict is out of the question. It's no longer an option, is it, if
you're to receive the bank's written assurances on Monday that a
reprobate has taken care of your blameless husband's debts?  "

Well, if that was how he wanted it, Victoria fumed, see if she cared!

She irritatedly pushed her arms back about his neck and angled her face
to receive a kiss.  Nothing happened.  Pearly eyelids nicked up and met
narrowed, large- pupil led eyes.

"What's my name?"  he breathed against her soft, trembling lips.  She
slammed her mouth angrily against his, more to stop his taunts than
anything else. It was almost the reluctant kiss of an angry child
humouring a nuisance adult.  She exasperatedly ground her lips on his,
but still he remained unresponsive and she flounced her face away.

"Oh, I can't be bothered with this.  If you don't really want a kiss--'
Further petulance was cut off as his lips fitted expertly over her
pouting mouth and his hand subtly manoeuvred her jaw apart.

The kiss deepened immediately without any seductive preliminaries.

His tongue merely probed at her sensitive inner lips to widen them
before plunging hard and fast, with determined erotic assault, into the
warm velvet interior.  Then just as quickly it was over, leaving her
dazed, wobbly on her feet and gazing at him with glazed eyes.

"I... I didn't like that..."  she finally whispered, feeling utterly
betrayed by his selfish disregard.

"You'll get used to it," he stated callously.

She stared at him, soulful eyes shining with tears.  And more besides,
he could have added, and she knew it.

Pushing past him blindly, she was out in the hallway in a few seconds
and rushing towards the lilting harmony issuing from the ball.

David closed his eyes and his teeth ground, jerking the lean muscle in
his jaw.  He slowly approached the door and was about to quit the
library when he changed his mind.  A flick of a hand crashed the door
shut and, pivoting on his heel, he walked to the desk and helped himself
to Frederick's brandy decanter.

The letter in his hand was tapped against a thumbnail for a moment, then
he placed his glass on the desk and broke the seal.  He read it twice
before grunting an unamused laugh and shaking his head.  He folded it
exceedingly carefully, then slipped it into a pocket with one hand while
retrieving his glass with the other.  He walked to the fire, sipping
brandy, and stared sightlessly into the leaping flames.

He twirled the empty glass by the stem, watching firelight sparking
through crystal, then abruptly placed the glass on the mantel and made
for the door. It was closed quietly before he strolled in the direction
of the music.

The drawing room was crowded with people dancing or chatting in groups.
Victoria noticed Emma, standing thankfully close by the entrance with
two young ladies.  They were sipping lemonade and watching the set.

Victoria quickly joined her.

"The music is wonderful, Emma.  The whole evening has been such a
success for you," she softly greeted her with a strained smile.

"Where have you been hiding?"  Emma demanded of her friend as she
immediately took her arm and urged her aside for privacy.

"I've been searching everywhere for you... so has your aunt Matilda."

"Oh, Mr Villiers was intent on paying me his attention so I thought it
best to disappear for a while," Victoria wryly explained.

Emma grimaced with sympathy and revulsion.

"He really is a weasel of a man, isn't he?  Why Mama invited him, I'll
never know..."  Her voice tailed off and her tawny eyes widened in
astonishment.

"You'll never guess who has just appeared, Vicky," Emma hissed, sotto
voce.

"Oh, I think I might," Victoria murmured without turning although she
noticed several people close by craning their necks towards the door.

Emma looked shrewdly at her and raised her glass of lemonade.

"Ah..."

she murmured knowingly before she sipped.

"One can't blame just Gerald Villiers for your absence, then.  It seems
the sophisticated Viscount couldn't manage to stay away tonight after
all."

Victoria felt the hair at her nape prickle and knew David had located
her in the crowded room.  She linked her arm through Emma's and they
proceeded to stroll away, following the line of chairs against the wall,
towards the dining room.

"Well, what has happened to Mr Du Quesne?  Was he impressed by your
cake?"

"I'm not sure.  We ... er ... had words before we got to it, actually.
He asked me why I took such delight in insulting him and I..."  Emma
looked uncomfortable and frowned.  "And I said because it was so easily
achieved." Avoiding Victoria's eye, she shrugged her bemusement.

"I don't know why I do it.  I just wanted to escape.  He makes me
nervous... frightens me almost.  And that's ridiculous for he is always
perfectly civil. He even paid me a sort of compliment by saying how
surprised he was I was unwed at twenty-four.  So I told him ... I don't
know why ... I told him my mama was expecting an offer to be made very
shortly."  An uneasy giggle escaped.

"Well, it is the truth, Vicky.  She is always utterly optimistic.
Anyway, Daphne Blair had by then tracked him down.  She and her sister
have kept him in their clutches since.  He has not looked my way again."
There was a brief pause.

"Which is good... a relief, of course."

As they exited through the double doors into the dining area, two
excited young females, fanning themselves furiously, hurried in the
opposite direction.

"Our popular guest has been spotted, I believe,"

Emma drily observed.

Emma carefully piled some delicacies onto a plate for Victoria before
attending to her own supper.  Settling at a small, damask-clothed table,
they dined in amicable quiet for a few moments, making small sounds of
approval and delight as they sampled various unusual hors d'oeuvres.

"So, what do you intend to do?"  Emma explicitly, gently asked, brushing
crumbs from her gown.

Victoria finished chewing a savoury titbit before she raised her eyes to
her friend's sympathetic gaze.  She had sensed for some while that Emma
had guessed the true nature of David Hardinge's interest in her.

"I shall manipulate him as selfishly and disrespect fully as he does
me," she told her slowly, vehemently, while picking agitatedly at the
pastry on her plate.

"I hate dishonesty but sometimes there is no other way and sometimes it
is condign."  She glanced at the remnants of vol-all-vent now crushed to
powder beneath her fingers and carefully wiped her hands on a napkin.

"If I can just allow my papa to see out his remaining days at Hartfield,
thereafter, selling up will not be such a wrench, although I should hate
to move away.  But I am still young.  I shall perhaps find employment...
or a decent man to take me on... and Aunt Matty, of course."  She gave a
wry smile.

"I cannot expect a gentleman of moderate means to board and lodge us
all; I know that.  So while my papa is alive--and I pray daily for his
good health--we shall have to muddle on."

"Well, where on earth have you been, Vicky, my dear?"  Matilda demanded
on sweeping up to their table, pulling out a chair and sinking into it.

"I was beginning to think you must have retired for the evening, you had
been gone so long.  Well, what a to-do."  She changed subject without
pausing for breath.

"Poor Mr Villiers.-well, not exactly poor, for he is a rather unpleasant
specimen... he's had an accident.  Quite a bruise forming beneath his
eye. He slipped on the marble floor in the hallway, so I learned, and
quite " a mess he looks too.  Apparently, Lord Courtenay kindly helped
him up from the flags and Mr Villiers has thanked him profusely for his
aid.  "

All three of them turned towards Margaret Worthington as she
solicitously led the object of Matilda's sympathy into the dining room.
A male servant hurried after them, keen to be of use.

Gerald Villiers was indeed puce-faced but strangely subdued.  In fact he
meekly allowed Margaret to steer him towards the frozen confections
without any sign of exasperation.  The bump beneath his gingery eyebrow,
however, looked extremely angry.

"Fill that napkin with ice," Margaret directed her servant, and the
footman dutifully plunged into the bucket and withdrew handfuls of
melting fragments.

Matilda scraped back her chair and bustled over to them.  "What you have
to bear in mind, Mr Villiers, is that the best thing for a swelling is a
cold compress.  Here, allow me."  She elbowed aside the servant and
helped herself to ice.  She squashed it into the napkin and directed the
heavily breathing invalid in which way to lay it on his contusion.

Contrastingly, Victoria had almost ceased exhaling.  Grey and tawny eyes
collided and Victoria stifled a smile as she read her own suspicions and
horrified amusement mirrored in her friend's expression.  They
simultaneously rose from the table and started slowly back towards the
music.

"Surely not...!"  Emma squealed, horrified, beneath shielding fingers.

"Well, the Viscount can't be all bad, Vicky," she decided with wry
humour.

"In fact I believe I'm warming to him."

He was deliberately ignoring her, Victoria realised.  Not only that, he
was cruelly demonstrating just how advantageous a match he could make,
should he ever decide to rescind his confirmed-bachelor status.

Three heiresses were encircling him and competing very seriously to be
noticed.  Judging by the frequency with which delicate fans were rapped
against his arms to gain his attention, horrible bruises would be
forming. Victoria acidly desired them to equal that about Mr Villiers'
eye.

At that moment, the man passed by the sofa, forlornly taking his muted
leave of various people.  Victoria now found herself feeling a little
sorry for the invalid, as her gaze rested on his injury.  She had
convinced herself it must be the result of a genuine accident.

Had it been any sort of altercation between him and David there would
surely have been an almighty commotion.  Gerald Villiers didn't seem the
kind of character to surrender so quietly and gracefully.

It was no use: Victoria could not avoid her beady eye for ever.

Seated on the other side of her aunt on the sofa was Mrs Plumb.  For the
past ten minutes or so the middle- aged woman had been inclining and
signalling with her feathered turban, ostensibly to draw attention.
Victoria finally gave in and looked at her and was rewarded with a
twitch of a mean mouth.

"I see your late husband's kinsman has arrived, Mrs Hart."

Victoria murmured neutrally, returned a firm smile, then immediately
looked away so no further discourse was possible.  The fact that the
eminent guest, who also happened to be her distant cousin-in-law, had
made no move to approach her was probably as intriguing and noteworthy
as if he had been paying her too much attention.  She now found herself
torn between hoping he would continue to keep his distance and praying
that he would simply come over and formally greet her to stop the stares
and whispers.  But what did he care of her reputation?

Or her peace of mind?

Undeniable pique was stirring again and she furiously bit her lip and
then winced.  A punishing kiss returned to haunt her, making her tongue
tip instinctively soothe tender, swollen lips.  She sank back into the
cushions, vowing that her plot to save Hartfield would definitely
succeed and that henceforth tonight she would equally ignore him.

In seeking Emma and her dancing partner, grey eyes skimmed across broad,
sartorially splendid shoulders.  They skittered determinedly on then
slid defeatedly back to deny just how imposing and elegant he appeared.

Long dark hair curling over a midnight-blue collar and a hand thrust
carelessly into a trouser pocket should, indeed, have marred the impact
of his tall, athletic figure.  But didn't, she begrudgingly realised. He
was undoubtedly the most impressive man in the room.

He threw his head back a little, laughing at something one of his
clinging, doting admirers had whispered, while simultaneously flexing
the fingers of his right hand.  It was an unconscious easing, as though
they were stiff.  or sore.  He turned sideways on his heel at that
precise moment and glanced idly about before looking slowly her way.

For the first time since they'd left the library, their eyes tangled.

Before she could have the satisfaction of disdainfully snapping her head
away, he was walking over.

The excited squealing on the other side of her aunt let her know the
gossiping matrons were also aware of his approach.

"Mrs Hart... and Mrs Sweeting...!  trust I find you well this evening?"

Matilda patently snubbed him and turned with a sniff and a stiff
shoulder to Mrs Plumb.  Matilda was overlooked by that woman who was
more concerned with scrutinising Victoria's reaction to this
distinction.

"We are very well.  Lord Courtenay, thank you," Victoria quickly replied
in a toneless voice.  After a brief, pulsing pause in which she found
she could not look at anyone at all but gazed off into the middle
distance, she blurted,

"And we hope you are well, too, sir."

"Very well, Mrs Hart, thank you," he enunciated, so politely that she
knew he was laughing at her.

She glanced at him then and her lips compressed to contain her
dangerously building indignation.  So he found it all amusing, did he?

Fighting the need to provoke him was a lost cause.  Her sparking eyes
were drawn to a fresh abrasion on his hand.  "I'm surprised to hear
that, sir.  I thought perhaps you might have had an accident..."  She
stared pointedly at the knuckles wrapped about a crystal tumbler.

"You seem to have a nasty graze."

As though just made aware of the damage, he glanced idly at his fingers,
slowly stretching and flexing them.

"It's kind of you to concern yourself, Mrs Hart.  But I assure you it's
nothing.  They must have tapped against something inconsequential for I
hadn't realised I'd scraped them."

Blue eyes locked onto hers.  He was coolly challenging her to say more,
she realised.  He was inviting her to give voice to her suspicions that
he had hit a man here tonight for gossiping about his private affairs so
recklessly that details had been overheard.  But she couldn't.  For, as
he had so rightly pointed out in the library, she could no longer afford
to antagonise him.  not if she expected to receive a letter from the
bank on Monday morning.  ' As the silence awkwardly stretched and she
was aware of probing, prying eyes pouncing on every nuance of reaction,
Victoria felt light-headed with a maelstrom of sapping emotion.

"I believe I recall how it occurred."  David gently came to her rescue.

"It was the incident with the chestnut gelding..."

"Those horses!"  Mrs Porter interjected, glad to slip into the
conversation. She gave David a coy smile.

"You gentlemen and your love of the stables.  My dear late Mr Porter,
God rest him, was always losing the flesh from his body to the hunters
or the saddle..."

"Splinters like spills up under the fingernails from those stalls..."

Mrs Plumb endorsed with a nod.

"Mr Plumb has become quite an expert with the tweezers..."

"These are the malicious tabbies you were telling me about at the
Blairs'?" David murmured interestedly as he inclined close to Victoria.
She looked him straight in the eye, but could only manage to nod slowly,
feeling completely enervated.  Luckily the matrons still seemed intent
on discussing equestrian hazards.

"Broke his neck at the third fence in Pickett's field..."  Victoria
obliquely heard, and was thankful that David's close attention was
largely unnoticed.

His narrowed blue eyes slipped over her face, lingering on her battered
lips. As he slowly straightened, a thumb idly, softly skimmed her mouth,
and Victoria was almost sure she heard him murmur, "Sorry."  Then he was
nodding politely to the ladies and strolling on.

Mrs Porter was looking at her oddly.  She couldn't be sure of what she'd
heard, or observed, either, Victoria realised.

Chapter Nine.

oncentrating on passing scenery and the astonishing difference a little
over a week had made to the weather was infinitely preferable to
pondering on the letter in her pocket.

Victoria squinted up at sunlight dappling between the trees as they
bowled along towards Hertfordshire.  Frost- rimed skeleton branches
passed on their way into London were now fleshed with mild green.  It
augured well.  she was sure.

Sinking back with a contented sigh into the battered upholstery, she
glanced across at her two companions.  But there was no change there.

She smiled to herself.  They had journeyed to London in chilly silence
or oblivion and travelled back to Hartfield in exactly the same manner.

Matilda and Beryl were still at loggerheads and both had snoozed away
the best part of the morning.

Having bid a tearful farewell to Margaret and Emma in Cheapside at nine
of the clock, the trio had set out on the road.  Leaving Emma had been
so hard--almost a literal wrench as Matilda had finally prised the two
of them apart.  They had become such firm friends that they could have
been confidantes for several years instead of just one week.

She so hoped Emma would soon take up her offer to visit Hertfordshire.

Thankfully, George Prescott, refreshed by his sojourn in the city, had
managed to negotiate the London suburbs and located the outskirts of the
town with very little trouble.

So far they had turned about just the twice.  and then in very pleasant
parts of Hyde Park.  George hadn't seemed at all put out by irate riders
shaking their crops or their fists, and continued his tuneless whistling
and interested perusal of the Quality on the move while changing
direction.  But now they were well along the Cambridge Road and making
good speed.

Victoria removed her grey velvet hat and shook damp curls from her brow.
It was getting quite hot as noon approached.  A moist palm wiping
against her skirt encountered the letter in her pocket once more.  Now
she was aware of it again, the thick parchment lay like a lead weight
against her slender hip.

It would no longer be denied.  Impulsively delving into her skirt
pocket, she slowly withdrew the message that yesterday had been
hand-delivered to her by an employee of Courts' bank.  Unsteady fingers
unfolded the paper and she reread, for the hundredth-or-so time, the few
succinct lines of neat script beneath the formal greeting: Confirmation
is hereby given that today an amount equal to your late husband's debts
was received from your benefactor, namely, David Hardinge, Viscount
Courtenay ofHawkesmere in the County of Berkshire.

The message was signed by the managing director and bore the seal and
address of the bank in the Strand.

It was ambiguous!  The thought screamed through Victoria's mind,
decimating her fragile tranquillity.  What she desperately wanted
confirmed was that she no longer owed forty thousand pounds.  That was
what she had longed to read.

She was being ridiculous.  She calmed herself, gazing out into the
glorious morning, the letter crushed in her fingers.  Why on earth would
the bank write and tell her they had received such a sum if the
intention was not to clear her dues?  Probably a clerk had drafted the
message and a dignitary had merely signed it.  They were not concerned,
as she was, with nuances of meaning.

But she was quite sure her benefactor would be.  He was important and
wealthy enough to dictate how his correspondence should be worded and
the bank would act on it.

No further conversation had passed between them at Emma's ball.

Within five minutes of walking away from her, David and Dickie Du Quesne
had taken their leave.  She had been sure they had parted on reasonable
terms. Had he not touched her gently on the mouth and apologised for his
savage kiss?  Or was she just imagining that, too?

On first receiving the bank's letter she had been triumphant.  When the
euphoria had subsided a little she'd scanned it word for word and doubts
had set in.  She had then agonised over whether to contact him and make
him refute her fears.  But she didn't dare!  If he confirmed payment and
thus his side of their bargain was honoured, he would expect her to
reciprocate. perhaps immediately considering the enormity of the sum
involved.

She sensed the hot needles at the back of her eyes and a thick, aching
blockage in her throat and knew it wasn't only dread of his revenge on
discovering she had absconded that caused it.  If she closed her eyes
she could sense gentle fingers at her face and a warm, stroking kiss.
and a cruel, selfish one.  and harsh words, she sharply reminded
herself.  He was a cold, heartless man, a stranger now, and she wouldn't
think of him again.

Instead she concentrated on the kindly, plump face of Alexander
Beresford. How was she to explain away the payment of her dues?  Kind
and decent he might be but she believed he was probably also a man of
the world.  Her benefactor might be a distant relative of her late
husband's but such outlandish generosity was liable to stir speculation
of the worst kind.  And quite rightly, she miserably allowed.

No doubt, in his professional capacity, Alexander Beres- ford had before
come across incidents of impecunious women clearing their debts by
payment in kind.

Shame drained blood from her face but she tilted her chin.  She owed no
one explanations and would not feel obliged to justify any action she
took that kept Hartfield a while longer, for her and her relatives.  She
determinedly closed her eyes and raised her face, warning her ivory
complexion with golden sun filtering through the dusty carriage window.
A small, wry smile tipped her full mouth as she concentrated on her
papa.

"Can you guess what I have brought you back from Lon- don, Papa?"

Victoria teased from the morning-room doorway.

Charles Lorrimer tetchily swung his bony pate towards her.

"I told you yesterday not to disturb me while I read."  He pulled his
spectacles from his nose and flung the book down by the side of his
chair.

"Now I shall need to start again," he peevishly complained.

"Why are you so determined to spoil what little enjoyment there is left
to me?"

Victoria walked slowly into the room, holding a small, gaily wrapped
gift tied with a crimson ribbon.

"It wasn't yesterday.  Papa.  You know I have been away visiting for
more than a week.  Yesterday I was in London... in Cheap- side, and I
have brought you a present.  Something you'll like.  The shops are so
varied and the wares so tempting... It was difficult to know what to
choose."

He flung his thin face away from her and stared out into the
sun-streaked garden.

"Are you determined never to go away and leave me in peace?  Must I seek
my chamber to have some silence?"  His voice was irritably shrill and
Victoria put out a hand to soothe him.

He shrugged her off.

"Where is Matilda?  Still planning her London outing, I suppose.  No one
asks me if I should like to go to Ham- mersmith.  It is time the house
was opened. It will be musty and damp... and your mama will not like
that.  The lungs suffer in the dust and damp..."

Victoria gently placed the small box of choice sweetmeats on the table
close by her father's empty teacup before she backed away from him a few
paces. She collected her grey velvet bonnet from the chair where she had
minutes before happily discarded it.

"Welcome home, Victoria," she whispered to herself as she closed the
morning-room door.

David flicked open the gold hunter.  He studied the intricate chased
dial, calculating hours and miles, before he rested his head back into
the yielding leather of the wing chair.  She'd be home by now.

Because of the patent simplicity of her deceit he'd thought for a while
he must have been mistaken.  that he was becoming an obsessive sceptic.

But he'd made a point of casually bumping into Frederick Worthington
earlier today and discovered that his cynicism was justified.  as usual.
Frederick had gregariously confirmed what he'd definitely suspected when
Victoria had faked affection in that man's library: she was going to try
and take his money and run.

Had she proposed a proper marriage, not one that made it clear she
didn't Want him to touch her, he would have agreed, albeit in shock, to
marry her a week ago.  But she had made her rejection woundingly
apparent.  His bruised ego had demanded retaliation, so he'd hurt her
back by showing her in the most primitive way that he could easily take
what she wouldn't give.

But he had succumbed after all to the need to see her again at Emma's
ball. After battening down his pride and battering the plush pile of his
drawing-room carpet while he paced away the best part of the evening
preparing how to tell her he'd been wrong and he'd never stopped loving
her, he'd arrived at the Worthingtons' to find her plotting to fleece
him.  And what an amateur!  His narrow mouth pursed sardonically.  It
had been so transparent a ruse he'd hardly credited she could believe
him taken in by it. She still couldn't lie or deceive convincingly.

He was aware he could.  quite expertly.  Yet everything he'd said to her
so far was perfectly honest.  He had considered himself a confirmed
bachelor and he wasn't interested in maidenly debutantes or heirs.  but
strangely he did want Victoria and him to share children.

He wanted everything about her with an intensity that shook him and
would no longer be denied.  or explained away as simple lust.  But she
didn't want him.  She wanted his money and his protection.  just as
every woman he selected did.  With every other woman that suited him
just fine: it was part of their appeal.  When they started angling for
more, it was time to move on.

Yet the woman he did want to cling to him, as she once had, and talk of
the future and commitment, as she once had, no longer wanted him.

Victoria had found herself a worthy man to love and cherished his memory
in widowhood.

Viscount Courtenay was simply a stranger, an immoral degenerate, and
cruel circumstances were compelling her to have dealings with him.  He
swung the heavy gold watch on its chain and caught it in a broad palm
before pushing himself up out of the chair.

Yet something wasn't quite right about it all.  She was too much the
same. too much the Victoria he knew years ago.  She looked the same; she
even kissed in the same sweet, shy way.  It was like some unholy
torment, as though she'd never emerged from that six months of youthful
bliss they'd shared.

Yet he knew it for a lie.  She was seven years older.  if not more
mature. She had been married for seven years.  Shared bed and board with
a man until he died a few months ago.

He consciously uncurled his fists and flexed his fingers.  Dwelling on
Daniel Hart was a mistake.  He wouldn't think of him.  For he accepted
quite calmly that, even dead, the man could send him into a senseless,
towering rage.  Yet he had cared for Victoria, treated her well, as was
obvious from her blooming state.  And proud, loyal Victoria would not
tolerate a word spoken against him.  She had obviously loved him
exclusively and dearly.  And that hurt.  It hurt in the way he had vowed
he would never again hurt.  And because of it he would force her back to
him.  humble and humiliated.  And he would use her in the way she
expected him to.  He knew she would come.  out of duty to her father,
her aunt and to keep this damned, beloved Hartneld' alive and with it
the memory of her dead husband.

                                      i

"Mr Beresford, how nice to see you..."

"And you, Mrs Hart," Alexander Beresford said with genuine warmth and a
sunny smile.

Victoria laid the flowering rosemary she had just cut in her pannier
then stripped off her gloves and waved lier slender fingers to cool
them.

"It is warm, is it not, Mr Be- res ford for so early?"  she remarked
conversationally, with a glance about at blue sky and a burgeoning,
verdant landscape.

"It is indeed, Mrs Hart.  Such a change in the climate and it has caught
us all on the hop..."  He cleared his throat and shifted on the spot.

"I had heard you returned from London earlier in the week and thought it
best to let you settle a day or two before again pressing you for your
decision..."

Victoria tried to discern from his expression to what he referred.

"Decision?"  she repeated quietly.

"Your kind offer of marriage, you mean, Mr Beresford?"

"Hmm ... no ... Mrs Hart.  Actually, the most pressing matter, at
present, is the sale of your estate.  Hartfield must be sold to meet
your debts.  I hadn't wished to tell you just how much they amount to
but..."

"Forty thousand pounds," Victoria croaked, her face whitening.

"Indeed... that is correct, Victoria," he said kindly.

"Has the bank informed you of the amount direct?  I wish they had not
done that.  I am your agent and they should not worry you unnecessarily.
But yes, indeed, it is that great amount and it must be settled.  The
interest accrues... and the sooner settlement is made, the more likely
you are to fully cover your dues with the proceeds..."

"And the bank has received no payment..."  she whispered to herself,
closing her eyes as lead settled in the pit of her stomach.  But then
she had guessed, had she not?  She had known the risks she took.  David
Hardinge was an astute businessman.  How had she ever dreamed he would
be taken in by such a flimsy scheme?  She hadn't, she suddenly, remotely
realised.  Not at all. Subconsciously she'd been hoping.  relying on him
honouring their youthful friendship and thus treating her well.  She had
wanted to mean as much to him now as she had seven years ago.  That was
what she had trusted.  believed. She was a fool!

An utter fool!

"Would you contact the bank on my behalf, Mr Beres- ford, and enquire
whether my benefactor has any intention of clearing his late cousin's
debts as he implied he would?"

The lawyer's astonishment made his small brown eyes bulge.

"You... you mean Viscount Courtenay pledged to pay them?"

Victoria simply, briefly nodded.

A hearty laugh of surprised relief met this news, then Alexander
blurted,

"Why on earth would he do that, I wonder?  Daniel and the Viscount
barely exchanged a word for years and their connection was slight.  I
know your late husband was quite anxious not to associate with him.  The
Viscount's ... er ... um... reputation..."  He coughed delicately.

"Was there a stipulation that Lord Courtenay would pay by a certain
date?"

Victoria simply shook her head, pressed her bloodless, quivering lips
together and frowned at the horizon.

Alexander gazed enquiringly at her and his smile slowly withered to
nothing.

"Have you any idea why Viscount Courtenay would be so generous, Mrs
Hart?" Into the taut silence, he clipped out,

"There was some sort of... understanding between you, I take it?"

"Indeed there was, Mr Beresford," Victoria forced out, sweeping her grey
eyes to his and tilting her sculpted chin.  She slipped trembling hands
back into her gloves and swung back to the rosemary bush, snipping away
sightlessly at it.

"And he has reneged on the deal, I take it."

Victoria could hear the sneer in his voice, almost see his thick lip
curling.

"I would be grateful if you would do as I ask, Mr Be- res ford and
contact me as soon as you have a reply from Coutts' Bank."  She spoke
briskly and quietly, her attention on decimating the rosemary bush.

An unpleasant, knowing laugh preceded a frosty, terse affirmation that
he would indeed do so.

Victoria managed a small dip of her head in acknowledgement but the man
was already striding away.  From the corner of a glistening eye she saw
he had gained the perimeter of the herb garden in a matter of seconds.
Within a few minutes more the gravel on the circular drive in front of
Hartfield's great doors scrunched as his phaeton pulled away.

Hot eyelids immediately squeezed shut to bank the stream of needling
tears but they wouldn't be contained.  Victoria moved on dragging feet
to the dull russet brickwork of her Hartfield and kept coming until her
clothes were grazing against the centuries-old building.  She leaned
into it, palms clutching at gritty, crumbling mortar, and sobbed until
she was again dry-eyed and her grief was no more than a hiccoughing,
unsteady breath.

Victoria looked at the letter while swallowing jerkily for it made her
mouth parchment-dry.  It had been delivered by the express ten minutes
ago with the other that was on the mahogany hall table.

She picked up the one she did want to read.  She had recognised Emma's
neat script and desperately wanted to break the seal and lose herself in
her friend's news.  But her eyes were re-drawn to the other, addressed
in a fast, for- ward-sloping hand.  It looked impatiently written and
she was quite certain it was the reply to the letter she had written to
David Hardinge last week.

She carried her letters to the sweeping stairwell, intending to read
both in her chamber.

Since she now knew she was destitute and there was no option left but to
sell up and accept parish relief for her relatives and employment for
herself.  or acquiesce to David's terms.  she felt an odd sense of
serene emptiness. There seemed no further point to anger or grief or
shame.  She glanced at his letter in her hand.  She knew what it would
say.

The rap at the door had her slowly descending the few stairs she had
climbed and Samuel speeding past, straightening his waistcoat.

He opened the door to Alexander Beresford who walked into the hallway
and spied her immediately.

A curt bow preceded,

"Mrs Hart..."  by way of greeting.

Victoria smiled at him automatically.

"Please come along to the library, Mr Beresford."

Once they were seated opposite each other at the library table, Victoria
placed her letters close to her and lightly clasped her fingers.

"I said I would let you know directly I heard from the bank, Mrs Hart. I
received a reply to my communication this morning."  He proffered a
letter and after a tiny hesitation Victoria took it.  It was brief and
to the point and she had gained the gist of it before the actual words
were properly read. It simply confirmed that an amount had been set
aside in a holding account and on Viscount Courtenay's further
instruction the money would be transferred.  More than that they could
not comment.

"You don't seem surprised, Mrs Hart," Alexander commented, scrutinising
her face.

She managed a neutral smile although this ultimate confirmation of what
she had already suspected wrung her heart dry.  She moistened her lips
and swallowed, then moistened them again.

"Thank you for bringing this so quickly.  Would you like some
refreshment... before you leave?"  she added pointedly.

He sat back comfortably in the chair and smiled at her.  And then at the
letters by her hand.

"I see the infamous Viscount has written to you personally.  Quite an
honour. His clerk, Jacob Robinson, usually deals with all
correspondence.  Courtenay has an unusual hand... I recognised it from
business papers he has authorised over the years that have come my way."

"Indeed?"  Victoria said frigidly.

"The express has only just come.  I have not yet had an opportunity to
read my letters but hope to very soon."  She pushed back her chair with
frank finality.

He ignored the hint.  As he cocked his round head, brown eyes surveyed
her thoughtfully.

"Perhaps I was a little hasty in believing the Viscount the... er...
reluctant party in the matter of the debt settlement.  I now think it
was you, Mrs Hart, who reneged on the deal.  The Viscount seems to be
very tolerantly... very unusually... allowing you time to see sense."

Victoria felt her face burning beneath his shrewd, bold stare.  She
raised storm-grey eyes.

"I imagine that your marriage proposal has been withdrawn, Mr Beresford,
as you appear to be procuring on the Viscount's behalf."

He was unperturbed, his meaty hands gesturing his careless change of
heart.

"Naturally, marriage would now be out of the question, Mrs Hart.
Besides, why would you want it?  I could never match what Lord Courtenay
seems prepared to offer.  He is one of the richest men in the country."
A significant pause preceded,

"However, there might be a time... a time when you will return to
Hertfordshire and we could enjoy a less formal relationship..."  His
eyes lowered to creep over her bodice with blatant disrespect.

"Victoria swallowed the furious retort which threatened.  " You will
need to be a patient man, Mr Beresford, for it would be quite some time
hence.  " She steadied her trembling lower lip with small white teeth.

"I am aware that a queue is already forming amongst gentlemen in London
for the Viscount's cast-offs.  You shall just have to wait your turn."
Grabbing at the letters on the table, she swished to the window and
sightlessly stared out.

"Good day, Mr Be- res ford was aimed coolly back over her shoulder.  It
wasn't until she heard the door close that she ripped his letter into
four pieces and threw them as far as she could.

The fragments of paper on her dressing table stirred in the light breeze
as her bedroom curtain billowed gently over them.  Victoria slowly slid
the scraps back into formation.  In length and style it exactly matched
the terse note she had sent to him last week.  That had been two
sentences which enquired if he intended to settle his kinsman's debts.
She stared at the tatters in front of her and slowly read: The matter
will be finalised when you return to Lon- don.

There was nothing else.  no greeting, no signature, no request that she
go back.

She ran her palm across the pieces, collecting them, and carried them to
the fire before she quit the room to seek her father.

"Will you bring me a present again?"  her father asked, sliding a glance
at her from a pale, crafty eye.

Victoria perched on his bed and took his clawed fingers into hers.

"Of course," she promised with a wavering smile.  "Were they nice
sweetmeats? Would you like the same... something different?"

He wriggled his fingers from hers.

"Just more this time.  There were very few, Victoria.  I believe Matilda
must have eaten some.  I swear I only got one or two... then they were
gone..." he moaned, plucking at the blanket on his bed.  "Where is
Samuel with my milk?  Fetch him, will you?"

Victoria glanced at the cup on his bedside table.

"Lie comfortably, then.  Papa," she soothed him as she stood.  "Lie
down... Samuel never forgets your milk."

"I shall have to return to London, Aunt Matty," Victoria said to the
woman's back a few minutes later, as Matilda pulled a brush through her
thin, greying hair.

Matilda swivelled on her stool and stared at her niece in silence for a
moment.  She then smiled and vigorously brushed and brushed.

"Twill be nice for you to see Emma again.  You and she became quite
famous friends, didn't you?"

"Yes..."  Victoria said quietly.

"But I don't think I will be seeing Emma."

"London is a gay place.  I should have liked to spend more time there
but your papa needs me and someone has to run the rule over the servants
while you are away."

Victoria swallowed the jumble of emotions clogging her throat.  Hurt,
humiliation, disappointment.  Her aunt Matty had finally chosen which
side of thrift suited her and was dealing with her niece's disgrace in
her own way. by refusing to talk of it.

Matilda turned towards her and Victoria saw her weak blue eyes were pink
and shining.

"What... what you have to bear in mind, Victoria,"

she choked out, 'is that .  is that I shall always love you.  always. no
matter what.  "

Victoria closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against it for no
more than a second before she returned to her room to write her letter.

Slender fingers slid over the fine hide upholstery.  It was the most
sumptuous carriage she had ever travelled in: deeply stuffed and
buttoned and the leather dyed a pale gold.  with blue leather blinds at
the windows.  She recalled his servants at Beauchamp Place were liveried
in blue and gold.  Yet the coachmen and footman who were bearing her
towards London were plainly dressed in ordinary dark clothes.  But then
he wouldn't want too blatant a show advertising their dealing together.
She had noticed that the carriage was un crested quite unremarkable from
the outside.  As it was, she could be a lone young woman travelling on
any business at all.

She leaned her head back and wondered how many others had sat here like
this. How many blondes.  how many brunettes.  redheads had been removed
from their families and conveyed to strange houses to await their
master's pleasure.  How many had felt an awful writhing in the pit of
their stomach as they drew ever closer to their fate?  She twisted her
head against soft leather and stared into the gloaming and wondered
instead whether she had been right to leave Beryl behind.  She should
really have travelled with a companion, but since Samuel and Sally had
become betrothed Beryl was unbearably moody.  More importantly, the
fewer people aware of her new situation, the better!

Besides, had she not been promised a house of her choosing?  A staff of
her choosing?  And anything else she cared to stipulate?  Maids.
housekeepers. French chefs.  dressmakers.  she could have them all.  She
swallowed the ache in her throat and delved into her reticule for Emma's
letter.  She had reread it dozens of times but did so again now, smiling
at her friend's acerbic wit as she described her latest clash with
Mesdames Plumb and Porter at the Watsons' musical evening.

She even managed to giggi0 sgam when she came to the part that told of
Mr Villiers' and Moira Blair's betrothal.  A deserving pair, Emma had
described them, and Victoria was inclined to agree.

She neatly folded the letter and carefully returned it to her reticule.
She leaned back into the lush squabs and closed her eyes.

And all that she had carefully locked at the back of her mind broke
free.

Henceforth no decent woman.  no decent man.  would have anything to do
with her.  Emma and her parents, Laura Gray son.  all the people she had
previously called her friends.  none of them would acknowledge her.  She
would be a demi-rep.  she would live a twilight life.  She would be
shunned when shopping.  Would she shop?  What for?

Surely services would come to her and she knew she would infinitely
prefer that at first.  For, as much as she fought to retain pride and
courage, she knew that until she grew hardened simply a disdainful
glance or a sneering whisper could pierce her fragile defences.

She reluctantly brought to mind the hard-faced, spiteful- eyed blonde
woman who had stared at her so malevolently in the East London
marketplace.  Would she herself eventually become so resentful and
bitter that it coarsened her features and was quite obvious to perfect
strangers?  She sighed it all away. What hurt most was losing Emma's
friendship so soon.

They were approaching London.  The dusk was drawing in and the
well-remembered odours and sounds of the city cluttered her senses.

She had no idea where they were bound.  The letter she had received from
him divulged nothing other than when to expect a carriage to collect
her.  She had not cared enough to enquire of the phlegmatic servants he
sent with it which part of London they were heading for.

Unsteady white fingers covered her mouth to stifle a shrill laugh.

Perhaps they would mistakenly deliver her to Beauchamp Place.  Perhaps
Mrs Plumb and Mrs Porter would gleefully witness it.  Her eyelids
clamped, stemming hysterical tears.  She certainly hoped not; she would
be grateful for at least a week's grace before her dishonour spread like
wildfire, providing the haul monde with some choice gossip.

They had stopped!  Her fingers relinquished her eyes and clawed into the
seat as, barely breathing, she waited.  It was possibly just an obstacle
in the road.  The horses jerked the carriage forward again and, sighing
relief, she sank back into soft leather.  Thank God!  Not yet.  She
wasn't ready yet.

The carriage slowly turned and the scrunching of driveway gravel beneath
hooves and wheels told her that, ready or not, she had arrived.

The carriage door was opened.  A kindly faced footman bowed and offered
to help her alight.

As soon as she had done so, the vehicle pulled away.  Victoria spun
about in alarm as it disappeared along the sweeping driveway.  She
glanced fearfully up at the large, white-stuccoed building and hoarsely
demanded of the servant who remained with her,

"Where... where are we?  What part of London is this?"

"Hammersmith, ma'am," he informed her politely, and picked up her
travelling bag.

The house was still, muted in every way.  The lighting was little more
than an auburn glow casting an incongruous cosiness over the polished
wood floor and the high, ornate ceiling.

Victoria stood alone just inside the entrance door, her eyes darting
into every corner.

"Mrs Hart?"

A small gasp escaped Victoria at the sound of her name, and as the woman
approached, smiling at her, she simply managed a curt nod.

"Please come with me, Mrs Hart."  The woman was smartly garbed in
housekeeper's black, keys at her waist.  She indicated the stairs and
then, without further conversation, or introduction, she was briskly
ascending them.

Victoria followed, her legs feeling more boneless and her heart more
leaden with every wobbly step she took.  One hand gripped at the
polished banister to steady and aid her and the other lifted a fistful
of black crape, keeping her skirts from under her feet.  Then they were
pacing silently along a thickly carpeted hallway.  The woman halted and
swung open one side of double doors, standing aside so Victoria could
enter.

Victoria remained motionless and the woman waited, smiling neutrally.

It was her last chance to run, was the thought that slipped remotely
through her mind.  Once inside.  and he was there, she knew it.  once
inside and the door closed.  Was it a bedchamber?  What sort of room was
it?  What did this pleasant-looking woman really think of her?  Was she
disgusted?  Apathetic? How much did he pay her to keep her opinions to
herself?

Even as the stream of thoughts shot through her, she realised the
housekeeper was patiently, politely waiting and she obligingly stepped
within.  The door shut quietly immediately behind her.

Chapter Ten.

She saw him at once.  He was sitting sideways on to the door, close to
the fire.  He casually turned his head and glanced at her before
shifting his attention to the glass on the table by his side.  First the
glass then a cigar, its glow and aroma discernible, were raised to his
lips.

Victoria tensed, barely breathing, her mind frozen.

His empty tumbler found the table and then her unblinking grey gaze was
mesmerised by long fingers slowly grinding out the cigar.  Those same
fingers rose, beckoned.

She took a few hesitant paces into the room.

His dark head angled back in irritation that she hadn't moved closer.

It was a small drawing room, Victoria noted obliquely, with polished
wood furniture and cream and burgundy furnishings.  It was warm, too,
and despite shivering she felt wispy tendrils clinging to her moist
forehead.

She started, apprehensive eyes streaking back to him, as he pushed
himself out of the chair and strolled towards her.

She wanted to fly at him and lash out, scream at him for his vileness,
his ruthlessness.  for making her forfeit even her pride and
self-respect.  but she didn't.  It was a feat forcing her eyes up to
his.

"I see you're in mourning, Victoria," was his quiet, ironic greeting as
his blue gaze slipped over her black cloak and funeral dress.

"I

know it's not for your husband's benefit.  I take it it's for mine.  "

She said nothing, merely blinked and pressed her lips tighter together.
But satisfaction registered: her small gesture of defiance had been
understood for what it was.  She would never again wear colours or
attractive clothes.

"Are you hungry?"

She swayed her head once.

"Do you like the house?"

A curt nod answered him.

"How do you know?  You can't have seen enough to decide."

She stared past him at the fire, ignoring the dry comment.

"Have you been struck dumb or am I not worthy enough to receive
conversation?"

Glossy slate eyes slid to his.

"Is it necessary that we speak?"  she tonelessly asked.

"Yes, it's necessary," he said, and she recognised the steely edge to
his voice.

"Then I will do so.  Tell me what you wish to hear and I will say it.

Whatever pleases you.  Lord Courtenay," was gritted out in a fierce
whisper. The sheen in her eyes intensified until they were sparking like
stormy stars. But she tilted her chin and continued glaring at him.

He smiled.  a humourless distortion of thin lips.

"What would I like to hear?"  he softly mused.

"Well, Victoria, I should like to hear why you reneged on our deal.  I
seem to recall you lecturing me that business partners should each
honour their side of a contract."

Despite herself, Victoria felt heat flood her face at her trickery and
that well-remembered verbose hypocrisy.

She tensed, unable to exhale, as his hands moved to her chin, each
inadvertent light touch singeing her skin as he untied the ribbons of
her black bonnet.  It, and her cloak, were removed and discarded onto a
chair.

"Come and sit down, Victoria."  He held out a hand, inviting her towards
the sofa and fire, but she simply sat on the chair-edge closest to her,
some way from the hearth and from him.

An exasperated, muted oath escaped him as he retraced his steps and went
down by her chair.  Firm fingers tilted her face up to his.

"This isn't very sensible, Victoria, is it?  Whatever pleases me...
right?"

He reminded her of her bitter words with a wry smile.

"It pleases me that you sit close to me and tell me what you've gained
from your deceit."

She shook her face free of his grasp as treacherous tears needled in
earnest. She would not cry!  She threatened herself.  She would not! She
jerked back quickly into the chair as the sob swelled in her chest.

His bronze-dark head fell forward and through the glaze in her eyes she
saw a hand move to his face, his head sway.  His patience, she was sure,
had expired and that dismaying certainty caused the sob to spontaneously
erupt.

In a movement so swift and powerful that it left her defenceless, she
was dragged forward.  He stood with her wrapped against his solid
strength.

Her face buried deep into the hollow beneath his shoulder as she
desperately fought for control.  She would not be broken!  Not so soon.
not ever!  She would retain her spirit, if nothing else.

"Victoria, listen to me..."  The hoarse, pleading words stirred the hair
at her brow.

How dared he comfort her or fake concern!  She fought free of his
embrace and backed away, hands gripped tightly together.  His clinging
blue gaze followed her and through her own anguish she realised there
was an odd hint of sadness about him, too.

Anger.  triumph.  satisfaction--those she had prepared for.  At the very
least she had expected that latent amusement he exuded when he knew he
had her backed into a corner .

Then everything was banished from her mind except that chilling, gnawing
doubt.  For if her innocence didn't deter him and he decided to keep her
there was something she had to know.

It had been almost a month since he'd advised her, so very obligingly,
to take all he offered immediately, for, if tardy, her bargaining
position would become precarious.  It had been peculiarly honest advice
from an adversary. She was, indeed, no longer in any position to dictate
terms.  "Will you provide for my relatives and maintain Hartfield?"
burst shakily from her. Her eyes locked onto his, pleading, proud, yet
searching for mockery.

He slowly nodded his agreement.  But Victoria stared, unconvinced,
believing him to be cruelly joking.

"Why?"  she demanded in a voice shrill with tears.

"You said before you would renegotiate in your favour.  You must be
lying... tricking me."

"I'm feeling generous," he gently reassured her.

"But while we're talking of lying and tricking... did you think you
could fool me with such a simple plot, Victoria?"

"Yes... no.  I don't know."  Victoria wretchedly swung her head.

"It was all irrelevant in any case."

"It was?"  A raising of dark brows demanded further explanation.

Victoria remembered her foolish hope that when eventually she told him
he would rue spending his money.  his time.  his attention.  Well, he
had wisely kept his cash safe.  But there was no denying he had wasted
time and attention on her.  He was doing so now.  And that small, sour
victory and a shuddering, indrawn breath spurred her on.

"I went home to Hertfordshire, Lord Courtenay, because... because you
had made it clear I would be of no interest to you.

There was little point in remaining in London simply to remind you of
it.  "

David tracked her back a little way then gave up as she put the sofa
between them.

"Remind me of it now, Victoria he urged drily.

"Come, humour me.  Tell me when it was I said you would be of no
interest to me."

"When I visited you at your home in Mayfair."  The information escaped
in a barely audible whisper.

She watched intelligent dark eyes narrow thoughtfully and knew he was
retracing their conversation that day, as she herself had done many
times.

"The only two things I recall having no interest in were debutantes and
babies.  You're neither... although I'll allow you're childish."

"I am not childish... neither am I righteous," she" hotly defended
herself.

David frowned and then long fingers, idly splayed on the sofa-back,
clenched into burgundy brocade.  He remembered what he'd said well
enough.  It played over in his mind daily.  Just as he knew what she had
said.  that he might want heirs, or a wife that came to him chaste.  a
virgin.  And he'd known she wasn't.  So he'd told her neither interested
him.  He could feel blood draining from his skin.

It was impossible.  but he could see the truth in her face.  Her
beautiful, proud white face bore her sheer desperate hurt in finally
having to tell him. She'd believed their bargain void because, if he'd
known her to be inexperienced, he wouldn't want her .  a righteous
virgin.  She'd been prepared, after all, to let him love her properly,
to have his children, and he'd misunderstood.  They'd both misunderstood
when the other started to compromise.  She'd wanted a marriage of
convenience and had finally offered herself and he'd wanted a true wife
and had unwittingly rejected her out of hand.

Victoria pressed her lips together and anxiously watched and waited.
This utter shock that seemed to have petrified him was terrifyingly out
of character and she had no idea how to proceed.

"You're a virgin?"  he eventually choked out.

A jerky nod immediately answered him.

The intensity in his fixed, blackening gaze and the ashen tinge to his
skin made her quickly, desperately seek to justify all her actions.

"I know it was I who brought about our reunion.  I sought you out in
London to ask you to marry me and I am sorry for it.  But after that...
after our meeting at your home, when you made it clear it was not to
be... I would never have approached you again.  I accepted your views
and hoped you would accept mine.  I..  .I did truthfully want you to
leave me alone.  I only ever ventured out to places I was sure you would
avoid..."  She swallowed painfully.

"But it was wrong of me to try and dupe you into paying my debts.  It
was not a premeditated plot, I swear.  I... I just... I was angry
because of what I overheard between Gerald Villiers and Frederick at
Emma's ball.  My actions were impetuous and ill-considered.  Had you not
arrived when you did and discovered that stupid letter, I would have
destroyed it in the morning when rational.  I'm sorry."

She bit furiously at her lower lip.  She couldn't be sure he had heard
anything she'd said.

He was utterly still.  But coal-black eyes in a paper-white face tracked
an erratic, devouring path from burnished jet hair to black crape hem.

"Your marriage was never consummated?  You were married seven years yet
not once did you lie with your husband?"  The words seemed to tear out
of him in anguished disbelief.

"Never," Victoria confirmed in a murmur.

"Daniel was my father's friend.  We had an unusual relationship.  An
unconventional marriage, he called it."

"But you loved him..."

"He was a kind and decent man.  Yes, I loved him.  I loved him as the
fond father I wanted but never had," she cried in a raw voice.

"And he loved me as the daughter he lost with his wife in childbed.
There was no passion... no desire between us.  It was a pure love."  As
though regretting revealing so much that was so private, she paused to
collect herself.

"Am I to go home now.  Lord Courtenay?"  she enquired with tremulous
dignity.

He walked away from her and towards the mantel.  Bracing a hand against
it, he stared at the wall with glazed, sightless eyes.

"Don't call me that, Victoria."  It was an absent correction as his eyes
closed.

When, after a few moments, he seemed trance-like, Victoria shifted
noiselessly towards her cloak and bonnet and gathered them up.

She had no idea where she would go.  just away.  out of the house.

She should have written and told him, she railed at herself inwardly.

It would have saved this journey.  this humiliation.  But it had never
seemed appropriate.  And besides, she had always cherished the belief
that he had not changed.  That he would care for her no matter what.

She forced her mind to focus on her perilous predicament.  She was
contemplating escaping into a city street.  alone at night.  The rowdies
she had met before, when George Prescott had lost his way in London,
crowded in on her and she knew there was no sensible option but to stay
in the house or grounds till morning.

She had backed to the door by the time he noticed her retreat.

Shoving away from the wall, he immediately started towards her.

Anxiously she watched him come, the nickering candle flame overhead
tinting fire into his hair and eyes.  He reached out as he came close
and she was sure he would touch her but the hand leaned into the door as
though he was more concerned with preventing her bolting.

"How many people know of your being here with me tonight?"

It was a totally unforeseen interrogation and for a moment she simply
stared at him.

"Just... just Matilda... and I told my papa I would be going to London.
He has probably already forgot."

He nodded.

"We'll have to get you home again with just those people knowing."

"Thank you."  She hadn't expected him to bother about returning her with
her reputation intact.

"Your servants know, of course," she mentioned coolly.

"And have seen and heard nothing.  They understand me well enough to be
unfailingly discreet."

"Yes... I'm sure..."  Victoria murmured, dropping her eyes level with a
shady, cleft chin.

Long fingers did touch then.  They slid beneath silken curls and splayed
about her nape, comforting and urging her close to him.

"Not tonight, Victoria," he pleaded huskily against her hair.

"I'll grovel and apologise and make excuses... even lie, I expect... but
not tonight."

Victoria wanted to look at him, to ascertain what had brought about this
change, but his arms slid about her so fast and determinedly, she
couldn't move.  And after a moment she didn't want to.  Rejecting
comfort now was beyond her; it was too welcome, too needed.

"It's a long journey home; I want you to eat something first."  Taking
the cloak and hat from her again, he dropped them on a chair.  With her
hand gripped in his he was soon leading her into the hallway and towards
another set of double doors.

Ushering her inside, he immediately gave instructions to the servants
ranged sedately within.

The dining table was already set for two people and Victoria gazed in
awe at a magnificent array of cutlery and flatware.

Crystal and silver shed sparks in every direction, reflecting the dozen
or so wavering flames set in a central, elaborate candelabra.

David retained a controlling grip on her hand while he clipped out
orders to the women to serve the first course then leave.

Steaming soup was speedily ladled into fine porcelain before the serving
maids dutifully, neatly withdrew.

David put his arms about her, urging her forward to sit down, but she
twisted against him, fists full of her stiff black skirts, ready to
flee.

"Thank you, but I cannot eat anything," she said to his chest.

"I should rather set on the road straight away.  It is a long
journey..."

"I know it is, Victoria.  That's why I want us to eat."  His lips
soothingly brushed her white brow.

"Come... we must travel through the night as it is.  I've no intention
of doing so without first eating.  I'm suddenly ravenous and I'm sure
you must be hungry, having already travelled for several hours this
evening."

Victoria's grey eyes warily searched his face.  Far from displaying
shock, he now had an air of calm contentment.  There was nothing
predacious now in his manner.  His touch, his smile were gentle, quite
reverential.

"Come, sit down," he urged tenderly.

"Your soup's getting cool."

He pulled out her chair and this time she allowed him to settle her in
it. The savoury aroma wafting up from the plate made her stomach gurgle
and she realised she was indeed starving.

David walked to the opposite end of the table and sent his place setting
of embossed silverware skidding carelessly along the polished mahogany
towards her.  He carried his chair and his soup and settled himself
close by her side.

He began to eat and encouraged her to do the same.

"It's delicious... try it..."

Victoria picked up her spoon and tasted the soup.

"French chef..."  he conversationally explained, pleased by her
unconscious murmur of approval.

"How is your father?  And your aunt?  Did you leave them well?"

Victoria sipped from her silver spoon while regarding him with wide,
watchful eyes.

"Yes ... thank you."

David poured wine into a crystal goblet and slid it towards her.

"Drink it... please.  It will warm you.  It's a cold night."  He poured
a glass for himself and downed a considerable amount of the pale gold
liquid in one swallow.

He watched her finish her soup then went to the bell-pull and within a
moment the servants were back with them, clearing the dishes.  David
waved away the fish and ordered the main entree be served.  They
scurried to obey, nodding and whispering explicitly to each other to
hurry and take care as dishes and cutlery were whipped away then
replaced with new.

Aware of Victoria's eyes following the scuttling servants, he said, "My
apologies for the haste.  I intended a leisurely supper for us tonight."

Victoria found herself, incredibly, saying she didn't mind.  He had
planned to courteously wine and dine her before dishonouring her in this
gracious Hammersmith house yet she was humouring him.  She sat
stiff-backed in her chair, wondering whether to continue doing so or fly
into the night.  A niggling thought nudged in on her.  He had said 'we
must travel'.  Did he intend to accompany her home?  Or did he simply
mean he had to return to Mayfair and was keen to get going?

The main course of slivers of succulent-looking beef with horseradish
and numerous dishes of roasted vegetables arrived.  David paced
restlessly as their plates were filled.

An impatient grunt or a dismissing flick of his hand answered the
servants as they nervously indicated various dishes for his approval.

He was abrupt with them, yet mannerly, Victoria realised, observing that
he wanted them gone but muttered thanks before they left.

He sat down close to her again and refilled her empty glass.  Victoria
stared at it, horrified.  She hadn't realised she'd drunk all of the
cool, fizzy wine.  It was then she realised that it had indeed warmed
her.  A slender hand felt her complexion, sensing the burn through her
fingers.

Smouldering blue eyes caressed her face.  He cut his food and a fork
moved to his mouth.  The back of a long finger skimmed to and fro
against a pink cheek as he slowly chewed.

"I told you it would warm you.  Are you feeling more relaxed?"  he asked
huskily.

His knife indicated her dinner, insisting she eat.  Cutting into her
food, she managed a small smile and nod.  She did, indeed, feel a little
more at ease, and hungrier.  Her plate received her full attention as
she ate some of the delicious meal.

To avoid his steady sapphire gaze, her eyes travelled the room.  It was
expensively furnished in the same highly polished mahogany wood as
graced the drawing room.  Swags of rich rose velvet draped the lofty,
wide windows and covered sofas set against the walls.  Her eyes flicked
upwards to the richly carved ceiling.  It was certainly a much larger
and more sumptuous house than her papa's Ham- mersmith residence had
been, as she recalled.

"Would you have liked living here, Victoria?"

Victoria recognised the smile in the soft query and sensed the glow in
her cheeks increase.  She sipped from her wine glass and nervous grey
eyes met his over the rim.

"Don't answer," he told her gently.

"It wasn't fair ... and it's of no consequence.  Neither is your
innocence."

When she simply raised her glass again in an unsteady hand and drank to
avoid commenting, he asked quietly,

"Do you know what I mean when I say it's unimportant, Victoria?"

She shook her head, seeming intent on draining her glass, but their eyes
were inextricable.

"I mean that, virgin or no, I would never have harmed you.  I had no
intention of staying here.  I did intend making you stay a night or
two--as a consequence of trying to cheat me--before taking you home."

He leaned back in his chair and his mouth twisted wryly.

"This..."  he moved his head to indicate the house 'it's nothing.  Just
a theatre.  It was all just a game.  You won.  "

Victoria's empty glass plonked heavily on the table.

"I won...?"  she echoed, having difficulty focussing through the
wine-induced haze.

"You always win.-Twas ever thus," he mocked himself.  "Have you had
enough to eat?"

Unable to trust herself to speak, Victoria simply nodded and retrieved
her glass as a way of avoiding doing so.  She frowned at the empty
goblet.

"I think you've had enough champagne, Victoria," he fondly chided as he
walked to the bell-pull.

Through the muzz in her head, Victoria heard instructions given for the
coach to be brought round.  He turned and smiled and from a long way off
told her he would be but a moment and left her alone.  Within what
seemed mere seconds, he returned with her cloak and bonnet and a pistol.

Victoria squinted at it.  Even with the fog in her brain she realised it
horrified her.  She blinked weighty lids at it.  "What... what's that
for?" she finally managed.

"Protection," he said with a caressing look.

"Don't worry.  There are few incidents of robbery along the Cambridge
Road at present.  And my man Bennett is one of the finest shots in the
country.  So am I," he added, as an afterthought, 'if I can stay awake .
and avoid distraction.  I've no intention of losing you to some wastrel
out to find himself a dubious infamy and his doxy a few baubles.  "

Victoria carefully stood, bracing one hand on the table and the other
against her chair-back.  She tilted her chin, took a confident step
forward.  and made a hasty grab for the chair.  David separated her from
the furniture, steadying her against his hard body while wrapping her
into the heavy black cloak.  He made a gallant attempt at the bonnet,
gave up after a few seconds, and tossed it aside.

"I

never liked it, anyway," he muttered as he swung her up in his arms.

"I can walk, David," she protested into his collar, yet her head lolled
immediately against his shoulder and her arms crept about his neck.

"Say that again."  He nuzzled softly against her cheek as he descended
the stairs.

"Put me down; I can walk," she sighed against his cravat, and then
yawned.

"Not that.  What's my name?"  he growled as he strode past a bland-faced
butler, down the stone steps and crunched on gravel to the coach.  He
set her down by it.

Victoria immediately rocked towards him and her arms fumbled back about
his neck.

Inclining close to capture her wine-sweet lips with his, he ended the
caress abruptly, too soon, demanding against her pulsing, sensitive
mouth,

"What's my name?"

"Lord Hardinge?"  Victoria slurred solemnly, wondering why he was asking
her silly questions instead of kissing her in that wonderful, drugging
way that focussed her mind and stilled her spinning head.

Sitting in the carriage alone, feeling hot, Victoria jerked the window
down and a gust of cooling air stroked her flushed face.  A hand went up
to steady her bonnet and discovered it wasn't there.

Angling her head to see the - horses, she noted that David and the
grooms stood by them, deep in conversation.  She watched, frowning, as
David raised the pistol and cocked the chamber, squinted along the
barrel and then deposited it into his greatcoat pocket.

The night air was dispersing a little of her inebriated daze and she
tried to clarify how she came to be sitting in a carriage when the last
thing she clearly recalled was eating soup from a silver spoon.

She was going home!  She had it now.  She was being sent home and he was
going to journey with her to Mayfair.

She was aware he was approaching the carriage and she sank back into the
cushions as he entered.

He settled opposite her with a sigh and dark eyes immediately locked
onto hers.  Smiling to himself, he glanced at the open window.

"You look as though you've sobered up a little, Victoria."

"Yes, I have," she stiffly, carefully enunciated, then gripped at the
seat as the carriage pulled away and her upper body swayed in a graceful
circle.

"Pity..."  David murmured; with a glamorous white smile that, drunk or
not, made her stomach flutter.  Then he laughed and settled back,
stretching out long legs in front of him.

Victoria peered out at the dusk as they hurtled through the night.

She hadn't been aware that horses could go so fast with just coach lamps
to light the way.  A gust of bitter evening air had her again reaching
up for her bonnet to shield her chilling face with its brim.

She tutted impatiently while feeling about on the seat for it and David
watched.

"Are you cold?"

"A little," she haughtily allowed.  She had been wondering for the past
ten minutes or so where they were and how long it took to journey from
Hammersmith to Mayfair.  She was sure by now he should have been
delivered home, for it looked more like countryside than town speeding
past her blurry vision.

He reached across and snapped the window shut.  As he started to move
back, she was gathered into his arms and he sank back in his seat with
her.

"I can't simply look at you all the way home, Vicky," he said softly as
he curbed her tardy, wine-sodden reflex to push him off.

"Come, it will be warmer to sit together, in any case."

"You soon will be home," she accused with a catch to her voice,
realising that that made her feel sad and, what was more, tears were
imminent.

David tilted her face, noting her hastily closed eyes and suspiciously
dewy lashes.  Settling her in front of him on the upholstery, he
abruptly swung his long legs up onto the seat, bracing one foot against
the carriage side to shift and find the best position.  Victoria was
then deftly tumbled against him so she lay with her breeze-loosened hair
pitching over his torso. Muscular arms banded about her, anticipating
objection.

Victoria felt the muzz returning to rotate her head and the warmth and
comfort were so tempting.  When cool fingers smoothed her salt-damp
cheeks, she nestled her face into soft wool and her fingers crept into
the warmth of his coat.

"Are you nearly home?"  she gasped, and sniffed against his shoulder.

"I'll be home when you are, sweetheart," he soothed her, and dropped a
kiss on crumpled black satin hair.  He leaned his head back against the
carriage with a sigh that was never completed but metamorphosed into a
rueful laugh. "Don't do that, Vicky."  He caught at her small hand as it
trailed a wandering path inside his coat.

"It's not that I don't like it... but it might make me have second
thoughts about Hammersmith."  He linked his fingers into hers and his
thumb traced her palm, making her nestle her head further beneath his
chin and turn her body into his.

"Do you remember when we journeyed back from Brighton together, in
Wainwright's carriage, and he travelled in Dickie's with your aunt?
Matilda had rather overindulged on barley wine that evening, as I
recall, or I'd never have managed to wangle us being alone."

Victoria sighed her recollection of the event.

"Do you remember what we did?"

There was a tiny pause then a virtually imperceptible nod against his
shoulder.

"Shall we do it now?"

Even inebriated, the memory made Victoria's lids flick up in shock
against his coat.  She remembered.  oh, she remembered.  She had never
been kissed so many times, or caressed in so many enchanting ways, or
felt so deliciously wanton.  or chagrined when he'd eventually put her
away from him.  for her own good, he had said.  The most cherished part
had been feeling so absolutely adored.  How many times had he told her
he loved her.  that he would always love and care for her.

"No!"  Her refusal was declared vehemently into his coat.

"Why not?"  he asked softly.

It's different now .  it's not the same," she slurred, endeavouring to
beat the throb in her head which defeated both her reasoning properly
and breaking free of his bewitching, warm control.

"What's different?"  he persisted as his hands began a slow, coaxing
massage along her back.

"Stop it!"  Victoria gasped, trying to twist away and flee to her own
side of the coach again.

But he kept her close, then lifted her over him so satin curtains of
long, thick hair draped her white face and pooled on his shoulders.

"What's different, Victoria?"  he softly demanded, glittering dark eyes
trapping frightened, evasive ones.

"Tell me..."

"You don't love me now," she defeatedly cried, and im n mediately tried
to dip to seek the shelter of his shoulder, but he held her still.

"It's different because I don't love you?"  He choked a laugh.

"Not because I'm a repulsive degenerate who makes your flesh crawl?"

"You are not!"  Victoria spontaneously championed, her eyes rushing to
meet his.

"I've never said that."

"I've never said that I don't love you now."

He held her braced above him with one hand while the other smoothed her
cheek and gathered her silken hair back from her heart-shaped face.  He
lowered her slowly until her lips were mere inches from his.

"If I tell you how much I love you..."  he paused to touch his mouth to
hers 'will you remember it in the morning?  "

Her lids nicked up and tipsy, glossy eyes reproached him.

"You're ... you're just saying it ... you're lying to seduce me..."

"I could have done that in leisurely comfort in Ham- mersmith, Victoria,
and without needing to lie... or flatter... or indulge you in any way."

She stared at him, urging her brain to function.

"Well?  It's true, isn't it?"  he said, smiling at her forced
concentration.

"I'm not sure ... I can't think properly," she wailed.

He lowered her completely, settling her against his shoulder with her
body turned into his.

"Go to sleep.  I'll tell you again in the morning," he said huskily
against her hair.

She snuggled close.  then closer still as she heard him laugh and say
tenderly,

"I love you, Victoria."

Chapter Eleven.

The two men locked eyes pugnaciously.

It was true what Beryl had said, then, was Samuel Prescott fighting
thought. Hartfield's beautiful, revered mistress had been coerced into
vice in a last-ditch bid to keep the estate for them all.  That was why
she had disappeared to London looking so forlorn and with barely a day's
notice.

He recalled this noble brute from the day of the funeral and hadn't been
deaf to awed whispers about his money and notoriety.  Neither had he
been blind to the nature of the glances the man had slanted Mrs Hart's
way.  Even proper manners and finery couldn't camouflage lust where
Samuel's practised eye hovered.  This blackguard had obviously had his
evil sport and now couldn't wait to rid himself of her!  She was dumped
before the sun was even up on a new day!  Samuel's hands balled into
brawny fists.

The antagonism was not lost on David.  He carefully shifted a drowsing
Victoria in his arms while his cool, arrogant gaze slid into Hartfield's
hallway and settled on disembodied flames wavering above the ghostly
outline of a candelabra.

"Are you going to let me pass?

As you can see, your mistress is in need of her bed.  "

"I can see my mistress is in need of her sleep," Samuel snarled, jerking
out beefy arms to remove the precious burden.  Oh, he might appear all
lofty elegance and smooth sophistication but his reputation was as black
as hell. And it was to there that Samuel silently, savagely cursed him.

David's eyes narrowed and his lips strained over set teeth.  He exacted
absolute deference from his employees and it was willingly given.  This
man had a lot to learn.  At any other time and place he would have
gladly tutored him.  In a perilously quiet voice he enunciated,

"Move yourself out of my way before you rue the day you were born..."

"Samuel, a guest for our chamber...!  mean, a chamber for our guest,
please." Victoria's sleepy, wine-husky voice sighed through David's
dulcet threat. Her manservant received a sweetly tipsy smile.

"I

believe you have before met Viscount Hardinge.  -that is, Mr Courtenay.
" She hesitated, frowning in concentration.

"Try David..."  The amused advice was murmured against her cold ear,
then a delicious, discreet kiss warmed it.

Samuel's hostility soared, his generous mouth clamping so tightly, it
began disappearing into ruddy cheeks.  Not only had the villain ravished
her, he had plied her with strong liquor too!  In seven years he had
never known Mrs Hart take more than a few sips of alcohol on special
occasions.  Judging by her mellow manner, she'd no memory of what
degradation she'd endured.  It was for the best, raced through Samuel's
anguished mind.  Ignorance was indeed bliss.  He glared belligerently at
this detested guest.  Oh, he wasn't frightened of him!  In fact, he'd be
more than happy to rearrange those regular features to match his deviant
character.

After a final resentful moment stationed in the doorway, Samuel executed
a stiff sidestep, allowing David entry into a sombre Hartfield.

"Thank you..."  David clipped sarcastically, making immediately for the
stairway.  Then,

"Follow with the light," was grated imperiously over a shoulder.

With a large palm shielding flaring wicks, Samuel loped obediently after
him. But only to ensure Victoria's safety in the dark corridors.  He
would have gladly watched, nay, aided, their lecherous lodger in
tripping and breaking his decadent neck over the gloomy banisters.

Balancing Victoria in his arms, David found the handle and a booted foot
sent the door swinging inwards.  He approached the high four-poster, a
sturdy, solid shape in the milky moonlit chamber, and sat her gently
down on it.  He carefully eased her cloak from her shoulders, aware of
trustful eyes, luminous black in a silvered face, gazing up at him
through draping, dusky locks.  Yielding to temptation, he dipped his
head, touching his lips to hers.

Weak, flickering light was immediately strengthening.  "Wait by the
door," he gritted.  Samuel's insolent rejoinder was intentionally
audible.

"Do you want your aunt to come to you, Vicky, to help you undress?"

A polished ebony pendulum of hair answered him.  Then, with a contented
sigh, she drooped sideways onto the feather mattress.

A slow^, indulgent smile and head-shake accompanied David's removing her
shoes and settling her under the puffy quilt.  After a tiny hesitation
he again succumbed.  Slender arms stretching out invitingly made it
impossible not to.  He skimmed his lips on hers, steeling himself not to
linger as she nestled uninhibitedly closer.  An abrasive cheek caressed
her soft, pearly complexion while small fingers were unlocked from about
his neck.

Having shut Victoria's door noiselessly behind him, David turned and
gave Samuel his leisurely attention.  The man was glowering up the two
or more inches into his face.  A look of expressionless contemplation
was returned; it effortlessly transformed into a special smile that
chilled the burly man to the marrow.

"We'll leave the matter of your insubordination till daylight.  For
now... where is a bed for what's left of this night?"

"There isn't one," was Samuel's surlily smug retort.  A dangerous flare
to the Viscount's eyes and nostrils had him grudgingly, truthfully
expounding,

"The only bed made up is in with Mrs Hart's father.  We keeps a pallet
prepared in there for when Mr Lorrimer's ailing and needs attention
overnight.  There's no other ready."

"Well, show me to it," David prompted with icy calm, while inwardly
wondering whether a night in the stables wasn't really more to his
taste.

David shifted, grunted and then yanked at the insubstantial blanket.

He resettled into the lumpy mattress with a sleepy sigh despite grey
morning light battering his eyelids.  Relinquishing this meagre warmth
to rise and close the annoying chink in the curtains was weighed against
persevering for another hour in an uncomfortable half-snooze then
abandoning the idea of rest altogether.  He guessed the time to be
approaching five in the morning; soon the servants would be about
creating noise and more distraction.

His mind again veered to Victoria.  Somnolently he calculated how many
paces. how many walls.  how many doorways separated them.  His body heat
fumaced, making the need for the blanket superfluous after all.

It was irritably flung back as needling perspiration rimmed his brow and
top lip and his loins pulsed with such energy that the vibration quaked
his entire body.  A booted foot stamped down on the mattress and he
shoved backwards, instinctively seeking the cool wall.

Instead he tormented himself with thoughts of his bed at Beauchamp
Place: almost seven foot square, and cushioned with the finest array of
downy mattresses, silks and linens money could buy.  The last time he'd
slept on anything this crude he'd been at school.  His mouth tipped
wryly as he turned restlessly on the unsprung pallet and then started
fully awake.

The white-gowned apparition leaning over him mirrored his surprise by
jumping back and wringing together freckled hands.  Then one went to
settle a nightcap on its bony head while it again crept close.

"How much?"  it suddenly croaked.

"How much?"  David parroted in confusion, blinking to clear his vision.

"How much will you pay me, then, for my daughter?"  Charles Lorrimer
demanded, while eyeing him craftily through droopy, mottled lids.

"How much do you want?"  David asked, levering himself upright.  His
stubbled, gaunt face grazed massaging hands as he laughed silently,
helplessly into them.  He wearily took stock: he'd got a maddened
servant who wanted to knock him senseless and a senseless old man who
wanted to sell him his daughter and an unrequited passion for that
daughter that was likely, in any case, to drive him equally insane.

"Fifty-five guineas," Charles Lorrimer eventually calculated.

"Why that amount?"  David asked with vague interest.

"It's for hounds," the old man emphasised as though irritated by the
need to explain.

"The better the hounds, the better the hunting, and I've a mind to ride
out this morning.  I'd course some hare and shoot a few brace of
pheasant to hang for a fine dinner.  You can come."  He magnanimously
bestowed his invitation.

David inclined his head in gracious thanks.

Scuttling back to his bed and perching upon it, with his cold feet held
away from the chilly, polished wood floor, Charles then allowed, "You
seem a nice fellow."  He sighed in resignation.

"I suppose I should be nice too and tell you."  A dramatic pause this
time, then his feeble frame inclined forward and he hissed on a single
breath,

"My daughter's a beauty but she's a wanton."

"A wanton?"  echoed back immediately.

"Such a disgrace, I'll own," Charles said, wagging his head sadly.

"But she was seduced by a villain."  His nightcap recommenced bobbing in
emphasis.

"The wretch set out to ruin her, you know.  Such was his hold over
her... and her shame... that I had to send her away to take vows... to
cool her fever and beg forgiveness for her sins."

"Take vows?"  David echoed, his eyes seeming an incredibly vivid blue in
his whitening face.

"I suppose she's still there... at the Sisters of Mercy at Baldock.

No.  no," Charles dismissed, with a tut and a wave of a skeletal hand.

"Sometimes, I'm forgetful... and confused," he amiably disclosed, 'but
now I recall.  Daniel was to fetch her.  And discipline her for me.
She's a bad girl to cause her papa so much trouble.  " He eyed David
consideringly.

"I'll own you're the sort of steady fellow to keep her checked and
docile. Not like that other one..."  Folding in half again, he
whispered, bulging-eyed and conspiratorial,

"Always fighting and carousing and such scandalous breeding!"

Having frowned lengthily at David's hunched shoulders and dishevelled
appearance, he concluded,

"But he was quite a fine figure of a man and so elegant and handsome
with it. You should watch out for him.  He was a most insistent rogue
and might come back."  With surprising agility he had, within a moment,
swung his feet onto the bed and scrambled beneath covers which were
pulled right up to his ears.

David sat staring at his hands, a muscle twitching in a shady, concave
cheek. It was probably just senile rambling.  Had it ever come to such
lunacy, Victoria would have got word to him somehow.  But then two weeks
after being banished from Hammersmith with a flea in his ear, he'd been
on foreign soil. His fingers gripped until the knuckles gleamed bone and
were abruptly yanked apart.  The past was best forgotten.  What point
was there in dredging up all the heartache?  No recrimination.  They had
a future to share.

Aware of Charles Lorrimer's steady, slow breathing, he pushed away from
the bed and walked to the window.  Widening the gap in the velvet
curtains, he braced broad palms against the sill, looked out into the
emerging dawn, and smiled.

So this was her Hartfield.  His roving sapphire gaze took in the quiet
pastoral scene.  It was as she had described: undulating parkland, woods
fringing the horizon and off to the right a glass-smooth lake glinting
mercurially as the sky brightened.  He glanced down, closer to the
house, at the neat box-hedged herb garden and spied the blonde girl who
had accompanied Victoria and her aunt to London hurrying along the
gravel path with a washing basket beneath one arm.  The servants here
were obviously few and versatile, this one encompassing the duties of
laundry and lady's maid.

Reluctantly abandoning the charming rural vista, he collected his
neckcloth and tail-coat from the chair where last night they had been
casually discarded.  They received an automatic neatening shake; the
rest of his crumpled attire got a rueful glance coupled with a
perfunctory brush with a hand.

Out in the dim corridor, he instinctively squinted at Victoria's
doorway.  A lazy smile emerged as he spied Samuel's bulk overflowing
from a boudoir chair that looked on the point of collapse.  The
servant's head was lolling against the wall as he snored, his arms
crossed belligerently over his chest.

David paced quietly closer and gazed down into weather- roughened
features: brow corrugated and jaw fiercely jutting even in sleep.  The
man must have been on guard all night.  David nodded in appreciation.

Loyal and protective.  He liked that.  He liked that very much.

Incompetent.  He wasn't quite so impressed.  Leaning across, he silently
opened Victoria's door an inch, then shut it again with an audible
click.

Samuel shot upright so violently, the dainty chair nearly flew out from
under him.

"Fine morning..."  David cheerfully greeted while shrugging with
deliberate leisure into his coat.  He straightened his cuffs before
smiling and strolling past to the stairs.

He'd break every bone in his body .  he'd tear him limb from limb.  "Are
you sure there was no message, Samuel?"  Victoria repeated breathlessly,
insistently.

"No, ma'am ... no message," was Samuel's mild affirmation.  And after
that, he savagely promised himself, he'd wring his elegant neck, cut out
his black heart and feed it to the crows.

"The Viscount said nothing at all before he left?"  Victoria quavered.

"Nothing?"

"Er..  he said it was a fine morning, ma'am, nothing else."

"A fine morning..."  Victoria repeated, in little above a whisper.  She
turned quickly away.

"Thank you, Samuel."  Having squeezed shut her aching eyes and drawn a
huge, steadying breath to compose herself, she whirled back.

"I believe we are low on logs in the morning room, Samuel.  Would you
fetch more, please?  Then Mr Lorrimer requires assistance to take some
air after breakfast.

"Tis a fine morning..."

The words faded as she recalled who had already issued that happy
verdict on this awful day.

"My father would benefit from half an hour in the sunshine..."  she
bravely croaked on.

Samuel inclined his flaxen head at his mistress but his eyes were
attached to her strained white face.  He'd travel to London, if need be,
and kill the swine.  That was what he'd do.  Not only had the bastard
seduced and abandoned this wonderful woman, he'd not even manners enough
to thank her for her hospitality before baring back to the city and his
iniquitous pleasures.

"Don't fret so, Victoria."  Her father's thin tone floated over from the
window seat just as Samuel quit the dining room on his stomp to the
woodpile.

"I'm not fretting.  Papa."  She approached him and an unsteady white
hand patted his thin forearm.

"Samuel will take you out for a stroll later..."  She peered up at
scudding clouds.

"The sky is clearing and--' " That strange fellow in my bedchamber has
only gone to do a bit of business.  He'll soon return," her father
confidently said.

Victoria stared at him, amazed.  He seemed perfectly sure.  perfectly
lucid.

"Did he say so.  Papa?  Did you speak to him before he left?"

"Indeed I did.  He seems nice enough.  He's gone on an errand for me."

"For you?"  Victoria queried disbelievingly but with a smile imminent.

"As I say... he's a good chap.  He's gone to buy me hounds... so we can
hunt."

Victoria closed her eyes, shielding despair and grinding disappointment.
Her eyes and head felt heavy from the wine she'd drunk and the deep
sleep she'd finally started from at nine o'clock.

Beryl had been upbraided for not waking her sooner.  The blame had then
been laid firmly at Samuel's door by his erstwhile lover.  Her
manservant had apparently given strict instructions, that the mistress
was to get herself awake when she would.

"Beryl said you were home..."  Matilda burst out as soon as the
dining-room door was shut behind her.  Drawing her away from her father,
Matilda whispered,

"You are back so soon.  What... what occurred in London?  Why are you
back so soon?"  Pale eyes probed Victoria's wan countenance.  "Surely
not... surely not discarded after just one night... What of the debts?"
she hissed, horrified.

"No, Aunt Matty," Victoria hoarsely, hysterically denied.  "Not even one
night.  I believe I have been returned unsuitable... As for the
debts..." She glanced about, blinking away the heat in her eyes, then
looked at her aunt as though to say more.  It was impossible.

Gathering her grey skirts in shaking hands, she muttered incoherent
excuses and left Matilda staring after her.

Victoria sank slowly to the turf and automatically began picking out the
seedling dandelions between the flowers.  She squeezed shut her eyes to
stem the tears.  Fool!  she silently berated herself.  Don't let it hurt
so!  You can't pretend ignorance of his character.  How many scandals do
you need? How much sordid gossip.  before you believe him the reprobate
everyone whispers about?

She bowed her head and murmured aloud, to engraved granite,

"Oh, Danny... Help me, please.  What am I to do?  I don't want to leave
Hartfield.-to leave you..."

"Best ask your flashy lover for a few trinkets you can sell, then,"

came a sneering female voice from behind.

Victoria gasped and twisted about.  She recognised the woman at once
even though the last time she'd spied her they had been in a murky
dockside street rather than a bucolic churchyard.

"Who are you?  What do you want?"

The woman merely crossed her arms over her voluptuous body while raking
Victoria with spiteful almond-shaped eyes.  Close to, she was very
attractive, Victoria acknowledged, with her deep green eyes and pale
gold curls peeking out beneath her dark bonnet.  She judged her to be in
her early thirties yet her complexion was clear and smooth, a sullen
droop to her mouth the only flaw.

Victoria felt a clogging weight plummet from her throat to settle in her
stomach.  Of course!  This woman must have somehow discovered the
Viscount's whereabouts and followed him.  Was he so very sought-after
that women customarily hounded him after just one night away?  This one
had the look of a woman scorned, Victoria realised, chilled, and was
possibly out for revenge.

Hysteria bubbled in her throat.  Well, this stranger wasn't alone in
feeling spurned and vengeful.  She had been subjected to a few honeyed
words herself. Intoxicated she might have been last night, but she knew
she had not dreamed his wooing kisses and declarations of love whilst
wrapped against him in the coach.  And now he had abandoned her without
a by-your-leave.  Escalating fury ground her teeth and clenched her
fists so tight, her nails scored ridges into her palms.

She was heartily sick of it all.

"If you have come here seeking the Viscount, I'm afraid you are out of
luck. He did stay overnight but departed early this morning.  I imagine
he is now at home.  You will have more chance of running him to ground
in Mayfair."

"Thanks for the tip," the woman scoffed.

"I might just do that.  And from what I've heard of his lordship he
might just let me."

Victoria's slender figure received a disparaging, summa rising scrutiny.

"Managed to keep him just the one night, did you?"

Victoria sprang to her feet, infuriated.

"The Viscount is kinsman to my late husband and was thus accorded
hospitality."  As the information was icily conveyed, the fact that she
felt compelled to justify his presence at her home incensed her further.

"Now, if you have any purpose here other than to ambush Lord Courtenay,
state it.  If not, go.  You are trespassing..."

"I'm Petronella Vaughan..."  No more was offered apart from a
self-satisfied smirk.

"And...?"  Victoria quizzed, frowning.

"What am I supposed to deduce from that?  If you are one of the
Viscount's infamous courtesans--' A shriek of lusty laughter interrupted
her.

"Wouldn't I just love to be!  I'll own I'm ambitious..."

"I'm afraid the name means nothing to me," Victoria snapped.

"I am rarely in London and know none of the gossip..."

"Well, know this," the woman spat through her teeth.  "You owe me..."

She stabbed a finger at Daniel Hart's grave, about to say more, just as
the churchyard gate whined open and Alexander Beresford's stout figure
appeared.

"We'll speak again," the woman threatened.  Within a moment she had
wrapped herself concealingly into her cloak and was hurrying into the
valley towards the village of Ashdowne.

Victoria walked the gravel pathway to meet Alexander Beresford, shaking
with a nauseating sense of foreboding.  Her preoccupation prevented her
instantly seeing his leer and pebble eyes brazenly sliding over her
body.

He knew!  Did everyone hereabouts know her business.  know the Viscount
had rejected her?  Courage failed her.  She swept past him at the gate
and on down the slope towards Hartfield.

"If you wish to speak to me, Mr Beres- ford, come along to the house.
There's a chill to the air and I wish to be indoors."  The brusque words
trailed over her shoulder at him as she increased her pace towards her
home.

Victoria turned from the library window some ten minutes later.

"I can't imagine why you are here, Mr Be- res ford there can be little
for us to discuss."

"I disagree, Mrs Hart.  I'm sure we might now find a... mutually...
beneficial topic," he insolently insinuated.

"As for why I am here... I came at your aunt's behest.  Yesterday she
gave into my safe-keeping some items of jewellery she was keen to sell.
I am now returned with the good news that Squire Lennox is interested in
purchasing for his lady wife the emerald and diamond ring."

"That's my aunt's betrothal ring!"  Victoria exclaimed, shocked.

"I've no idea..."  Alexander dismissed, gesturing apathy.  "In any case,
your aunt has just agreed the sale."  He paused.  "She also let slip you
had returned from your very brief sojourn in London.  Thus, I thought we
might have a little chat.  You were gone barely one night, then?"  A
snide smile and heavy-lidded appraisal accompanied the remark.

"I indeed expected your return; but not quite so soon.  The Viscount's
ennui is becoming legendary..."

"I have no wish to detain you now you have finished your business with
my aunt, Mr Beresford."

"Your aunt has kindly invited me to dine, to celebrate the sale of the
emerald.  If my acceptance will be putting you out, of course..."

Victoria blanched, reddened, excused herself and swished furiously from
the room.

Her heart was hammering with rage and despair, and the mundane worry
that there might be very little in the kitchens to provide a decent meal
for the family, let alone a despised guest.  She had no wish to feed
Alexander Beres- ford one crumb from her larder, but the invitation had
thoughtlessly been issued.  And she would definitely not allow him the
satisfaction of thinking it beyond their means to adequately accommodate
one extra mouth.

She hastened into the kitchen to find Edith, their cook, seated at the
table supping a dish of tea.

"Why is the range not high?  Why is the meal not underway?  Where are
the girls?"

Plump shoulders were raised and a grey head wagged dolefully.  Ts been
sat 'ere this past ower awaitin' that Samuel.  Gets me some fish outta
the lake or a chicken from the coop, I says.

"Yes" , 'e says, and that's the last I sees of 'im.  An ower ago, were
that. Now what's I s'posed to do with a bit o' left-over mutton ifn 'e
don't turn up with a nice roaster or a coupla trouts?  And Mrs
Sweeting's been in 'ere 'n all, saying as 'ow the late master's man o'
bizniss be sittin' down too. I tell you, Mrs 'art, I's sorely tempted to
take meself off somewhere where me uses be better ap- pree-shated and me
colleagues o' more assistance.  I--' Victoria held out a silencing hand.
She breathed deeply, calmingly.

"Are the vegetables prepared?"

Several chins dropped to Edith's chest in answer.

"Is there a fruit tart of some sort ready?"

Another nod.

"So we are in need of meat.  What can you do with what we have?"

"Can 'ash it, I s'pose, and you'll get a coupla forkfuls each ... ifn
one o' those skiving girls gets themselves back 'ere with some 'erbs to
bulk it out."

"I shall get you some herbs, Edith.  Please stoke the range and set to
at once."

She was slowly going mad, she was sure of it, was Victoria's placid
self-assessment as she made for the kitchen garden.  Her head still
pulsed from her hangover, her stomach was still in angry cramps from her
confrontation with Alexander Beresford and the woman in the churchyard.
On the periphery of her mangled mind niggled the servants' disobedience.
Even if they were now aware of her poverty and shame, surely they had
not so quickly withdrawn respect and loyalty?  Samuel she would have
trusted with her life.  But where on earth were they all?  As though in
answer to this conundrum, Beryl clattered down the back stairs.

"We was looking for you ma'am," the maid burst out, freezing Victoria's
ready rebuke on her parted lips.

"We believed you to be up at the chapel.  It's Mr Lorrimer.  He went up
for his afternoon snooze and rolled out of bed and cracked his head and
a nasty bruise he got, too, but Samuel's managed to soothe him and now
he's fast asleep."  She gulped in breath.

"I'm just getting the mop for Sally to clear up, 'cos there was another
little accident, like..."  She delicately coughed.

"Probably the shock, 'cos he's been real good in that way of late..."

"But he's not badly hurt at all?"  Victoria demanded urgently.

"Oh, no, ma'am.  In fact, he managed a giggle when Samuel slid on the
wet floor and went down a crash too."  Beryl bit her lip, trying to
disguise her own humour at the memory of it.

Victoria passed a tremulous hand over her face.  She felt like
screeching hysterically herself.  Instead she said formally,

"Thank you.  Beryl.  If you would carry on, then, please."

Victoria exited the house by the side door.  It led directly to the
walled garden via a gothic arched portal.  Having fought with the
rust-swollen latch to creak open the ancient, paint-peeling gate, she
ducked through the low opening.  She wiped gritty, umber flecks from her
fingers to her skirts while following the shingle path through the box
hedging towards the stumpy rosemary bush.  Silent, unstoppable tears
streamed down her face and she simply blinked through them, unable to
summon enough energy to wipe them away.

She had been on the point of misjudging her dear servants.  A gurgle of
watery laughter escaped her.  She was no judge of character at all.  Had
she not once believed Alexander Beresford a kind and decent man?  The
only man worthy of such praise now lay in Hartfield's churchyard and was
unable to help her further.

The setting sun slanting golden warmth at her wet face reminded her of
the lateness of the hour and the need to return Edith her herbs.

She began breaking off a variety of fragrant clumps and dropping them by
her feet.

"Don't we have a gardener, Vicky?"

Victoria swirled around, her heart lodging in her throat.  She squinted
against the tears and low yellow rays impeding her vision and made out
the tall, athletic figure on the shingle path.  He looked unbelievably
distinguished and attractive and with an anguished cry she spontaneously
flew at him and began pummelling small, grubby fists against his arms,
his chest, anything she could reach while her sobs crescendoed.

"Go away!"  she screamed, swinging this time for his face.

"Go on... go away... you always go away... you always go and leave
me..."

She was picked up bodily and embraced so close she could barely breathe.
Another futile struggle ensued and then she yielded and buried her wet
face into verbena- scented skin.  She felt large hands slide up her
back, just one bridge her neck beneath her tousled hair and stroke in a
slow, mesmeric rhythm.  But it was the murmured soothing endearments
that made her determined to prise herself away.

She wriggled her arms free, pushed once, then lashed them about his neck
in an unbreakable coil as though to prevent him ever leaving again
without her.

"I take it you missed me, Vicky," David choked.

"God, if I'd known, I'd have woken you and taken you with me.  I thought
you'd be sleeping off a hangover all afternoon.  How long have you been
up and about?"

She hiccoughed against his shoulder as her breathing steadied.

Long fingers threaded through her hair to her scalp and cupped it
tenderly.

"Does your head hurt?"

She simply nodded her head in his hand, incapable of speech.

He relaxed his hold on her a little but she refused to loosen hers on
him. She clung to him with such tenacity, he had to support and lift her
again. Warm lips stroked a damp cheek through silky matted hair.

"What's the matter?  This isn't just about me going to town to attend to
business for the day.  What's happened?  Is it your father?"

She shook her head with a huge indrawn, shuddering breath and drank in
the solid, reassuring feel of him, the fresh scent, the soft graze of
his fine clothes.

Her composure steadily strengthened; so did her mortification at
behaving with such lack of decorum.  Sliding her arms quickly from about
his neck, she sought firm ground and stepped back.  She tried to turn
immediately away but he caught at her wrists, keeping her facing him.
One hand followed her evasive face and, between holding it still and
picking away veiling strands of hair, he read her expression.

"You thought I'd gone away for good, didn't you?"  he accused with soft,
bitter wonderment.

"You thought, despite what I told you last night, that I'd returned to
London and drinking..  gambling... whoring ... didn't you?"

"Yes," she breathed, wrenching free of his clasp.

"That's exactly what I thought.  Lord Courtenay.  Especially after one
of those..  women came searching for you."  She stepped back along the
shingle path and automatically dipped to gather the herbs.

"I have to take these in to Edith.  We are late with dinner this evening
and we have a guest..."

The.  " he ironically guessed.

Victoria coloured.

"No.  But you are very welcome, of course..."

"Of course..."  echoed back drily.

"A woman came here searching for me?"  His disbelief was vaguely amused.

"Did she leave her name?"

"Indeed she did, my lord," Victoria frigidly told him, yet for some
reason could not, immediately, tell him what it was.

"Petronella Vaughan," suddenly burst from her.

David stalked her along the path and with a cool smile grabbed at her
wrist and spun her about to walk with him towards the house.

"We'll talk about it later," he said.

Chapter Twelve.

Tie's back, then.  "

"I reckon he's in love with her!"

"I'll wager he'll many her!"

Three pairs of eyes were peering discreetly out of Charles Lorrimer's
bedroom window through a veil of velvet curtaining.

"Such as he don't even know what love is.  He'll never marry.  less he
needs an heiress sharpish."  Samuel scathingly dismissed the serving
maids' romantic fancies.  Both young women craned their necks to catch
the last glimpse of their beloved mistress being led by the masterly
Viscount from the herb garden.

"The man's a rogue and a philanderer," was Samuel's next pious
pronouncement.

"And she'd be best off without him."

Sally and Beryl turned, as one, from the window and exchanged a look
before both glowering at him.

"I'd say that be true of someone else not a mile off.  And that it takes
one to know one," Beryl sniffily said on exiting the room, blonde head
held high.

Samuel offered his betrothed a sickly smile.

Sally returned him a pursed rosebud mouth and narrow n eyed glare.
Tossing brunette curls, she also swished haughtily from the room, mop in
hand.

Samuel's grin drooped.  He looked towards old Mr Lorrimer, satisfied
himself that the man was sound asleep, then he too went to discover just
what was going on.

Alexander Beresford turned casually from where he sat chatting to
Matilda while patiently awaiting his supper.  Of a sudden, his fleshy
bottom lip seemed to hit his barrel chest.  He was still gawping
comically when he sprang clumsily to his feet.

"Lord Courtenay is arrived and will be dining with us," Victoria
announced breathily, feeling immensely proud of the imposing man
standing casually close to her as they proceeded into the drawing room.

"May I introduce you to Mr Beresford, Lord Courtenay?  He is... he
is..."

"A kind and decent man...?"  The sarcasm was barely audible.

"He is my late husband's attorney," Victoria spluttered on, colouring at
such warranted, withering irony.  To conceal her confusion she blurted,

"Aunt Matilda, would you arrange for our guests to have some wine while
the meal is prepared?"  Wide grey eyes expressively appealed to her
aunt.

But Matilda seemed as confounded as Alexander, simply gazing glassily at
David as though he were an apparition.  She started to her senses.

"How wonderful to see you again, Viscount Courtenay," she smarmed, all
honeyed charm.

Victoria chanced a sliding peek at David's face.  He hadn't forgotten
either that the last time he and Matilda had met the woman had famously
snubbed him at Emma's ball.  He bowed gallantly.  too low.

That private amusement was about him, Victoria noted, anxiously nibbling
at her lower lip.

Realising she was still clutching a handful of mixed herbs, she withdrew
a few paces.

"I shall just see how Edith is doing with dinner..."  With a final
explicit look at her aunt to play hostess, she was backing out of the
drawing room and speeding towards the kitchens.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Edith, but there is another guest to dine with us."
Having catapulted into the kitchen and plonked the culinary bouquet down
on the scrubbed pine table, she became aware of four sets of eyes pinned
on her.

Beryl reacted first.

"Told you so," she muttered smugly to her trio of colleagues.

"Samuel, please find some wine, and serve it in the drawing room."

"Perhaps, ma'am, I should get to the lake and net out something to put
on the table for dinner..."

"Shoulda done it owers ago..."  Edith darkly muttered.

"I been attending to Mr Lorrimer."

"That's enough," Victoria rebuked, but pleadingly, with a slender,
massaging hand at her brow.

"Yes, thank you, Samuel; some fish would be a great help."

"I got some gooseberries 'ere somewhere."  Edith was into her stock
cupboard, sorting through the preserves.

"Gooseberry sauce 'ud go a treat wi' trout or pike and..."  The rest was
lost as she disappeared further into the dim recess.

"Beryl, perhaps you would serve some wine;.."  Victoria knew her voice
was shrill and that she was being too polite and grateful with the
servants.

"You come along with me to your chamber, Mrs Hart, and we'll find you a
pretty gown and tidy your hair.  Sally will fetch some wine."

The two young women exchanged a smiling nod with an air of camaraderie.

Suddenly comprehending Beryl's mild criticism, Victoria glanced down,
horrified, at her appearance.  Her plain grey day- dress was crumpled
and a few spikes of rosemary clung to the hem.  Her fingers checked
trailing ebony tresses, attempting to neaten them.  A blink of her damp
lashes had her trying to inconspicuously scrub at tearstained cheeks
with a gritty, grubby hand.  How useless and feeble she must seem!  What
a fright she must look too if the servants needed to bring it to her
attention!

"Had I known it would all turn aright, Vicky, my dear, I should never
have invited that tubby solicitor to dine.  I only did so to put an
eligible man in your way... yet look what you have again found for
yourself!"

Victoria twisted on the bedroom stool, almost sending the hairbrush
flying out of Beryl's hand.  Beryl calmly held her glossy dark head
still and went about her business with pins and brush.

"Oh, Aunt... your beautiful betrothal ring.  You must ask Mr Beresford
to return it.  I know you have sold it simply to raise some funds to
help us all out but we shall manage..."

"I believe we shall... now," Matilda said with an explicit smile.

"But it doesn't matter.  These bony old fingers are past adornment.  I
should have liked to keep it as an heirloom for Justin.-but it has been
a long time... too long..."  After a wistful sigh, she changed the
subject abruptly. "Come, we must hurry downstairs.  You look a picture,"
she interjected, waving away Beryl and her combs.  She nodded with great
satisfaction at Victoria's shimmering reflection: her glossy hair
spiralling almost to the centre of her graceful back, her classic
sculpted face softened by curling ebony tendrils, the longer of which
draped to fragile white shoulders, and the taut lilac silk accentuating
the curve of her breasts.

"Do hurry!  The entertainment is too good to miss.  The Viscount, I
believe, holds no high opinion of fawning Alexander, yet he in turn
seems to think the sun might rise tomorrow out of his lordship.  Their
conversation is a joy!"

Impatiently, she pulled Victoria off the stool and towards the door.

Beryl bustled after them tutting, a perfume bottle in her hand aiming a
flowery mist at her mistress.

"All the excitement has made me quite ravenous.  What's for supper?"

Matilda asked as they made their way downstairs in a cloud of rose
petals.

"Not a lot..."  Victoria ruefully admitted, and made a turn towards the
kitchens to check on the meal's progress.

Matilda restrained her with a firm grip on her elbow.  "Beryl will chase
them all up," she decreed, with a fierce squint at the young serving
maid, while steering Victoria in the opposite direction towards the
drawing room.

"I must just quiz you, my lord, on another tale that reached my ears
some years ago.  It had you rescuing a well-known gentleman's son from
ruin at the tables!  Is it true you took his place and turned his last
ten counters into one and a half thousand pounds?"  Beresford's gushing
adulation was ill at ease with his scepticism but certainly
allconsuming: he hadn't noticed the ladies' entrance.  David was also
oblivious to Victoria's arrival due to positioning himself as far from
his irritating interrogator as possible in the hope the man would leave
him in peace.  He was thus standing with his back to the door, pensively
studying the smouldering logs.

"And I believe you allowed him one thousand of the pounds and took only
five hundred for yourself."

"The man had a consumptive cough that could clear a room," David
recounted wearily, still staring into the fire.  "Seemed little enough
to pay him off with to keep the Duke of Wellington seated and his
fifteen thousand pounds within my grasp."

"Is that true?"  escaped Victoria in disbelief.

"It's just gossip, surely...?"

David pivoted on his heel, took a few steps forward, then stilled and
stared. Deep blue eyes engulfed smoky grey as he once more approached
and halted just a little too close for propriety.

"You look absolutely ravishing."

She blushed in thanks for his husky compliment.

"Is it a story?"

"Do you want it to be?"  he tendered softly.

"Tell me what you wish to hear and I will say it.  Whatever pleases you,
Vicky."

Her eyes rose, her blush heightening, as last night's bitter words were
so sweetly offered back to her.  Becoming conscious of Alexander
Beresford's scrutiny and that he was actually tipping forward to try and
catch their muted conversation, Victoria included him and Matilda in it.

"I must check if Papa is yet awake and will be coming down to dine with
us all."  There was no need.  Samuel entered the drawing room as she
turned to leave it.

"Dinner is served m'm," he intoned, bowing low.

"Mr Lorrimer is dining in his room."

David offered her an elegant arm and Alexander scrambled to show equal
gallantry to Matilda.

The servants had excelled themselves!  It was obvious from their florid
faces that they had toiled fast and furious in the hot kitchen.  Edith
had now discarded her cook's pinafore and donned one of Sally's black
skirts to assist with serving.  And that was unheard of.  Edith's only
domain was the kitchen; something she was wont to frequently drum into
her colleagues. Victoria smiled her silent, gracious thanks and as one
they bobbed, faces bursting with pride at the sight of their beautiful
mistress on what, they had collectively decided, was the affluent arm
ofHartfield's saviour.

The fruits of their labour decked the laden table: vegetables garnished
with nuts and sauces, pickles, two sizeable trout smothered with
gooseberry glaze. The sideboard displayed cheeses and sweet tarts for
dessert.  The mutton hash was there too: spiced and livened with onion
and herbs, as was a plump jointed chicken covered in a creamy caper
sauce.  How Samuel, Sally and Edith between them had managed to achieve
all this in one and three-quarter hours was beyond comprehension.

Victoria peered closely at the crispy roasted hen; a rogue feather was
among the capers.  She glanced up to discover Samuel's gaze roosting on
the same spot.  Their eyes briefly held before he smoothly began serving
wine.  He deftly removed the steaming dish of poultry to precisely
position a wine carafe in its stead.  When the chicken was resettled on
the table the quill had disappeared, eliciting a muffled giggle from
Victoria, and a sideways smile passed between them.

The sort of vivacity she had enjoyed seven long years ago scintillated
within her, and she instinctively sought David's face across the
flickering candle flame.  She was rewarded with a slow, intimate smile
before his deep blue eyes rose to Samuel and they shared a stare of
grudging respect tinged with antagonism.  Victoria paused to watch while
reaching for her wine glass.  On raising it to her lips she found it
empty.  A wobbly goblet finally caught Samuel's attention and had him
speeding towards her.  with the water jug.

"As fine a dinner as I believe I have ever tasted, Mrs Hart,"

Alexander Beresford huffed, squashing back in his chair and blotting at
his mouth with linen.

"You are lucky to have kept on such a talented cook..."

"Indeed..."  Victoria politely agreed, yet uneasy with the implication
that Edith might choose to leave her and the reasoning behind it.  But
she was feeling too content--quite light-headed despite Samuel's
prohibition--to take umbrage.  And Alexander's praise was indeed
deserved.  The meal had been superbly cooked and presented and more than
adequate in quantity.

"We've been plagued with an unseasonably hard frost these past nights,
my lord," Alexander commented in a tone mellow with satiety.

"Are you travelling far to lodgings this evening?"

"The Swan at St Albans," David answered succinctly, studying his goblet.

"Oh, but we can put you up for the night again.  Lord Courtenay,"

Victoria spontaneously intervened, keen to be hospitable, but mostly
desperate not to let him so soon slip away.

She watched long, inky lashes slowly rise to reveal wry humour.

"Oh, I promise a room to yourself and a good night's sleep this
time...." Belatedly aware of her infelicity curling a leer into
Alexander's claret top lip and rendering her aunt drop-jawed in horror,
she floundered wretchedly on.

"I mean... that is to say... I shall have one of the servants air you a
chamber and make up a proper bed..."

"I don't think that would be wise," David intervened, smiling gently at
her scarlet-faced confusion.

She tensed anxiously, instinctively knowing the whole of her future
happiness hung on his next words.  And with that awesome insight came
another that drove home so hard, she actually winced.  / want him to
love me as he did seven years ago, because in all that time I've never
stopped loving him.  And I wish he had no money for then debts and duty
and relations would be irrelevant.  We would get by.  All I need is his
love and fidelity.  "I believe it's bad luck for the bride and groom to
too often associate in the evenings before they wed.  Seems a stupid
superstition..."  David's mild words penetrated her poignant
self-perception.

"Wed...?"  Alexander and Matilda echoed as one.

"Victoria and I are to be married on Saturday."  He delivered his
proposal, his candle-flaring eyes not once flinching from hers.

"Preparations for the marriage kept me in town for the best part of the
day. That and getting my attire back in some sort of respectable order."
He brushed an imaginary speck from an immaculate black sleeve.

"Oh, and this..."  He stood, strolled around the table, and placed a
small box in front of her on the polished mahogany.  Victoria stared at
it with a thundering heart, her fingers refusing to relinquish her
goblet stem, her tongue the roof of her mouth.  Beseeching grey eyes
sped to his.  The casket lid was immediately snapped back and a
magnificent teardrop diamond blazed a rainbow.

David removed the crystal glass from her grip and her plain gold wedding
band from her finger.  Sliding the diamond to replace it, he raised the
glistening stone to his lips.  "A symbol of what's past and all that I
regret, Vicky," he said, a deep throb to his quiet sincerity.

"How wonderful!"  Matilda squealed, finally finding her voice.

Alexander Beresford simply stared and as Victoria's glowing grey eyes
met his, angry colour mottled his skin.  He had much preferred her in
the role of the Viscount's discarded fancy.  and his own prospective
paramour, Victoria perceived.  She gazed again at her magnificent
engagement ring and it immediately put her in mind of her aunt's.

"My congratulations.  You will wish to be alone, no doubt."  Having
offered his stilted words, Alexander shoved back his chair.

"Mr Beresford... before you leave, the matter of my aunt's emerald ring
must be resolved."

"The matter has been satisfactorily resolved, Mrs Hart," the man bluntly
supplied.

"My thanks for a fine dinner.  I shall set on the road before the ground
gets too solid."

"Oh, please wait."  Victoria quickly stood to detain him.  "My aunt is
willing to return to you Squire Lennox's cash.

He need never realise the sale was agreed," Victoria reasoned
imploringly.

David moved towards the door as Alexander did, cutting off his exit.

"That sounds a fair offer, Beresford," he said evenly, his quick
intelligence immediately comprehending Matilda's hare-brained
fund-raising.  A cynical smile preceded,

"Had you earmarked for yourself a commission on the deal?"

Alexander's floridity fumaced but he refused to say more.  After a stiff
bow to the ladies he took a purposeful step towards the exit, yet
maintaining a wary distance between himself and the Viscount.

David unfurled a lean hand.

"I'll take the ring, Beres- ford."  When Alexander pursed a mutinous
mouth, long fingers snapped and beckoned impatiently.

The man delved into his pocket, slapped the tissue- wrapped ring into
David's palm, and barked,

"My money...?"

Matilda was already speeding up to him, withdrawing a bundle of notes
from her reticule as she went.

With a snatch and the cash scrunched in a hand, Alexander was
immediately striding from the room.

"I fear we may never see him again," Matilda observed, smiling broadly.
She bestowed a proud, affectionate look on her newly betrothed niece,
judging her never more exquisitely beautiful than at that moment with
her smoky eyes heavy with serenity and her delicate, high cheekbones
afire beneath her fiance's steady, smouldering gaze.

"Well, what a day!  It has quite wore me out.  What you young people
have to bear in mind is that I'm not as energetic as I once was."  She
trudged backwards towards the door.  Her lack of vigour was abruptly
disproved as she whisked up to David, removed her ring from his hand
with an impish beam, then sped back to the exit.  An exaggerated yawn
soon re-established her weariness and then she was gone.

As the door closed, Victoria realised they were at last truly,
acceptably alone.  He had promised to marry her in front of witnesses.

It was a marriage contract as surely as if signed and sealed.  And he
knew that as certainly as she.  Her rich, honourable hero had, against
all odds, rescued them all.  Relief and happiness sent a surge of
spontaneous tears to prickle her nose and eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered, suddenly shy and searching for distraction.

He held his hands out to her and without hesitation she flew into his
embrace, her slender arms about his waist, hugging him close.

"Oh, thank you, thank you..."

Long fingers slid into her hair and tilted her face up to his.

"That's not what I want to hear, Vicky.  I haven't gone without sleep,
gone without seeing you all day, dealt with bankers, lawyers, clergymen,
the licensing magistrate, to come and have you thank me... or feed me a
good dinner."

"Did you enjoy it?  Truly?"  Victoria demanded, shining- eyed, glad of a
neutral topic while she composed herself.  "It was a rushed affair and
the servants worked so furiously but I was worried..."

"It was just fine."  David interrupted her by laying a finger pn her
mouth. It sensuously skimmed sensitive scarlet lips while blazing blue
eyes obsessively followed its movement.  "What do I want to hear,
Vicky?"

Pearly eyelids drooped with the mesmeric stroking.

"That I will again ask you to stay the night?"  she sighed against his
finger.

He grunted a laugh and dipped his head.  A leisurely, loving reward
replaced his finger, moistening and parting her mouth.  Eventually he
said huskily,

"No... but it's a very tempting offer, sweetheart."

"Have you really done all that today?  Seen all those people so we can
so soon be married?  What shall I wear?"

"Victoria..."  he gently threatened.

"There is something I want you to say first or I won't marry you..."

A startled, reproachful look elicited a defeated, wry smile.

"Well, I'll admit that's a lie, but, nevertheless, I'd like you to
say..."

"I love you, David," she whispered softly against his cheek before he
could finish.

"I love you so much.  And I must thank you...!  am grateful."

Unsteady hands cupped her face and turned her shy, radiant countenance
up to his.

"I would have settled for David... You truly love me?

Even knowing of the.  the debauchery.  the life I've led?  You're not
saying it from pity or gratitude?  You still truly love me?  " he
demanded hoarsely, disbelievingly, while his thumbs quaked at her face.
His sapphire eyes tracked her from head to toe, devouring the purity of
her expression, the allure of her body's slender beauty.

His humble, childlike astonishment was so total and so unexpected, the
poignancy wrenched a silent sob from Victoria's blocked throat and a
slow, salty trickle from a sheeny eye.

"Of course I love you," she choked.

"I thought you had already guessed.  I've always loved you, David...
always. Even long ago during those bleak days when I swore I hated you
for abandoning me..."

The rest of the dulcet reassurance was smothered as his mouth swooped,
welding to hers, forcing her head back against his possessive,
cushioning arm.  As though immediately regretting his raw passion the
kiss was curtailed.  But his lips couldn't quite break contact and
stilled against her quivering mouth.  He was about to apologise,
Victoria realised, glimpsing his squeezed-shut eyes and tortured
expression.  In solace, she tendered her own inexpert version while
whispering,

"I'll get used to it, David.  In fact, I quite liked it this time..."

She felt him smile against her sweet, naive comfort.

Once more he seized sensual control, his mouth slanting, fitting
expertly over hers in a slow, seductive assault that liquefied her limbs
and swirled her mind.  Tapered fingers slid about his neck, clinging to
his nape to keep her upright.  Muscular arms enclosed supportively about
her hips and shoulders, and long fingers curved up into sleek jet hair.

"You liked that better, though, didn't you?"  It was murmured throatily
with very real male contentment.

"I think I ought to leave now, Vicky," he said, the look in his eyes
giving the lie to the valiant statement.

She shook her head, clasping tighter to his neck, innate femininity
grazing her body enticingly on his as she pressed closer.

"I can't stay ... it's torture," he explained and complained in one
voice. Unlocking her imprisoning fingers, he held her away from him by
her wrists.

"There's only one arrangement I'll accept to stay... sharing your
chamber this time..."

Victoria's weighty lids flew wide.

"But..."

"Exactly... but..."  It was his turn to reassure and his knuckles
brushed against her rosy cheek.

Drawing her into a close, comforting embrace, he rested his jaw against
a shimmering crown of satin hair.  For a moment they remained silent,
simply savouring, protracting their peaceful joy.  Then, turning her
with an arm about her shoulders, David steered them towards the door.

In the hallway sconces flared and sputtered, throwing shadows all
around.  By the great oaken doors, David inclined towards her and with a
wry self-mockery just pecked her cheek.  Victoria slyly tried to catch
his lips in a mischievous tormenting that harked back seven years and
elicited a playful, groaning restraint.  And then her gaiety faded away.

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

His eyes held hers steadily, reflecting candlelight.

"Will I?"

"Yes," she told him trustingly.

"Come early and we shall have a picnic lunch... by the lake."

"Are you going to show me Hartfield?"

She nodded.

He sobered.

"We have things to talk about, Vicky.  A moment ago you said you
believed I had once abandoned you.  I want to know why you thought
that."  As she immediately frowned and began to speak, he laid a
silencing finger on her lips.

"Not now.  Nothing is spoiling this evening... no seven-year-old
spectres are allowed.  But we must discuss things."  To cheer her
wistful, far-away expression, he added lightly,

"Where we're going to live is another topic."  The ploy worked: startled
from her solemn reverie, she immediately began to quiz him.

He kissed her into silence, then murmured against her lips, "Tomorrow.
You've got the advantage on that score at the moment.  And that's not
fair. Losing isn't something I'm used to."

Victoria swayed against him.  Encircling his neck with alluring arms,
she tantalised his lips with her tongue tip employing a little of the
eroticism she had just learned.  As though unable to withstand it
longer, his response was immediate, groaning and wolfish.

Now she was first to control and withdraw.

"I'm sure you'll get used to losing, David."  She teased his arrogance,
before backing away to the stairs.

The commotion had Victoria folding upright in bed.  It sounded as though
someone was in great pain and yelping.  She threw back the bed covers
and shapely bare legs were swung over the side of the mattress.  Within
a second she was on her way to the window for the noise seemed to be
issuing from outside.  On yanking apart the curtains, bright morning
sunlight streamed onto her face, warming her body through her broderie
anglaise nightgown.  A tut and a sigh acknowledged she had again
overslept.

Her attention was drawn from lucid skies to the garden.  She watched in
amazement as Samuel charged along the laundry pathway like a man
demented: he was crouched to the ground, arms outstretched, yet,
amazingly, almost running as he disappeared in the direction of the
kitchen.

Victoria knuckled sleep from her eyes and groaned.  Chickens or geese
were obviously out of the run.  Perhaps a fox in the night had scattered
them. Samuel had no doubt decided on a mischievous morning rounding them
up.  Would never a day pass without some chaos erupting in the servants'
quarters?

Snatching up her flimsy robe, she was struggling into it and belting it
tightly as she raced down the stairs with her loose black hair streaming
over her shoulders.

She burst into the kitchen crying,

"What in heaven's name is all the noise about?  What is going on...?"

The sight of her fiance, coffee cup midway to his mouth and a black
puppy rolling playfully on his hessian boots, froze her, drop-jawed, to
the spot. At that moment Samuel came strolling through the kitchen
doorway with another dark, furry bundle secured beneath a brawny arm.

Without pausing and with a gruff,

"Morning, ma'am," he turned about and strolled right out again.

David's gaze, replete with an odd mix of humour and ardour, took in the
dishevelled, ravishing state of her.  His intense blue gaze became
heavy-lidded as it discreetly tracked the creamy flesh exposed by her
gaping robe and then lowered to a tiny waist accentuated by the firmly
cinched belt.

Victoria put a hand to her hair and to her state of undress.  but there
was nothing she could possibly do to improve either.

"I... I...

wasn't expecting you.  " she excused and accused in a wail as her cheeks
flamed.

"You said come early..."  he reminded her in a voice of velvet gravel.

Victoria felt her face stinging beneath his unwavering scrutiny.  What a
wild hoyden she must seem, ha ring about the building in such an
undignified manner.  And he looked so immaculate!  And so handsome!  His
dark hair, highlighted by dusty morning sunbeams, adopted a bronze sheen
where it curled over the collar of his tailored dark green riding coat.
Gripped in long fingers was a crop.  It and the coffee cup were abruptly
discarded onto the kitchen table as he walked towards her.

A large hand rose to comfort her rosy complexion before gathering a
thick dusky tress and slipping its silky texture across his palm.

"Do you look like this every morning?"

"No!"  she gasped, hurt.

"Pity..."  he said, dipping to lingeringly touch his mouth to hers.

"I'd like you to remedy that, Victoria."

"You ... you didn't sleep well at the inn ... I can tell," she breathed.

"Tis why you're here so early.  You'd have been better served staying,"
she said, keen to distract his attention from her unkempt appearance,
yet unwittingly having the reverse effect with her artless comments.

"You're right, I slept ill," he agreed gently.

"But better than I would had I stayed here with you..."  A finger traced
^ the drape of her hair against her delicate bone structure.  "You
obviously got your beauty sleep."

She smiled, her eyes still entrapped by his.

"I ... I'll just get dressed.  I'll be but a minute..."

"If you must..."  he sighed.  He returned to the table for his coffee
and crop, allowing Victoria the opportunity to nimbly extricate herself
from the kitchen.  It was only as she was flying back up the stairs that
she remembered the puppies and wondered how on earth Hartfield had
suddenly acquired them.

* * * "You bought my papa a present?"  The wonder and appreciation in
Victoria's tone occasioned a smile from David.

"He seemed keen on having hounds.  I thought they might occupy him now
you're to be married and won't be dedicating so much time to relations."

It was a subtle ruling; nonetheless, Victoria acknowledged it with
tilted chin and arched dark brows.

David laughed and, avoiding the remnants of their picnic lunch, reclined
onto the spread rug.  They had chosen an area of springy turf to settle
on, close by the lake and bordering woodland that afforded privacy from
inquisitive eyes.

The mid-June afternoon was pleasantly warm with a hazy sun that from
time to time escaped the cottony clouds to slant gold onto the water.

A razored blade of grass was drawn between thumb and forefinger on its
way to slot between even white teeth; then David's hands pillowed his
head.

"The bitch in whelp at the Swan seems a docile, obedient sort of animal.
I'm sure her pups will follow.  Your man Samuel seems good with them; no
doubt he'll train them..."

"No matter your motives.  Papa is thrilled; and very little pleases him
lately.  It was very kind and thoughtful of you to remember him."

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her through a mesh of dark
lashes while lazily expelling the grass onto the ground.

"That sounds like me, Vicky," he said with studied irony, before a hand
snaked out and drew her off balance.

As he rolled expertly to cover her, a muscled thigh wedged instinctively
between the softness of hers, parting them, yet she remained
unprotesting and wide, trusting eyes gazed up into his handsome, angular
face.

David smoothed away stray ebony strands from her face with reverent
fingers. Satisfaction thickened his tone to honey as he murmured,

"You're not frightened, are you?  I've been haunted by the fear you
would flinch from me now... consider me a sickening rake..."

"I love you, David," was her simple answer as her head angled away from
the tartan rug so her lips could prove it.

"And I love you, Victoria Lorrimer," he said with a certain amount of
wry self-mockery.

"No doubt that's why I'll put up with your flirting and teasing and
return you to the house this afternoon as righteous as when you left
it."

Gossamer lids shielded eyes brimming with very female gratification as
Victoria savoured the influence she wielded over this rugged, powerful
aristocrat.  Her arms encircled his neck, pulling him tormentingly
close.

"I'd expect no less from such a kind and decent man," she taunted, and
then started to laugh.  She laughed with such infectious joy, he started
chuckling too.

lerking her upright, he settled her on his lap.

"Don't push me too far, Vicky," he softly warned, not wholly in jest.
"I've been a long time without you ... too long."

It was the catalyst that brought them both to brooding a little.  Yet
neither wanted to speak first and risk ruining this wonderful afternoon.

"Why was that horrible woman here yesterday?"  Victoria broke the
silence and the first niggling anxiety came tumbling out.

"I recall seeing Petronella Vaughan in London, at the cock-fighting with
that ruffian, Toby.  And she stared at me that night in such a hateful
way.

She came here looking for you, didn't she?  I know she is one of your
mistresses.  " The accusation ground out, she chewed at her lip while
vainly trying to slip off his lap.

"Petronella Vaughan is Toby's sister.  She was Daniel Hart's mistress,
not mine."

Chapter Thirteen.

That's a lie!  " whip lashed out of Victoria. Fighting free of his
embrace, she faced him, fiery-eyed, on her knees.

"It's the truth, Vicky," he corrected her.

"Had the blasted woman not come here meddling, you need never have known
about it.  It was only when sorting out Daniel Hart's financial affairs
and draper's bills came to light that I became aware of their liaison
myself. Petronella has been dunned for settlement."  He stared at the
horizon, unwilling to go into detail, especially as the unpaid merchant
happened to be his ex-mistress's father.  David had settled the account
personally, yet insisting on strict anonymity.  He wanted Petronella to
believe the draper had given up the chase, not that she'd netted a
replacement punter.

His eyes focussed on Victoria's shocked, blank gaze.  The revelation of
her late husband's paramour hurt her; she was withdrawing from him
because of it and that rendered him teeth-grindingly furious.

"Petronella was kept by men in London and Hertfordshire.  But I wasn't
one of the fools."

Victoria choked back a retort about his claim to such hauteur.

"You had a platonic marriage... were no proper wife to the man.  Why
should his mistress worry you?  It's childish to have expected him to
live like a monk."

"I am not childish..."  she snapped, incensed by his patronising tone.

"And I guessed that Daniel had... lady friends.  Although we never
discussed it, I'm sure he knew I was happy he gained such comfort
elsewhere.  I certainly didn't expect him to live like a monk..."

"While we're talking of a cloistered life... Your father mentioned
something very odd... that he'd sent you to a nunnery at Baldock seven
years ago."

"And so he did," Victoria allowed in a quivering whisper.  Nausea
bubbled in her throat at the vivid memory of the freezing gothic
edifice, the damp, sour smells and withered, crow-like nuns that even
now could creep her senses. The two weeks she had been incarcerated in a
spartan cell had crawled by like two years.

His daughter was steeped in sin, Charles Lorrimer had confided to the
sisters.  Her soul's salvation was imperative, he had ruled, and so an
indefinite purgatory had commenced.  Little that was edible had come her
way, yet by the beginning of the fifth day, when her body was racked by
cold and hunger, even the unpalatable coarse bread and revolting
lukewarm gruel had been welcome.  But of all the privation it had been
the austere silence, the withdrawal of any human compassion and comfort
that had almost broken her.

Despite shivering, she managed to tilt her chin and recount,

"At first Papa simply banished me to our home in Ware.  When he realised
I was unrepentant and would never disclaim you, I was sent on to
Baldock.

But why dwell on it now, all these years later, as though it matters?

It bothered you little at the time, when I wrote and told you .  begged
you to come for me.  You didn't even acknowledge my letters before
leaving the country--' The damning accusation was curtailed by a gasp as
she was hauled against him.  Blue eyes blazed from a bloodless face.

"Letters?  I received not one word from you after you returned to
Hertfordshire.  Not one word!  You barely waited a month before marrying
that old man.  I was coming back for you, you knew that.  I swore, no
matter how your father received me, we'd be together.  I loved you,
dammit!  You must have known I needed money before offering for you
again."

Their breathing came in shallow, matching pants as they locked eyes then
scanned beloved features, as sure now as they had been seven years ago
of the other's fault.  Corrosive memories, partially submerged by time
and tears, now boiled to the surface and refused to simply drift away.

"Yes, I knew that, and had I believed you would return I would have
waited. I would have suffered so for a year or more with just one small
sign that you hadn't after all regarded me as some novel infatuation.
You asked yesterday why I accused you of abandoning me, yet you must
already know: when I wrote in desperation offering to elope with you, to
stay with you unwed, to do anything you wanted..."  She choked a bitter
laugh welling in her sandpaper throat.

"Yes; I would have agreed to be your mistress then.  At eighteen I loved
and trusted you so much I was prepared to risk everything: losing my
family and friends, my reputation... But I heard nothing other than a
report that you were travelling in Europe.  You ignored me and went
gallivanting abroad!" Victoria forced out through a clog of pulsing
agony in her throat,

"I never heeded gossip about you then... that you were heartless and
wild and dissolute.  It's only recently..."

"It's only recently you do," he finished for her, and grunted a hard
laugh that was utterly devoid of humour.  "God damnit...!"  The
blasphemy was so guttural and savage, she flinched and twisted away, her
eyes squeezing shut. His face sought sheltering hands.

"I swear to you, Vicky, I never received one letter before I went
overseas." The oath was slowly, vibrantly ground out through his
fingers.

"And as for gallivanting..."  An amused amazement pitched the words
apart.

"Would you like to know how pleasurably my time was spent?

"Wellington was recruiting for a mercenary willing to risk death or
torture behind enemy lines.  He wanted back one of his generals who had
stupidly allowed himself to be taken by the French.  My brief was to
rescue him if possible, kill him if not, for he held secret information.
Three officers had unsuccessfully attempted the mission.

The last poor soul was sent back to the allied encampment in several
pieces. The French were by then so prepared for the clandestine forays
that it had become almost a macabre game.

"At that time fighting was the only skill I possessed.  It seemed the
answer to my prayers: I was desperate for money... and enough money that
your father would never again turn me away.  I was coming back to buy
you..  it was the only way."  A hand swiped his jaw and he gazed off
into the distance.

"The reward was grown exorbitant... ten thousand pounds... because no
further volunteers were forthcoming and because the government believed
it would always go uncollected.  It was a fool's errand.  No one... not
even Dickie... considered it possible either the general or I would
return.  But I knew I'd return."  He twisted a mirthless smile and his
voice softened.

"And when I did I wished I hadn't, for they'd been right after all ...
it had been a fool's errand.  The day we set foot back on Dover beach
Dickie told me you'd married.  Did you take them to the post yourself?
The letters?"  he abruptly, obliquely demanded.

Victoria's face was chalky, her mind numb as she struggled to absorb
such devastating news, and her response trickled out, slow and murmured.

"No... I couldn't escape my father's vigilance.  Neither could Matilda.
For he kept us apart.  In his eyes she was equally guilty: a neglectful
chaperon who had allowed me too much licence when out socialising.
Daniel took the letters and promised me they had been despatched."

David indicated disbelief and despair with a savage, cynical jerk of
head and hands.

"No... it wasn't like that," Victoria cried.

"Daniel displayed no dislike of you and no real wish to marry me.  He
did so simply to save me from such a dreadful fate.  He was so..."

 "Kind and decent' died on her lips.

Absolute proof of her husband's carnality left her unmoved.  It was his
choice of sly-eyed partner that astounded her.  She continued quietly,
"Daniel first suggested we wed as a ploy to bring me home from the
convent. Even then Papa was showing signs of insanity.  He was
unyielding.  Neither my emaciation, my distress nor Daniel's logic moved
him.  In his mind it was settled and sensible.  Either I married his
friend or I returned to Baldock." She sighed.  "It was oddly sensible.
Daniel and I both knew I needed protection from Papa's derangement.
Daniel had sworn never to remarry for true love: that hallowed place in
his heart was reserved for Sarah, his first wife.

But he held me in great affection.  And I was but eighteen and it seemed
you no.  longer wanted me.  "

She was spun about by the shoulders in a steely grip that sent her head
swaying back, exposing an arc of ivory throat.  "Don't ever say that,"
he exploded through barely parted teeth.

But the haunting memories demanded exorcism.  Reflexively, she swiped
out at his face, in a way mentally practised and perfected over seven
years.  A cracking blow caught a lean cheek, angry colour tracing her
handprint.

Retribution was Swift and unexpected.  Tipped off balance, she sprawled
back onto the rug.  Within the same second her mouth was bruised beneath
a punishing kiss and predatory hands were stripping her clothes from her
body before she had dragged in breath enough to protest.

His hot mouth skimmed from hers, steaming against the exposed thrust of
her petite breasts.  The pull of ravening lips on creamy flesh was
fractionally less than rough and had her gasping.  Small hands bunched
into spontaneous fists against his torso.  but refused to defend her.
Slowly they uncurled to lie against ridges of muscle, to clutch, to
slide over and explore the contours of a broad back while her breath
wedged dizzyingly in her throat. She seemed to float in an odd limbo,
awaiting pain or pleasure yet helpless to deny either.

"David...!"  His name finally tore from her in pleading censure as her
bodice was parted and her skirts raised with such practised speed that
she felt virtually naked, yet hadn't shed an item of clothing.

Mild summer air cooled her feverish skin; a grazing palm and long, hard
fingers splaying to torment both breasts scorched back an exquisite
throbbing heat that coursed through her veins like quicksilver.

"Please, David... not like this!"  Even as the words sobbed out against
his neck, her body was arching pliantly into the skilful seduction.

His mouth and hands stilled, clenching, trembling against her body, a
noise of anguish deep in his throat.  Her panting, parted mouth was
covered by his slanting, hot and moist, across it and he tempered his
angry passion with shaking, rigid discipline until he was kissing her
with a sensual sweetness. Rolling onto his back, he held her fast to his
chest, burying tortured features in tumbling ebony hair.  "God, I'm
sorry, Vicky.  I'm so sorry for everything," he choked.

Soothing fingertips swirled softly against the inflamed satin skin of
her back where her dress was lost.  On sensing her relaxing, snuggling
into him, he rasped,

"If I'd known how you suffered then" how you wanted me, I would never
have gone away.  I would have come for you penniless," he stressed
hoarsely against her cheek.

"I would have killed anyone who tried to stop me... and that includes
your father and Daniel Hart.  I was hurting too.  When I returned from
abroad, I believed you'd simply bowed to your father's wishes and easily
forgotten me. I thought that you considered me a wastrel.  I was in
black despair.  I felt like death.  I tried to find it when they
welcomed me back into the army.

But for Dickie and his crazy, selfless vigilance--he was always too damn
close--no doubt I would never have survived to take up my birthright
when Michael died.  I never wanted it.  But reinstating the Courtenay
estates and wealth seemed a punishing task.  So I came home.  "

His voice softened in wonderment and self-perception.  "Everything I've
striven for, the whole grand show of property and wealth, was for your
benefit.  To flaunt at you what sort of wastrel you'd turned down."

She ground her face comfortingly against him.

"I missed you so much, David.  My grief frightened Daniel... he just
didn't know how to console me."

She was immediately enfolded heart-stoppingly close.  "Neither of us has
anything with which to reproach the other," he said earnestly, urgently.

"We survived all the horror because fate decreed that this be our time..
our destiny.  It's best we don't talk of it.  Nothing can be gained by
dwelling on the past and what can't be changed."

Ignoring his own counsel within seconds, David gritted, "God!  When I
think ... had those letters been delivered, we could have been married
seven years! We might now have had our own family about us...!"

"I must have misdirected them.  Anyway, you said you didn't want a
family," was achingly whispered into his shoulder.

The recollection of that antagonistic afternoon elicited a wry, unseen
smile.

"I was smarting that afternoon, too, Vicky.-from the moment you made it
clear you didn't want me to make love to you.  I would have married you
within the hour, you know, but for wounded pride.  And I've always
wanted our children, although it's true I've never wanted an heir for
the Courtenays. But then I'm not a Courtenay.  I'm actually a bastard,
and that makes me feel better."

He stopped her shocked gasp with his lips.

Sitting up with her, he casually smoothed down her skirts and neatened
her gaping bodice, talking to her to distract her from her fiery
embarrassment.

"My choice is your lilac dress."  His nimble fingers fastened small
pearl buttons.

She looked enquiringly at him.

"You asked me yesterday what you should wear to marry.  I'd like you to
wear that silk dress."  He grazed his lips lightly on hers.

"There's no time for a wedding gown, I'm afraid.  I've no intention of
delaying for a team of seamstresses to perfect their art."

He gave her face a last lingering caress and was on his feet in a lithe
second and strolling to gaze out over the lake.

After a few moments spent tidying together the bits and pieces of their
picnic, Victoria joined him and slipped a hand into his, clasped behind
his back.

"I should like my friend Laura to be my matron of honour.  Who will act
as your groomsman?"

"Dickie's visiting his parents in Bath.  I'll ask Sir Peter and hope
he'll be agreeable."  His thumb idly fondled the soft palm cupping his.

"I shall need to return to London before we wed.  There are various
matters..."

"I don't want you to go back there," Victoria countered fiercely, making
him slant a frowning look at her.

"And I don't want us to live there.  I want to live here at Hartfield.
I'll give you Hartfield as a wedding gift," she decided, solemn and
gracious, 'so you won't ever feel beholden to me for providing our home.
"

"I don't mind feeling beholden to you, sweetheart," he said gently.

"But I'll be damned before I'll be beholden to your first husband, no
matter how well the man treated you.  If you don't want Beauchamp Place
or Hawkesmere, I'll build a new estate in Hertfordshire.

Reasonably close by so you'll be able to visit your family at Hartfield.
I did promise to maintain it," he reminded her with a rueful smile.

"But for us I intend a home exclusively ours."

It was a velvet-voiced promise coupled with a searing look.  Her breasts
reflexively swelled, tingled; the memory of recent bitter-sweet passion,
of her semi-nudity, of her longing for more made her blush and stutter,
"Hawk... Hawkesmere?  How could we live there?  You no longer own it."

"I never said that, Vicky," he mildly contradicted her.

"It was seized by the bank against unpaid debts.  But I bought it back
about four years ago.  I don't know why for I rarely use it.  Possibly
that's simply to avoid setting eyes on my strumpet mother.  I've let her
back into the dower house."

His satirical remark was overlooked.

"You let me offer you Hartfield for hunting and shooting when... when
you had that vast Berkshire estate at your disposal?  You could hunt
there with scores of people if you wished!"

"Bi4 I don't wish.  I've no happy memories of the place.  In four years
I've hosted no more than a half-dozen routs.  No doubt the wildlife is
now as abundant at that accursed pile as it is here."

"I ... I should like to meet your mother, David."

"No."

"Why do you hate her so?  You allow her to stay at your home, at your
expense, yet you make no secret of despising her.  That shouldn't be:
she is your mama, after all.  I'm sure she cares for you... in her own
way."

A grim laugh preceded,

"She certainly introduced Dickie to some of her own ways during school
holidays when he came to stay.  I once stumbled across them... quite
literally... in a barn.  By then, I understood the

"Courtenay Courtesan" well enough: a strapping blond fifteen-year-old
stood no chance of eluding her rapacious clutches.  I thrashed him
anyway.  Fifteen years on I still feel guiltier about the beating I gave
him that hot August afternoon than I do about rarely visiting my one
surviving parent.

"Oh, the Duke of Hawthorne died last year in his seventy-first year.

He has a widow and legitimate heirs who are either ignorant of my
connection or choose to be.  But I accept now that he was genuinely fond
of me: he bequeathed me some touchingly personal mementoes.  He was a
kind and decent man, Vicky," he said, with a wry smile at the horizon.
His voice became husky with emotion he no longer strove to conceal.

"With his money and faith and my tireless ambition I showed us both that
I could be a nobleman's son as well as a harlot's."

After barely a moment's heady silence, he had regained his ironic
impartiality.

"So... we're back to my dear mama.  My Berkshire neighbours describe her
as a virtual recluse.  She'll no doubt survive another score or more."

Victoria's slender hands comfortingly squeezed his.  She chanced a
glance up at his impassive profile.

"After we are married, I shall meet your mother, David," she announced
firmly.

He strode abruptly away from the sun-glinting lake, forcing her, hand
imprisoned in his, to skip and trot after him back to their lunch.

With David carrying the picnic things, they started wading back, through
long, clinging grass, towards Hartfield.

"I'm not discussing it further," was his tardy, autocratic ruling.

Anticipating her pique, he deftly deflected it.

"Why don't you want me to go back to London?"

Unwilling to voice jealous suspicions that he might allow himself to be
waylaid in Cheapside, and, furthermore, irked that he wanted confirmed
what she was sure he already knew, she remained stubbornly silent and
turned to gaze over the undulating verdant landscape that comprised
Hart- field's acres.

"Are you worried Petronella might come back?"

Victoria gave a brief nod; it was the truth, after all, if not her prime
motive for wanting him to stay in Hertford- shire.

"You won't have to deal with her, Vicky.  I'll see to the scheming..."

His abuse tailed off into a smile.

"Daniel Hart left her nothing but outstanding debts... she's only out
for dibs.  I'll deal with her."

"I think that's what she's hoping..  that you will deal with her,"

Victoria muttered caustically.

"You have to trust me now, Vicky," he said quietly, making Victoria
marvel at his acute hearing.  or perceptiveness.

"You told me once a husband should have his wife's respect and I want
yours. I want your trust and your respect, just as you have mine."

"Will you be visiting Cheapside when you go back?"  spilled out
helplessly.

"Have you a message for Emma you want me to deliver?"  He blandly met
her question with one of his own.

Victoria dug a forceful heel into the springy turf and swished to glare.
to accuse him of being deliberately flippant.

He meandered on alone a few paces before pivoting and continuing
backwards. Well aware of her seething indignation and its source, he
halted.

"Well, have you?  I've no other need to visit that part of town.  Since
you went to London looking for me the only time I've been to Cheapside
is to visit you at the Worthingtons'."

She slowly approached him, storm-grey eyes scanning his face for deceit.

"Where else have you been, then?"  she burst out audaciously.

"Nowhere."

Her darting, doubtful eyes prompted some self-mockery.  "I've told you,
Vicky, you're ridiculously civilising.  Ridiculously satisfying, too,"
he allowed with a wry smile.  "You're all I want.  Retiring from London
to live a sedate country life with you is actually wonderfully
appealing."  He transferred the wicker basket and a liberated arm pulled
her close.

"In that case," Victoria said contentedly, hugging into him,

"I would like you to take a letter to Emma; although if I know Emma she
may not be as surprised as she ought to be at our news."

"There's something about Miss Worthington's acerbic wit that Dickie
finds fascinating.  It's as well they're not to attend our wedding.  It
might not be the quiet, dignified affair I'm hoping for."

"There will be gossip of our unseemly haste, you know," Victoria
mentioned on a sigh.

"We will scandalise society by marrying so soon after Daniel's death."

"Scandalising society is what I do best, sweetheart," David replied
drily.

"Society expects no less of me.  In fact..."  he adopted a contemplative
look 'perhaps we ought to really flout protocol by waiting the customary
year to wed .  by which time you'll be well on the way to producing our
first-born.  "

"David!"  Victoria shrieked, giving his arm a spontaneous slap.

"Actually, it's not inconceivable, Vicky.  If it's what you want, I'll
pander to etiquette and postpone the wedding... but the wedding night
goes ahead as planned on Saturday

"You just wouldn't dare..."  she primly provoked him.

"Invite me to stay here tonight," he challenged softly.

She tilted her rosy face to his, about to bluff, but the words died on
her lips.  Their eyes merged, strained and her heart fluttered crazily
behind her ribs.  It was all she could do to shield her confusion with
his shoulder.

"Well, really...!"  she muttered, with an outraged laugh.

"Come, be fair, sweet," he gently mocked.

"It's been seven years..."

"You may kiss your bride.."  Jonathan Woodbridge announced, beaming over
knobbly knuckles.

Victoria turned a blissful, radiant countenance up to her husband's and
thought she had never seen him look more heart- stoppingly handsome.  or
youthful.  Languid cynicism was nowhere to be seen.

With unabashed adoration and pride in brilliant blue eyes, David
inclined towards her and a reserved peck threatened to become
embarrassingly more.  On hearing her aunt's delighted squeal, Victoria
gripped at his charcoal velvet sleeve.

"Please don't," she whispered against his warm, sensual mouth.

"I do believe Aunt Matilda might start to clap!"

The newly-weds turned to the congregation.  Victoria's shining eyes
swept over the few friends and neighbours who had managed to attend at
such short notice.  They settled on her papa, dressed in his finest and
dozing on the wooden pew, a black furry coil by each of his feet.

"Oh, I told him to leave the pups outside," she whispered to her husband
on a giggle.

They made their leisurely way from the chapel, passing an abundance of
stone urns frothing with scented summer flowers.  Drawing level with
Hartfield's servants, Victoria bestowed on them an exclusive, fond
smile.  Samuel beamed back, Edith nodded sagely to herself, and Beryl
and Sally, as one, dipped heads, dabbed eyes then clung to each other's
arms.

On stepping from the sun-gilded chapel vestibule into balmy June air,
rice and petals suddenly showered down, making the newly-weds duck and
share a smile.  Villagers whooped and cheered, laughing children
skipping forward to shyly scatter painstakingly collected fragrant
posies onto dry earth.

As soon as word had spread of Mrs Hart's nuptials, and the eminence of
her prospective bridegroom, plans to honour the occasion had begun.

The consensus of opinion about Ashdowne was that there was none more
deserving of such marvelous good fortune.

Most local families had at one time benefitted from her generosity.

Tenants' hardships were never ignored by the young mistress: a bushel of
apples, a churn of milk, a plump hen brought along by Samuel Prescott
when none was to he had at home.

Yet no one sought to take advantage of her humanity despite knowledge of
her forbearance on late rents.  Or perhaps because of it.  Her
philanthropy was too precious to be tested and each knew his neighbour's
wrath would be lethal should her sympathies be withdrawn because of
calumny.  For fair she might be, fool she certainly was not.

During the late master's sickness it had become common knowledge that
Hartfield would founder were it not for the canny thrift and
selflessness of the young mistress up at the big house.

As a widow, her threatening financial ruin had prompted many a villager
to sadly ponder when government by an assuredly less caring landlord
would begin.  Yet even thus burdened, the lady was charitable.  Lace had
been sent by Mrs Hart only last month to prettify the Harvey girl's
dimity bridal gown. And fine it looked too, despite many a respectable
matron reckoning it better employed trimming the layette as it never
could trim that swollen belly.

Sheila Harvey waddled forward, one sturdy hand mid- back, the other
strewing lilac by the churchyard gate.

Labourers ranged against the dry stone wall lobbed saucy advice over
their wives' chatter.  The urbane groom received these helpful tips with
a suppressed smile and a gracious dip of his gleaming chestnut head.

Gay, gregarious guests began trailing the shingle path towards the
house, yet Victoria hesitated.  She was put oddly in mind of a sombre
procession some months ago.  No sun or joy was to he had during that
hard march back to Hartfield.

Tapered white fingers touched her dewy spray of pastel roses laced with
fern. Appealing eyes rose to her husband's face as her arm slipped from
his.  He glanced towards the headstones, then a small smile accompanied
an indulgent, sanctioning nod.

David turned away to Sir Peter's congratulatory handshake and
back-slapping and his wife Laura's delicate peck, while his new bride
gently laid her wedding bouquet on her dead husband's grave.

Squinting hazel eyes watched the poignant gesture.  A puckered brow
furrowed further and a rough hand raked through unkempt brown hair
before swiping a bristly chin.  The stranger's eyes were held by the
dainty figure in lilac silk and the tall, distinguished man who watched
her so proprietorially.  The couple commenced walking with their guests
towards the big house in the distance and his hazel eyes were with them
every step.  As conversation and laughter wafting back on a balmy breeze
became ever more muted, the man stepped from behind the shielding oak.
Skirting trees and bushes for cover, he ran in the same direction as the
wedding party.

"I believe this to be as unconventional a marriage as ever could be,
sir," Victoria solemnly judged, then concealed her impish smile with a
sip of wine.

"I assure you, my dear, this alliance will be anything but..."  David
softly countered, helplessly rising to the bait.

"A viscount married to an impoverished widow, a wedding breakfast served
on the lawn, all levels of society mingling and dancing until dusk,
boisterous village children frolicking with two madcap black puppies...
Not to mention the bride's father a-snooze in a chair under the
influence of a summer moon, or her aunt a-snooze under the influence of
barley wine..."  Victoria tutted at the catalogue of chaos yet had never
felt more serenely happy as she surveyed her tenants, her servants and
legitimate guests celebrating their marriage.  It seemed as though every
local family had come to bless them and had thus been casually invited
to partake of a little refreshment before departing.  Only none had gone
away.

Musicians and a superb feast had been supplied by the proprietor of the
Swan tavern--who also had been reluctant to return to his posting house.

Edith's ruffled feathers had soon been smoothed when Victoria had
explained that, far from doubting her ability to provide an equal
buffet, David and she wished all the servants to have a holiday on the
occasion of their mis- tress's wedding.

Long, firm fingers covered Victoria's soft, slender ones resting lightly
on the banquet table.

"Would you like to dance again?"

She slid him a smiling negative look.  Lacing her fingers round his, she
abruptly raised their joined hands, declining Laura's mute invitation
for them to join in the Barley Mow with her and Squire Lennox.  Edith
grabbed Samuel's brawny forearms where his shirt-sleeves had been flung
back, urging him to partner her in the set.

"Would the Duke of Hawthorne have liked to see his noble son married
amid such happy disarray?"  she mused, not wholly mocking.

"He would have liked to see me so happy," David mildly remarked, 'or I
knew him, after all, not at all.  " He looked at her with heavy-lidded
black eyes and smiled as he watched his sensual scrutiny stripping her
of mischief.  A sweet self-consciousness stung colour into her porcelain
complexion and silky, dusky lashes fanned the sudden shyness in her
eyes.

"Now... how to get some peace and quiet, for the hour is getting
late..."

David gently broached the subject and watched her fine- boned face
positively glow.  But she raised limpid eyes to his and gave her answer
with a diffident smile and the single word,

"Yes."

A large hand cupped one side of her fiery complexion, his thumb
smoothing a cheekbone, his fingers shaking slightly as the strength of
his love and need became enervating.  He was about to speak when
something glimpsed at the corner of his eye caused him to frown.

If the man was too timid to join in with the others, why didn't he
simply take himself off instead of lurking about in the bushes?  If he
was up to no good, he would be well advised to conceal himself
professionally.  He made a mental note to find Bennett and get him to
check him out.

Glancing away, sapphire eyes were drawn to a beautiful, demure profile
and all thoughts of a stranger's odd antics were lost.

Anticipation of his wedding night rampaged through his mind, battering
his body into a state of throbbing urgency, no matter how hard he tried
to impose further patience and distraction.  David guessed it to be
close to ten of the clock and he wanted Victoria to himself.  His whole
being felt riddled with an inflexible tension.

With a subtle, pre-arranged signal to his groomsman.  Sir Peter and
Laura Grayson were soon courteously carrying out their duties.  Within
moments the first of the revellers came to congratulate the blushing
bride and graciously patient groom before departing merrily across the
fields.

"Of course they can accompany you.  Papa," Victoria reassured her
father.

"See, Samuel already has them safely on leads."

Charles Lorrimer's weary sigh of contentment preceded his finally
allowing his son-in-law to help him into Sir Peter's coach.  Samuel
followed with two exhausted, panting puppies, one beneath each strong
arm, leads dangling superfluously from velvety throats.

Matilda approached her niece unsteadily.  Her face looked wine-blotchy
even with moonlight maquillage.  Dabbing at her eyes, she hugged
Victoria and then unceremoniously crushed her new nephew to her bosom
too.  Once aboard the coach with the others, a discreet yet determined
hand-flick from the bridegroom had the conveyance, at last, swaying
away.

At Sir Peter's insistence, and with David's blessing and eternal
gratitude, just a skeleton staff were to stay at Hart- field while the
rest of the household sojourned at Sir Peter's residence until
Wednesday.

With a firm arm about Victoria's shoulders David turned them towards the
house, mentally noting that he owed the master of Willowthorpe a great
favour.

"Would you like some wine, Vicky?"  David asked in a strangely formal
tone.

She glanced over at him, from where she was relaxing into the
drawing-room sofa, and as the decanter chimed discordantly against a
glass she realised he was, unbelievably, in need of reassurance that she
was ready to retire.  His touching restraint subdued a natural nervous
anticipation of her first night spent as a proper wife.  With a private
smile, she rose to slip a comforting arm through his, hugging into his
side.

"No, thank you.  I'm a little tired.  It's been a hectic... exciting...
perfect day.  But now I want to go to bed," she murmured, laying her
face against his charcoal velvet sleeve to conceal the blood suffusing
her face.

David's eyes closed and he said on a groaning laugh, The too.  " He
abruptly abandoned the glass and decanter and pulled her around in front
of him.  As she tilted her face to his, sapphire eyes adored every
plane, every hollow, her complexion's usual alabaster tone peachy in the
candlelight.

"Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?"  he asked hoarsely.

"Several times."  She subtly thanked him with a dip of burnished ebony
curls and a whimsical lowering of dusky lashes.

"You look rather ravishing yourself," she murmured, her soft mouth
slowly curving and ten fingers sweeping over the luxurious pile on his
dark velvet sleeves.  A solitary digit flicked through the ruffles on
his snowy shirt. It trailed up an amethyst silk cravat to absently
polish a candle-sparking diamond.

"Thank you for making today so marvelous: for allowing the local people
to stay awhile and celebrate with us.  I... I admit I wasn't expecting
you to. I thought you might be annoyed so many came and wish to limit
the celebration to those few formally invited.  I had no idea the
villagers would find out so quickly or stay so long."

"Is that what you thought?"  he asked softly.

"That I would deny your tenants paying wedding-day homage to the finest
lady in the land?

Adam Holdbrook told me they so style you.  And also that you've
tolerated his rent arrears.  It's quite a sum.  Had you attempted to
call in that debt before travelling to Hammersmith last week?  "

"No," Victoria said simply.  As she watched pride and love and desire
fire his eyes to brilliance, she added lightly, "Something in me always
trusts your integrity.  Even when I'm defenceless or I hear scandalous
gossip I can't extinguish the faith that you are an honourable man. I've
kept and cherished that faith for seven years.  Had I ever truly
believed you would mistreat me, I should never have journeyed to
Hammersmith.  I just knew you'd rescue me, David I just knew it."  She
went onto tiptoe and soft lips caressed a hard cheek.

"You're your father's son.  My trusty hero... my one love... my kind and
decent man."

Chapter Fourteen.

\ is countess Courtenay turned her lovely face to the heavens and
admired the stars bejewelling a lapis lazuli sky.  So many and so
bright.  as though each one had buffed up for her perfect day.

And so it had been.  From the minute of her early morning rising,
through the fuss and excitement of her maids and Matilda dressing her
and getting her to the chapel, to waving the last of her guests on their
way home, everything had been idyllic.  And now.  A slender hand trailed
her throat at the thought of her husband's imminent arrival in her
chamber.  in their chamber, she corrected herself with a small smile.
The yearning for him to come to her made her eyelids droop and caused
her to sway dreamily.

As she glanced down at her skimpy negligee a sudden twinge of modesty
made her don her more substantial cotton wrap over the froth of snowy
satin and lace.

This morning Matilda had miraculously produced this gossamer scrap with
an elaborate flourish.  A blush had then rejuvenated her wrinkled cheeks
as Victoria had raised amused brows, tacitly enquiring as to its
provenance.

With a swing of loose, silky black hair she turned daintily from the
velvet-skied panorama at the very same moment that a male voice
whispered urgently,

"Victoria!"

An indrawn rush of breath signalled a reflexive scream.

"Don't s-scream!  For God's s-sake don't s-scream.  You'll get me
killed..." The muffled moan was in an eerily familiar voice.

"Justin...?"  exploded from Victoria in a murmur of disbelief.

He stepped close to the guttering candle by the bed so she could
properly see him.  Not that she would have recognised him, even in
daylight.  She would have passed her cousin in the street without a
second glance.  It was his slight speech impediment which reintroduced
him after eleven years' absence.

"Justin...?"  she again queried croakily as an air of sur- reality took
hold and she glided closer to him.

"Why on earth didn't you send word you would be coming?  Why are you
creeping about?  Where in God's name have you been for so long?"

"I look awful, I know," he gruffly, obliquely volunteered.  His fingers
raked his tousled hair as he anticipated her distaste at his
dishevelment.

"I had to c-come and tell you, and today in c-case he finds out.  God
only knows what he'll do to me.  I thought if I came and told you ...
you m-might be able to b-break it to him g-gently.  But I'm to b-blame
and I'd b'better own up."  He grunted a noise hinting at guffaw and
groan.

"I've heard he's un for-forgiving to those that cross him... and a crack
shot and nifty with a b-blade, too, and he's s-sparred with Ajax..."

Victoria sped towards him then and shook him into silence.  She squinted
up into his forlorn face, noting the lines of maturity and worry scored
around his mouth and the deep furrows tracking his forehead.  But his
hazel eyes and matted, mousy hair were achingly familiar and further
interrogation died on her lips.  She hugged him round the neck.

"I imagined you dead and felt guilty for doing so.  Aunt Matilda always
believed you simply at sea and that you would one day return... Oh, no!
You have just missed her... She has only just departed for
Willowthorpe..." Victoria cried in anguish.

"Thank God!"  Justin declared with such guttural vehemence, Victoria
stepped back to stare at him.

"Have you been at sea?"

Justin looked about miserably before nodding.

"I ran off.  I c-couldn't see Mama s-scrimp and s-scrape to buy me a
c-commission.  I decided to s-start at the b-bottom."  He twisted a
smile at his rapt-faced cousin.

"And how did you do?"  she whispered.

"A commission would have been easier," he said with fluent irony, and
turned away to stare out of the window.

Because, even with this astonishing him of events, she couldn't put her
husband from her mind for more than a few seconds at a time, Victoria
bubbled,

"Come, I have someone wonderful I want you to meet.

Today I was married to a most fine gentleman and I love him so much.  "

Replete with sudden overwhelming joy and gratitude at this marvelous
addition to her previously perfect day, she turned in the doorway,
embraced him again and said,

"Oh, I can't tell you how glad I am you're here."

"Try telling me instead, my dear," invited a coldly ironic voice.

Frowning at the disturbing edge to her husband's voice, Victoria
nevertheless greeted him with soft pleasure.

"Oh, there you are, David.  We were just coming to find you."

"Indeed?"

One silky, single word, yet it erased Victoria's smile.

"I know how bizarre this must look, David, but--' " On the contrary, my
dear--' he sliced through her explanatory preamble '--it's the sort of
scenario I'm well used to.  I was reared watching grubby strangers
sidling from Hawkesmere's bedrooms.  "

David's glittering blue gaze flicked back to Justin, noting his nervous
twitching and his eyes darting about for escape routes.  The mangy
little weasel looked and acted guilty as hell.  And his wife looked.  so
beautiful and innocent and utterly desirable that he felt the heat and
tension suddenly shift from his torso to his loins.

Clenched fists shoved into his pockets to try and disguise his
discomfort. and impede their use on this stranger who was.  who was
what?  Intending to cuckold him?  Was that what he really believed?

/ want your trust and respect, just as you have mine.  The words
hauntingly mocked him.  He'd told Victoria that mere days ago, while
rambling through a halcyon meadow.  He suddenly felt every kind of
idiotic, jealous fool for allowing insidious childhood memories to make
him ever suspect that this unsavoury-looking specimen might be a
love-lom beau.  Perhaps he was a bashful tenant with no sense of
protocol.  Or perhaps, if he asked, he might damn well find out.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Victoria?"  His tone was cool and
controlled and vastly at odds with the blistering blue gaze wandering
her slender, night-robed body, causing her to blush.

"Yes, yes, of course," she agreed in breathy confusion.  "My cousin,
Justin Sweeting, has arrived.  He is Matilda's son, and she has departed
for Willowthorpe without realising him here.  She will be beyond upset
to have missed him."

"Indeed, she will," David endorsed, all smooth sympathy.  "I myself am
beyond upset... that he didn't accompany her.  But no doubt he has some
perfectly reasonable explanation for secreting himself in your room
rather than make his presence known to me."  A deal of the scorn was
directed at himself: he'd forgotten to get Bennett to accost the
interloper earlier in the evening. Had he done so, none of this damnable
lunacy would have come about.  The irony choked a harsh laugh in his
throat.

The chilling sound transformed Justin's uneasiness into real
apprehension: the belated realisation hit home that stealing into
Victoria's room for a private tete-a-tete had been hideously
ill-conceived.  He commenced a surreptitious slink along the corridor
wall, intending to put as much distance as possible between himself and
the frustrated bridegroom.  Two brown hands stuck out, shaking, in front
of him.

"L-listen t-to m-me.  I--I'm s-s-sorry.  I--I cc-can explain," he
stuttered helplessly.

"I hope I can take your word for that," David drawled as he approached
Victoria.  A firm arm about her slender shoulders immediately drew her
close. He felt her light tremor and then the pressure of her innocently
tantalising body seeking warmth and comfort from his.  An involuntary
groan made his wife tilt her face up to his with sweet concern, and his
other arm enclosed her too.  They shared a private smile before his
narrow-eyed attention sliced over her glossy, dark head at yet another
of her vexing relatives.

"Perhaps we should all remove to the parlour and you can let me know
what major catastrophe forced you to skulk in my wife's bedroom."

As Justin scuttled past David towards the stairs, Victoria tightened her
fingers about her husband's broad palm and made immediately to follow.

The rather lengthy lapse which kept Justin kicking his heels in the
hallway, awaiting the arrival of the newlyweds, went unremarked upon.

The rather hectic flush enhancing his cousin's beautiful face went,
intentionally, unobserved.  Justin stared determinedly along the shadowy
corridor.  Then, on David's brusque instruction, he meekly entered the
nearest room.

"I ... I'd s-sooner s-speak to Vicky alone, my 1-lord," Jus n tin
pleaded as he perched, fidgeting, on a fireside chair in the small
parlour.

"I-it after all c-concerns her late h-husband's affairs."

"Which are now mine."  David slickly denied him.  Whipping a high-backed
chair from the breakfast table, he spun it about and seated himself
astride it.

"I'm all yours, " he dulcetly drawled, euphemistically challenging his
dismayed cousin-in-law to give him one good reason why he shouldn't
knock his teeth down his throat.

A frantic, hangdog look arrowed Victoria's way.  A helpless shrug met
his entreaty; but she smiled encouragingly for him to begin as she
settled in a chair opposite him by the hearth.

Justin raked back a tangle of mousy corkscrews from his brow.  He stared
into rusty-black embers flaking ash into the grate.  He squinted at the
candles, guttering in their sockets on the mantel.  He tried to whizz
his eyes past glittering arctic-blue shards that pinned him to his
chair.  but his flying gaze was caught and held fast.

Dark brows languidly rose in a deliberate display of impatience.

"I stole the money collected for the insurance premium on the dockside
warehouse," streamed out perfectly pronounced.

Victoria simply frowned and then, as comprehension dawned, she jerked
forward to the edge of her seat, mirroring her cousin's pose.

"You stole the insurance premium that would have compensated for
Daniel's goods destroyed in the fire?"

Justin wobbled his head up and down.

"I--I s-swear I never knew your h-husband had a s-stake in the d-depot.
I--I was out of c-credit.  So I g-gambled a b-bit b-but landed even
d-deeper in Queer S-street.

I--I s-secured a position with a shipping c-clerk.  The p-policy renewal
was my duty, and the f-fifty guineas was so t-tempting.  It was only
m-meant to be a little 1-loan until the b-bully boys were off my b-back.
I just never got a ch-chance to pay it b-back in time.  The f-fire.  "
He swung his head wretchedly.

"I've b-been in hiding s-since M-March."

Victoria's appalled gaze flew to David; but his expression seemed no
different now than it had been before he'd learned he had discharged
over forty thousand pounds of her debts because of her cousin's fraud.
He settled backwards on the dining chair, rested his hands on its back
and perused them thoughtfully.

Justin's hazel eyes sheepishly strayed to Victoria.  "S-Sorry, Vicky,"

he mumbled.

"I'll p-pay b-back..."  He fell silent, gesturing despair.

A sardonic blue gaze bored into the side of Justin's head.  "How many
centuries do you intend to survive?"  The derision contained more than a
hint of genuine humour.

Fighting to surface through a quagmire of numbing shock, Victoria
finally forced out,

"Have you any idea.  Jus- tin, exactly how much that theft of fifty
guineas devastated us?  How vulnerable we all were?  The cost of it
all...?"

A grimy, grimacing face dropped into shielding hands.  "I don't think I
want to know.  It must have been a g-good few th- thousands, I'll
warrant."

"Try forty..."  A mocking smile acknowledged Justin's immediately
revealed expression of profound horror.  David's blue gaze skimmed on
towards Victoria, but her pallid, heart-shaped face was averted
immediately, allowing their eyes to barely graze.

"How much did it cost you, Vicky?"  he demanded softly.  "More than
money? More than Hartfield?  More than you're truly willing to give?"

"No!"  she cried, swinging to face him in a ripple of ebony silk.

"No, of course not!  I'm just so sorry that you... that you paid so
much... so generously... for what was, after all, a disaster of my own
family's making."  Small white teeth clamped on her unsteady bottom lip
while she sought more words to express her chagrin.  Instead of uttering
them she, and the parlour's other two occupants, stared at the door as,
impossibly, Matilda's voice became audible amid clacking footsteps.

With a curse and a gesture of sheer exasperation and disbelief David
flung aside his chair and was, within a moment, in the hall.

"Ah ... you are still up," Matilda greeted him.  Then, with a discreet
cough, she added,

"I imagined you might have already retired."

The too.  " David said with such arrant sarcasm in his tone and smile
that Matilda stared at him, slack-mouthed.

"Is Vicky there?"  she finally enquired, recovering composure and
peering past his obstructing muscular breadth into the lighted parlour.

"Her papa is being the most tiresome creature imaginable."

Matilda swept past him and into the room.  She peeled off leather gloves
which were then tossed theatrically onto the polished mahogany breakfast
table.

"He's forgotten his spectacles," she announced.

"It matters not that he'll not read nor see anything much till daylight;
he wants them .  now and no other time will do.  Samuel is having a
devil of a job trying to restrain him at Willowthorpe.  Determined to
march back in the dark, he was, to fetch them, if you please, and walk
those infernal mongrels with him."

"They're thoroughbreds..."  David neutrally imparted from his stance by
the doorway.  He leaned back against the frame, seeming quite nonchalant
with his long, black- clad legs casually braced and his arms crossed
over the pristine ruffles of his shirt.  He threw his head back and his
hands shoved into his pockets for a brief instant.

They withdrew almost immediately and one began idly loosening his silk
cravat, while the other eased the knot between his eyes.

It was that quiet, telling gesture that at last jolted Victoria from her
trance, to quickly offer,

"I'll fetch them.  They're probably hidden in the side of his armchair."
She glided towards the door, her mind dominated by the chaos she knew
her father was capable of wreaking.  And Sir Peter and Laura had so
kindly, so considerately offered him their hospitality.  In a way she
wished he had returned with Matilda, then she could, as usual, have
taken the brunt of his choler on herself.

As she drew level with David he caught her wrist, preventing her
leaving. The mingling of bleak humour, murder and tenderness in his eyes
made her disregard all propriety, all duty.  She swayed against him,
muffling a sob with his shoulder.

Soothing fingers threaded through her hair, lovingly cradling her
against him.

Matilda watched them fondly.  A little wedding-night tantrum never hurt
any new bride, was her sage thinking, and she felt it prudent to let
them in on that.  She would have added to her nuptial wisdom but a
movement by the fire caught her eye and had her curiously approaching,
candelabra aloft.

She squinted down at her prodigal son, who in turn did his best to
conceal his identity by wearily hanging his head.

"Justin!"  she screeched, plonking down the candles on the mantel so
swiftly that the flames elongated almost to extinction.

"What do you mean by arriving unannounced?  You've missed the best of
the day.  We had a feast... dancing, and now you come when there's
nothing left to do but retire for the night."

Lifting a tangled lock of hair from his eyes, she waggled it about.

"Were you beset by highwaymen?  Is that why you look like the cat
dragged you in?  Is that why you're too late for the celebrations?  And
how did you find out about the wedding, in any case?  It's all been so
rushed and hushed. Well, no matter.  It was very clever of you."  She
twisted about to share her maternal pride with the newlyweds before
recommencing her interrogation.

"Well, did you follow your papa's salty steps into the navy?  I guessed
you had that brine-lust rampaging in your veins too, and couldn't wait
longer. But what you have to bear in mind, Justin, is that it's been
eleven years, and I've been a bit worried..."

Justin suddenly sprang from his chair, making Matilda leap back, and
then the two of them were locked in an embrace which carried them about
twice before they broke free.

"Now come along," Matilda sniffed, all businesslike, pressing her eyes
with her fingers.

"This won't do.  Charles wants his spectacles or he'll bleat the night
through and keep us all from our beds."

Justin trailed after his mother into the hallway, unsure where he was
headed, but certainly glad to be putting distance between himself and
Lord Courtenay.

His mother determined his destination for him.

"You shall sojourn at Willowthorpe with us all, Justin.  How thrilled
dear Laura and Sir Peter will be with this news."  She swished back to
David and Victoria and offered them both a shrivelled cheek.
Satisfactorily saluted, she was, within a moment, heading off towards
the drawing room with Justin in tow, and a cheerful aside that had David
grinding his teeth again.

"Come, do hurry.  Sir Peter's coachman will think I've decided to
overnight here..."

It wasn't until the sound of the great door being slammed echoed through
the building that Victoria stirred.  Disengaging herself, she backed
away, suddenly awkwardly aware of her deshabille.  But her onerous duty
to family members, still undischarged, disturbed her the most.

"Matilda is so pleased to see him."  She quietly broke the heady
silence.

"She would be devastated to discover he had so jeopardised us all..."

"I know."  David watched her intently: her fingers twisting together,
her lowered face, the way she was distancing herself from him.  He
silently cursed as he dropped into the chair Victoria had recently
vacated.

Picking a log from the basket, he sent it into the dying fire a little
too forcefully.  The crash and sputtering blaze drew Victoria's
immediate, startled attention.  And from there it was but a little way
to entrapment by those demanding dark eyes.  Long, lean fingers slowly
extended, inexorably inviting her towards him.

Victoria hesitated, without knowing why she did, and her heart started a
slow, hard hammering.

"Please..."  David coaxed softly.

She went to him at once and slipped a hand on his.  He brushed a thumb
across the platinum wedding band and glistening oval diamond before
catching at her wrist and urging her down.  She sank between his spaced
feet, kneeling in front of him with her loose black hair and the
whiteness of her skin and night robe honeyed by leaping flames.

"Do you want me to apologise?"

"Why?"  Her head tipped back and forlorn grey eyes met warm blue.

"It is I who should apologise, David, for the... the devious behaviour
of one of my own relatives.  And all for fifty guineas!  Forty thousand
pounds for a paltry..."  She quavered into silence, blinking rapidly at
the fire, then whispered,

"I'm so ashamed!"

David's hands fastened about her waist and he abruptly lifted her onto
his lap, settling back into the armchair with her.

"Well, I think I ought to apologise, too," he said with gallant soft
humour.

"You know I was sorely tempted to hit him, don't you?  And just for one
insane moment, when I saw you embrace him by your bedroom door, I
imagined he might be an admirer..."

A slender finger was placed on his lips and she nestled her head against
his shoulder.

"I'm beginning to wish you had hit him.  God knows, he deserves it." She
stared into the fire for a moment then whispered,

"I'm so sorry, David.  He's ruined our perfect day."

David gently turned her face up to his.

"No, he hasn't.  He hasn't ruined our day... or our night.  Initially
you were very pleased to see him.  So that pleases me, and I'm glad I've
met him."

Her lids flicked up, grey eyes searching his face for irony.

"It's true..."  he said with a slow, heart-stopping smile.

"I would have preferred he'd arrived at the appointed hour with the rest
of the guests... but that's families for you, Vicky: they can be the
most tiresome lot."

A fond finger caressed her cheek.

"While we're talking of kith and kin... your father's affliction will
never cure, you know; would that it might.  There's another forty
thousand for such a physician..."  He smiled at her expression, then
added gently,

"But you don't have to cope alone now, sweetheart.  It's my problem
too."

His trailing finger lulled her as she stared solemnly into mellow
flames.

"I'm only just fully appreciating what' you've had to contend with for
years. When Daniel was ill too it must have been quite hellish."  His
lips replaced his finger at her face.

"You're amazing, you know.  You're beautiful, courageous, loyal,
selfless... and that makes me ashamed when I think how easily I've
neglected my own mother.  I've felt no twinge of filial duty.  And
whatever my mother is... or was... I should have."

She twisted on his lap, hugging him about the neck, enveloping him with
soft, rose-perfumed skin and silky black hair.

"You're always so... so... honest, David, and so generous.  And I feel
so lucky to have you.  I don't know how ever we... I can repay you."

"And that's the main reason I must own to feeling ashamed, Vicky," David
said hoarsely.  Gently disengaging himself from her embrace, he cupped
her fragile face with a determined hand, so she was unable to avoid his
penetrating gaze.

"I make you nervous sometimes, don't I?  Frighten you a little?  Even
now, when we're married, you retreat from me."

Her eyes welded to his, watching pain darken the midnight velvet of his
eyes, yet she could not sincerely deny it.

"I'm not blaming you, Vicky," he huskily reassured her.  "I'm begging
forgiveness.  For from the moment you were back in my life and I
realised that, incredibly, I still wanted and loved you there was a
subtle need to punish you.  Not only for seven-year-old wounds but for
new hurts and slights.  I'd believed myself content, yet could no longer
ignore just how sordid and shallow my life was.

"I was loath to admit to such regrets because I was convinced you were
disgusted by me but tolerated me simply out of duty to your family... to
provide financial protection.  I couldn't bear that ... not with you.

I wanted you to love me back.  So I hurt you back in, I imagine, the
self-deluding way of all arrogant, frustrated males--by preying.
controlling.  conquering.

"I'd believed myself invincible; I can brawl, fence, shoot, yet you slew
me that night in Hammersmith.  I'll never forget the sight of you
standing in that room, so proud yet vulnerable, full of courage yet
trembling.  When I got close and saw your eyes huge with rage and
fear... and hurt... I knew I had succeeded... but lost.  Your grief was
so raw, I felt like dying.  For you wouldn't have been so sad if you
hadn't after all cared for me a little..."

Victoria flung her arms back about his neck and her warm tears trickled
between them, dissolving that last subtle barrier.

"Had I not coerced you, you wouldn't now offer to repay me.  And that's
what frightens me, Vicky--that you might still believe there exists
between us some venal contract."

She combed her fingers through his long hair.

"All I give is freely given, David.  No terms, no bargains," she choked
in a voice husky with emotion.

"If your truthfulness ... your generosity... your restraint is depraved
then I want more.  I love your immorality.  I love everything about you.
You suit me perfectly.  You're the most kind and decent man I've known
in my life. She sniffed a little laugh, then said brightly,

"So, you truly don't mind losing all that money?"

"You're my wife ... I accepted your debts when we wed ... of course I
don't mind."  And because he knew the matter needed airing before she
would allow it to be buried, he said lightly,

"Besides, what else would I do with it?  Buy a dress coach and matching
two pair?  Gamble it away at White's?  Install a whore or two each end
of town?"

He stood abruptly with her in his arms, then placed her back on the
chair and sat on the edge of it.  Soothing fingers slid along her jaw to
spear softly into ebony hair and make her look at him.

"You said you loved my honesty," he reminded her wryly, lifting a pale,
slender hand and touching the palm to his lips.

"There's something I have to tell you about that, Vicky... why it's
unimportant and I don't want you to dwell , on any of it.  For it's all
as nothing and long finished.  The fire a man cools in his loins can be
insignificant and separate to what burns in his heart."  Then, on a wry
smile, he added,

"In fact it's almost as though the two parts are destined never to
unite.  At times, I've hoped they might, to fill the emptiness, but..."

"You're lonely?"  A husky catch to her voice displayed her poignant
concern.

His mouth trailed a lingering reward across her upturned face.

"Not now.  Now I've got you.  But, excepting Dickie, I've remained
unattached most of my life.  Apart from a blissful six-month interlude
seven years ago, that is, when I first felt that heat in my chest and
discovered it to be infinitely sweeter than any harlot's artifice."

She moved a small hand to rest it against his breast, the pounding
rhythm beneath it quivering her fingers, then angled back her face to
look into his velvet eyes.

"And I started that blaze in your heart?"

she demanded softly.

His dark head inclined until he was smiling against her mouth.

"You managed to set two fires at the same time, sweetheart.  Quite a
trick.

Magical," he whispered, and their laughter dissolved in a kiss.

Chapter Fifteen.

 Look at me, Victoria.  "

Silky, dusky lashes fanned his cheek as she did his bidding.

"What's the matter?"  David murmured as coal-black eyes probed hers.

"Are you nervous?"  he asked gently on a feather-light kiss.

"No."  She smiled brightly up at him, her hands sweeping up satin-coated
muscle to rest lightly on his shoulders.

That's a lie!  she wailed inwardly.  Tell him what bothers you.  But she
couldn't!  Everything was now so right between them.  She couldn't bear
it if he again deemed her childish.

Yet the more she reasoned it irrational, the more anxious she became.

The contours of her husband's firmly muscled naked torso braced, barely
touching, yet infinitely purposeful, over her fragile, lace-webbed
nudity both fascinated and alarmed her.

Gentle fingers smoothed her face, sank into thick tresses to cup her
scalp as they had so many times before.  But it was different now.  now
they merely touched as an overture to.  she knew not what.

And therein, she abruptly perceived, lay the heart of the matter.  What
dismayed her was ignorance of what was expected of her.  of her wifely
duty. And duty was something Victoria had never previously found
daunting.

Scarcely half an hour earlier she had revelled in lingering, passionate
kisses by the parlour fire, never wanting them to end.  She wouldn't
even allow him free of her captivating, questing lips when he'd abruptly
stood with her in his arms, twirled them slowly about before the hearth
and carried her upstairs.

Strangely, it was only when he'd courteously left her for a few moments
to prepare for bed that insidious niggles had stirred.  As she'd lain
alone for the final time on cool, crisp sheets, they had begun writhing
in earnest. And now verbena-scented warmth from a male body, along with
a faint, heady fragrance of cigars and alcohol, conspired to increase
her diffidence.

Only a few days ago he had teased her about producing their first-born,
obviously believing she knew how that would be achieved.

She was, after all, twenty-five years old and had lived with a husband,
if not a lover.  David no doubt assumed that she was cognizant with the
theory of conjugal duty, if not the practice.  Yet, with excruciating
embarrassment, she'd realised she had no idea what would happen next.
The sum of her knowledge, gained from adolescent girlish chatter, was
that she would remain a virgin until she had lain naked with a man.

"Will you talk to me for a while?"  She introduced a gaiety into the
suggestion, desperate to gain time to conquer her idiotic insecurities.
And they were idiotic!  She loved him utterly, with all her being, and
trusted he adored her and would thus be patient, and yet.  "Now...?" The
word resonated with rueful query as his eyes flicked to the bed head

"I'm worried Justin might do something silly ... run off again..."
exploded quietly from her.

"Will... will you promise to say nothing to Matilda of his antics?"

"Right now, I'll promise you anything you like, sweetheart."

"It's not a joke, David," Victoria quavered, her dusky head twisting on
the pillow, shooting skeins of black silk to embroider pristine cotton.

Barring forearms and hands stirred beneath its luxuriant weight, long
fingers threading, twining.

"I know he's been foolish and selfish, but to see him gaoled, or
worse..."

"Are you nervous, Vicky?"  His parted lips traced from brow to jaw,
hovering enticingly close to the corner of her mouth.

"And yet he really should not get off too lightly."  She speedily
persevered with her one-sided dialogue, yet her lids drooped in response
to his subtle seduction.

"I won't hurt you, Vicky..."  David vowed softly, a finger trailing a
pearly cheek, and urging her back to face him.  "Have you heard terrible
tales of wedding-night blood and pain?"

Her eyes jerked to his, unblinking and lustrous with alarm.

"No ... I've heard nothing like that.  I've heard nothing at all,"

emerged in a croaky whisper.

"Nothing at all?"  he echoed, with such loving concern in his voice, his
tone was equally gruff.

Interpreting the roughness as disappointment, she cried in raw apology,

"I'm so sorry, David... I know it's childish... I'm twenty-five and
married since eighteen and I should know better.

But.  but there's only ever been you who's made me feel .  like this .
so it's never before bothered me to discover what I must do.  "

Gulping in air, she slid her hands from his shoulders to the sheets.

He retrieved one and a slow thumb smoothed her tapered fingers before
they were raised to his lips.  Unhurriedly he replaced the hand on his
shoulder, then turned his face, sweeping a soft caress along the
sensitive, fine skin of her arm.  But he remained quiet, his protracted
silence instrumental in prompting her to disclose more.

Bathed by his warm, liquid gaze, she continued more placidly, "Matilda
might have told me... for when about thirteen she told me other...
facts... girls should know."  She paused, absently shielding her
blushing face with unsteady fingers.

"But when I married Daniel at eighteen they were such horrible,
traumatic days.  There was no inclination for such talk... and no need.
Although Matilda never knew that.  Daniel and I were respectful of each
other: no mention was ever made of the lack of an intimate side to our
marriage."  She hesitated, frowning up at trie velvet bed canopy, and
moistened her lips with an innocently erotic tongue tip "Daniel would
have explained, had I asked... he was like a parent, a confidant..."

That was all the unburdening David could stand.  With a muttered oath,
she was hauled up onto his lap, her shivering form enclosed within the
solace of his arms.  Leisurely thumbs tracked her satin-sheathed spine,
trailing delicious ripples of, sensation in their wake.

"Please don't talk of him, Vicky.  I'm eternally grateful he cared for
you so well, but even so... I'm jealous he had those seven years.

They were mine.  "

The fears he really wanted to allay were put aside for a moment.

"I said earlier that we'll share the burden of your family; that
includes that fraudster cousin of yours.  I'll do my utmost to keep it
all from Matilda and I'll endeavour to thrash out some sort of deal with
investors if uninsured losses become a problem.  And I definitely won't
let him get off too lightly--even if recompense means he works his
fingers to the bone as a stevedore alongside Toby.

Does that put your mind at rest?  "

She nodded, grazing her smooth brow against his shaven jaw.

"As to what else worries you... there is nothing else to worry you,
Vicky," he murmured with gentle gravity.

"Making love isn't just another onerous duty to be discharged, you know.
It's something wonderful for us to share.  Just as we'll share the not
so wonderful moments," he said, his lips stroking at her hairline.

"And I want you to confide in me... talk to me about whatever troubles
you. Anything at all... even facts girls should know.  It's only fair: I
shall want to confide in you."

After a pause he offered with sweet self-consciousness, "It's only fair,
too, that I tell you a secret as you've told me one.  Can you guess how
long I've loved you?"

"Seven years," was whispered against his abrasive skin.

"No..."  He smiled against her face.

"No ... much longer," he said with an appealing bashfulness.

"I might have been about seven, though, when it started; when I first
vaguely understood that all the raucous carousing in the house was about
sin.  To hide from my parents' disgrace, I'd crawl beneath the bed
covers and in that spectral realm between awake and asleep there was
something magical.  Neither real nor imagined but a flower-scented, soft
darkness that lulled me.

"As I grew older and bolder I thought it all forgotten.  Just a faceless
fairy-tale companion for nursery days.  For that's all it had been, just
an essence... a hint of someone.

"Then one tedious afternoon seven years ago Dickie and I decided that
the staid society at Almack's deserved our irreverent company."  His
voice began to sound as distant as his memories as he recounted,

"I

remember the assembly room that evening being noisy--music and
crowds--and very bright, yet as I turned and saw you I was enveloped in
peaceful darkness and the scent of rose petals.  recognised you straight
away.  "

Victoria withdrew her face from his and dewy pools gazed into his
far-away blue eyes.

"You see how long you've comforted me, Vicky... You can't withdraw now.
I couldn't bear it."

She lovingly emphasised how willingly that comfort was bestowed by
tightening her arms about his chest, laying her face against his
shoulder and rubbing with innate femininity against his torso.

"And as for you knowing nothing of what pleasures we'll share tonight...
tomorrow night... every night, into our dotage," he tenderly teased with
a kiss on her warming cheek as a solid knee slid subtly between hers and
he casually positioned her hips, 'that makes me feel more proud and
humble than I could ever express.  Do you believe that?  "

An ivory brow again swept over his shady square jaw in answer.

"This is new for me too, you know," he said in a voice rich with
sincerity yet harbouring humour.

"I've never made love to anyone in my life either and at nearly
thirty-one I definitely should know better."

Ebony hair caped her alabaster back as Victoria tipped her face up to
his, dark brows winging sceptically, her confidence steadily
strengthening.

"It's true," he stressed, with a boyish smile that flipped her insides.

"There's a world of difference between coupling with a woman and making
love to her."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I don't, of course," he glibly owned.

"I'm hoping now to find out.  To learn about loving... just like you...
just with you."

Victoria's grey eyes locked onto his, searching deep into his soul, and
found nothing other than truth and adoration.  and desire.  Even as she
watched, it was kindling into a blue flame that scorched through her
gauzy nightgown and stirred her to her female core.

"You love my honesty..."  he murmured against her flaring skin as his
lips touched her cheeks, her brow, her fluttering eyelids.

She was barely aware of the whisper of lacy satin on sleek skin as her
nightgown floated away from her body.  A moist throb between her thighs
grew in intensity, trembling her limbs and making her rock against him.

"You like it when I kiss you, don't you?"  he murmured while his warm
mouth skimmed tantalisingly close to her lips.

She nodded against his face, strangely unable to form words, her
breathing was now so shallow.

"Well, we'll start there, with what you like..."  he decided, capturing
her mouth in a drugging, wooing kiss of such infinite mellifluous ness
that Victoria felt she might drown in it.  never again surface.  seek
daylight.

"And we'll see how we go on," he eventually concluded, sheer contentment
in his voice, his smile as her parted lips tracked his.

He watched her vigilantly, rewarding each shy, exploratory touch with
further tender wooing, deftly defeating her inhibition.  His hands shook
with the restraint of caressing so gradually, so lightly, when what he
really wanted was to plunge headlong into her.  make up for seven long,
barren years.  ' Torture.  no penance, he mocked himself, and never was
purgatory so enslaving.  so bewitchingly sweet.  The first unselfish
physical union of his life.  But he serenely accepted that, unto death,
the die was cast; he was about to prove to them both he never lied.

Epilogue 1 hank you, Samuel.  Has Mr Beresford gone?  "

"Yes, ma'am," Samuel confirmed.

"He said as how just to bring you this."

Victoria gave silent thanks for Alexander Beresford's tactful withdrawal
as she took the small package and looked at it curiously.

She and David had thankfully seen very little of him since their
marriage.

When alone, she broke the seal and removed the wrapping paper.  Her
fingers sdlled as she recognised something of her own making.  Shaking
fingers retrieved two letters from her lap as though they were as
fragile as wafer. She unfolded the single sheet of parchment with them.

The sight of Daniel Hart's spidery scrawl brought spontaneous tears
stinging to her eyes and she hastily folded the paper to prevent
spoiling this precious message from the grave.  She blinked through a
mist at the name and direction on the letters.

Had her writing altered?  Was it young then and mature now?  Would it
look the same if now, seven years later, she wrote

"The Hon.  Mr David Hardinge, Falconer's Mews, Chelsea'?

She knuckled wet from her eyes and began to read: Well, my dear, did he
marry you?  I think he must have for I left strict instructions that
Beresford only deliver this, my final bequest to you, three months after
you again changed name.  title, too, I hope.  And, if I can at all trust
this faltering judgement of mine, I feel sure that duty did override
disquiet and you invited him to see me laid to rest.  As a consequence
you must now have that true happiness I could never give you.  I know
only love will again make you a bride: if I can claim any merit, it is
that I have provided satisfactorily for you.  Your selfless duty to your
family should never force you to seek security in wedlock.  Please God,
I'm right; that certitude is all that allows me peace.  Victoria raised
glossy, distant eyes at that irony and a small smile twisted her soft
lips before she recommenced reading.  The purpose of this letter, of
course, is to beg forgiveness for, as you will now know, I'm so sorry,
my dearest Vicky, but I lied.  I never did despatch those letters.  I
have kept them.  and now return them.

So; to the motives for my bitterly regretted arrogance.  It is a story
fraught with prejudice and greed.  My failings, I'm afraid, not my
cousin's. who, you might now be aware, is in fact no blood relative at
all.  He can lay claim to far more august stock than I.  But, to my
shame, but not wholly for bad reasons, I did not want him to have you
then.  I believed, despite your loyal championship of David Hardinge,
all the scandalous gossip I heard. Personally, I bore him little | ill
will, even envied him, as most men did. But I had | appointed myself
custodian of your virtue, your sweet ^ person.

Relinquishing you to such a reprobate was | beyond my courage, as was
honestly telling you so.

You see, at times, I swear I feel more father to you than Charles
himself.

But now, as I battle for breath and strength to finish this letter, I
wish. oh, how I wish I had left well alone and allowed you your very
feminine intuition where he was concerned.  For I discovered three years
ago and four years too late that you were right.  He is an honourable
man; he does truly love you.  Giving you into his care would have been a
father's finest hour.

My comeuppance is a tale filled with dignity.  restraint.  Your
husband's, I'm afraid.  Would that such principles were mine.  My part
was no more than a base, greedy speculation: I had high hopes of a quick
handsome profit from eastern wares conveyed home by the cheapest route
and vessel.  Venality inevitably leads to disaster and so it turned out.
The wreck of a merchantman limped home after heavy weather and all I had
to show for my avarice and coin was a load of sea-stained silk and
perished spices. Bankruptcy, squalor for us all, seemed certain,
auctioning off the ruined goods a fruitless exercise.  Your husband bid
for my worthless stock.  He persevered even after I deliberately drove
up the calls.  He was in it to mock and shame me before all those
gawping bystanders, or so I thought, and would callously withdraw once
he'd had his sport.  Never once during the transaction did he look my
way or falter; never once did he seek recognition or gratitude when the
deal was signed and sealed.  Never once since has he been near nor by.
Even a chance meeting and he accords me no more than a flick of dark
head and azure eyes.

My credibility and capital were thus restored at his own expense--for
all present speculated yet dared not ask why such a financier bought
flotsam that day.  On reflection, the awesome truth in his motives made
me sick with a guilt I believe has never truly left me.

He loved you still and so unconditionally, so absolutely, that he would
allow me dignity and shelter too because of it.  You must ask him,
Vicky, my dearest, what ever he did with that cargo of saltwater.  The
laboured words trailed into bare parchment.

Victoria stared blankly; dear Daniel's strength had finally failed him.
She stood and walked to the window, for it seemed about that time.  She
gazed out into the russet-skied harvest evening.  A wistful smile met
the sight of her papa and his companion.

They walked slowly, the woman aiding his progress with a thin arm
through his.  She pointed out the beauty in the full-blown roses
trailing the arch and Charles cocked his head obligingly to look.

Still elegant and very charming, Victoria had said to David of his
mother when the dowager had arrived last week to stay a while.  And he
had given her one of his smiles that let her know that but for her whim.
Her grey eyes drifted past to what she really sought.  Two robust black
Labradors bounded up then circled her father gently, as they had been
taught.  Charles patted at each sleek, dusky neck before the dogs chased
back at their master's signal.

Victoria watched, quietly fascinated, as always, by her husband in all
his powerful, masculine splendour.  He walked with an easy stride, gun
slung casually over one shoulder, his vented coat flapping about long,
muscular legs.  Dark chestnut hair whipped about his face in the light
breeze, trailing lengthily over his collar.  He laughed at some comment
from Samuel, keeping pace with him, ham fists full of game.

David scanned the house, as he always did, shaking back hair from his
searching blue gaze until their eyes met for that infinite moment.  Then
he was angling away to the entrance.

She found him in his study, as always, poring over the architect's
plans. Stealing quietly up behind him, she dropped a kiss on his dark,
glossy head, combing her fingers through soft hair to cup his cheek.  A
large hand covered hers, removing it so he could touch his lips to the
pulse in her wrist.

"Alexander Beresford came while you were out shooting."

"Yes, I know.  Samuel said."

"He wouldn't stay... he simply left me something."

"I Wonder why...?"  David mused drily while tracing a boundary line with
a long blunt finger.

"Wonder why?  Why he wouldn't stay?"  At a sideways smile from her
husband she softly chided,

"You know why.  He believed you about the building somewhere."  She
barely paused before withdrawing the parchment from her skirt pocket.

"I'd like you to read the letter he brought..  it's from Daniel."  She
sensed him stiffen but he said nothing and merely placed a broad palm on
the parchment to keep it flat on the table in front of him.

Victoria wandered away to the window to stare out while he read.  With
her eyes on the sunset, she knew the instant he finished it.

"Is it true?"  she asked quietly.

"Did you rescue us then, too?"

"Yes."

She turned towards him, her eyes stinging with tears.  "Why did you
never say?  You could have told me that when first I arrived in London."

She watched his elegant, patrician fingers smooth the parchment, then
fold it, his expression a little abashed.

"He credits me with too much.  It started in jest ... Dickie and I
mischief-making.  But ended in earnest.  At the time I never pondered my
motives.  Just a whim..."

"You did it for me."

He laughed self-consciously.

"Yes, Victoria, I did it for you.  But at the time I chose not to
realise and Dickie, bless him, opted not to tell me."

"Sometimes, David, I think if I love you any more I'll burst... and yet
still I manage to."

She walked back towards him, her heart quickening in rhythm with her
womb. She knew now she couldn't.  wouldn't wait longer.  She was as sure
as she was ever likely to be.  As she neared the desk, he shoved back
his chair and pulled her onto his lap.  She sensed the arousal in him,
his breathing slowing, the rough gentleness in his hands.  And as always
felt her own melting response.  She smiled serenely and turned her
attention to the charts on the table.

"How long before we can move in, do you think?"

He choked a laugh.

"The shell of one wing is barely set, Vicky.

Besides, I thought you were reluctant to leave Hart- field.  "

"But I've changed my mind, David," she softly decided, sweeping a
slender finger over the proposed eastern wing of their grand house.

"I'm glad we started here.  I like this bit very much."

"Guest rooms, servants' quarters, the nursery..."  he readily listed.

"Yes ... I know."

She felt the sudden stillness in him.  The vibration in the hands that
held her.

"If I draft in extra labour, that wing might be habitable in... six
months?" he tendered hoarsely.

"That would be fine," she confirmed.  They turned simultaneously, faces
already angling.

"I want Dickie to be godfather..."  David murmured against her lips.

"I want Emma to be godmother..."  she countered.  "I want a quiet life
...we'll ask the Graysons," he said, silencing any objection with a
sublime wickedness peculiar to such a kind and decent man.