Chapter 8

    WHEN they arrived at the Herrick town house in South Audley Street, Cherry was still in a trance. The note from Henry Bishop had put an abrupt end to her low spirits. There was a glow in her eyes, and a smile played about the corners of her mouth as she was greeted by her hostess in the crowded drawing room. Lady Herrick was very gracious. Not once did she refer to the disastrous waltzes; instead, she complimented Cherry on her performance at the soirée and on her charming appearance this evening.
    Cherry was wearing a simple white gown with short, puffed sleeves, blue satin ruching around the neckline and hem, and embroidered lavishly with forget-me-nots on the skirt. When she’d first worn the gown to an assembly in Saltash, it had earned her many a compliment. She was pleased to know that even in London her and Sara’s combined efforts were worthy of comment.
    Her hostess continued, "You met just about every one of my guests last night, so there is no need for me to introduce you. Pray, feel free to look about for congenial company. I’m certain Alicia will not demand that you remain at her side all night long, as she’ll be off to the card tables soon enough."
    Cherry glanced at Lady Bolwood. She’d hoped to have the countess’s support for this, her first appearance after her faux pas. But with a sinking feeling she realized that the Bolwoods were busy discussing with their host and other avid card players the setting up of several tables of whist. When they turned to leave for the card room, she was gripped by panic at this act of desertion by Lady Bolwood. Although Cherry was not at all fond of cards, she started to rush after her to escape the many curious stares of the assembled company in the drawing room.
    "I say, Cherry! You don’t want to do that. They’re a set of dead bores when they’re engrossed in their game." Harry Blythe came bearing down on her, his unruly blond locks artfully brushed in the "Windswept" and his face lit up by his irrepressible grin. "You’d better come along with me."
    "Yes, Harry." Meekly she placed her hand on his proffered arm and let herself be guided across the drawing room toward a group of young people engaged in lively conversation near one of the tall, ruby-draped windows. "I’ve never been more grateful to be able to hide behind a broad back," she whispered. "The looks darted at me surely are meant to maim."
    "Your waltzes with Belcourt." Harry nodded knowledgeably. "But it never serves to run from the tabbies, m’dear. Only way to deal with ‘em is to outstare ‘em. Let’s go do the pretty to Dexter’s mama. She’ll not cut you."
    Harry was correct. Lady Dexter did not completely ignore Cherry but allowed herself the tiniest of frosty nods. She did not, however, encourage them to linger. Immediately she turned to her neighbor and spoke to her in carrying tones.
    "My dear Aurelia, you will not credit this, but the chit had once set her cap at my poor Bartholomew. When I challenged her with it, she denied it, of course. Informed me bold as brass that she had ‘far loftier aspirations.’ It is quite obvious now what she was thinking about, but see if she won’t burn her fingers! I’ll lay you odds Sylvia Aberlaine will have something to say about that. "
    Whatever reply Lady Dexter’s friend made was lost in the babble of young voices by the window, but Cherry had heard quite enough. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and gritted her teeth.
    "Phew," whistled Harry. "And what was that all about?"
    Angry, she drew to a halt. "That, my dear Harry, was what happened when Dexter introduced me to his mama at Almack’s, and you asked her to be kind to me! The difference lies only in the interpretation of my remark. I was talking about my career when I spoke of ‘loftier aspirations’; Lady Dexter believes I spoke of Marcus."
    Harry gave a shout of laughter. "If that don’t beat the Dutch! I’ve never known a girl with your finesse for landing in a bumblebath." Manfully he tried to contain his mirth when he realized that his outburst had only fueled her indignation.
    "Will you be quiet, you beast!" she hissed. "Everyone is staring at us."
    "Let ‘em. Best thing that can happen under the circumstances. But you must smile at me, not stab me with you eyes. Don’t you see?" He winked at her. "We can make ‘em believe you’ve formed a tendre for me. That ought to let you and Marcus off the hook. But watch your step," he warned. "I ain’t in the petticoat line, so don’t you go falling in love with me for real."
    "I shan’t." Now it was her turn to laugh at him. "But do be serious. It won’t do, of course, because I’d still be involved in gossip."
    "Mayhap you’re right, although I can’t believe the old tabbies would be as interested in your affairs if it’s I instead of Marcus as the object of your attentions."
    "You have put the matter in a nutshell. I should never have made it appear as though Marcus is the ‘object of my attentions,’ as you so elegantly phrase it. I’ll be more circumspect from now on. It’s just that I can’t begin to understand how the minds of these London ladies work...why several dances should mean that I’ve set my cap at Marcus...I shouldn’t think that anyone would choose a partner in marriage on the basis of a few waltzes."
    "It’s one of the demmed starchy rules of society you can’t escape, m’dear. If you want to be a successful debutante, you’d better ask Lady Bolwood to drum some of the more important maxims into your pretty head."
    "I’ve not come to London as a debutante. This whole business of getting known amongst the members of the ton has snowballed quite out of proportion. All I’m asking is to be allowed to pursue my career." She pondered his words for a moment, then asked curiously, "How old are you, Harry?"
    "Five-and-twenty. Why? What’s my age got do with all this?" he sputtered.
    "You sound more like a man of five-and-fifty, and you seem better versed in the ways of society than Marcus, who must be several years your senior."
    "Well, you see, there’s Marcus’s temper which sometimes gets in the way of his good judgment. He doesn’t let fly often, but when he does, there’s no telling what he might do—and no stopping him, either. I know...I tried to prevent him from leading you out a fourth time and was brushed aside like the veriest flunky."
    She twinkled up at him—a long way up, for he topped even Marcus by four or five inches. "Of course...he’d brush a featherweight like you aside. How foolish you are, dear Harry."
    He grinned. "No, only prudent. I wouldn’t dare cross him when he’s in one of his rages. Once, when some ivory turner had embroiled Phillip in a crooked game of dice-"
    "Who is Phillip?" she interrupted.
    "He’s Marcus’s younger brother. He is away, doing the grand tour in America," he added when he saw her eyes widen in astonishment. "When he’s here, he follows Marcus around like a puppy—at least, that’s what he used to do. There’s no telling that he mightn’t change for the better in America."
    "Go on! What happened at the dice game?" she urged.
    "Somebody or other caught on to the sharper and demanded to see the dice, but he tried to lay the blame on Phillip. Believe me, when Marcus heard of it, he was after the cad in a flash and made short shrift of him. Never seen or heard of him again."
    "For goodness’ sake! Marcus didn’t kill him, did he?"
    "Lord no! Thrashed him within an inch of his life, no doubt, and sent him packing to the Continent. Marcus strips down to advantage; boxes with Jackson himself," he added with simple pride. Then he collected where and in whose presence he was. He cleared his throat and looked at her with a ferocious frown. "But you don’t want to know about that. Not fit for a lady’s ears. Gosh, Cherry, if you don’t make me sound off just like Dexter! Anyway, how did you drag me into the discussion of this topic?"
    "You started it, Harry! You were trying to explain why Marcus would not have remembered some starchy rule about dancing, whereas you do."
    "Yes. Well, you see, I have a mother and three sisters to keep me au courant. Marcus only has Phillip. He knows very well how to keep little brother out of a scrape—has done it for years, after all—but he’s never had to think about a young lady’s reputation before. Lady Aberlaine is thirty-five, if she’s a day; she don’t require any looking-after.
    "Yes." Cherry sighed. "She’s very sophisticated and very beautiful. But no scandal seems to be surrounding her."
    "Ha! Only last season Mrs. Drummond-Burrell threatened to withdraw her voucher for Almack’s; only Sylvia’s friendship with Sally Jersey has kept those doors open so far, but she’ll have to watch her step or all the Ladies Jersey in the world won’t be able to help her. Anyway, let’s join the others now. And if you don’t want to pretend an interest in me, then I’ll drop a word in Benny’s and Dexter’s ears, and we’ll do all we can to scotch the rumors about you and Marcus."
    "Thank you, Harry. I’m sure that will serve best."
    Cherry had met most of the young people at Almack’s, so she did not feel like a complete stranger. Nevertheless, she was happy to see among them her particular friends, Lord Dexter, Major Redmyn, Lord Bennington, and Maria Wilmott and her sister Charlotte. Without a huge poke bonnet to obscure Charlotte’s face, it was unmistakable that she was Maria’s sister. They had the same soft brown hair and shining hazel eyes, but while Maria exuded charm, poise, and elegance, Charlotte still displayed some signs of an exuberant, slightly coltish schoolroom miss. Nothing could dampen her enthusiasm for long. When a few groans were heard about the paltry entertainment at Lady Herrick’s—who would wish to play cards, after all!—it was Charlotte who suggested an impromptu dance. She coaxed and bullied Maria and Cherry to play the pianoforte, then pleaded with Lady Herrick until she threw up her arms and ordered her footmen to clear the room. Soon the precious Aubusson carpet was rolled up, and the furniture, save for a few chairs for the chaperons, was carried out.
    Cherry took her seat at the pianoforte and provided the music for the dozen or so couples until the buffet supper was announced. After the repast, Maria played while Cherry joined the dancers. Her accomplishment on the dance floor was evident as she whirled from partner to partner in a lively country dance, and her popularity among the young gentlemen was unquestionable as they vied with one another for each succeeding dance. After watching her covertly for a while, the other young ladies relaxed visibly and admitted her into their ranks. There had been no sign that the beautiful and talented Miss Sinclair meant to snatch any of their special beaux, nor did she flirt or play the coquette.
    Cherry was simply oodles of fun in her enjoyment of the evening, declared Miss Charlotte Wilmott.
    More than one of the chaperons, however, ventured to suggest a secret understanding between the Duke of Belcourt and Miss Sinclair. The knowing ones based this speculation—despite the duke’s absence—upon the brilliant good looks of Miss Sinclair. In their experience, a girl who knew she had disgraced herself the night before could not show such an animated face with sparkling eyes and dimpling smile to her critical observers. It stood to reason that she and the rakish duke knew what they were about.
    It was, perhaps, fortunate for Cherry’s peace of mind that she remained oblivious to these and similar comments. She was basking in her unlooked-for popularity and took full advantage of the carefree hours in congenial company. When Lady Bolwood came to inform her that their carriage was at the door, she felt a pang of disappointment at their early departure.
    "I shall see you tomorrow after church," reminded Maria Wilmott.
    "Without a doubt! I’m looking forward to our visit." Heartened by Maria’s reminder, Cherry was able to take cheerful leave of her friends and her hostess.
    "That was well done!" exclaimed Lady Bolwood as she settled herself into the coach. "I believe we have weathered the storm, and you deserve a great portion of the credit, Cherry. Never have I seen you so animated or in better looks!"

    THE following morning Cherry slept late. It mattered not since Marcus was out of town—a ride without his company would have given her only half the enjoyment. Lord and Lady Bolwood invited her to attend services with them at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and finally it was time to order the barouche and drive to Upper Grosvenor Street.
    During one of the following days, Maria introduced her to the delights of Hookham’s lending library and to the treasures of new shops in the Burlington Arcade.
    "Why are you not required to take along a maid when you go out, Maria?" asked Cherry as they strolled along Piccadilly. "Lady Bolwood is forever scolding me because I’ve left the house without Betsy on occasion."
    Maria chuckled. "Although Mama often calls me an old maid, I am not quite free of these restrictions either. My maid did accompany me to Bolwood House this morning, you know. But I felt certain you wouldn’t let me down and would come to the library with me, so I sent her home. As long as we are together, we do not require a footman or a maid. Let’s hurry a bit, shall we? I’ve heard rumors that Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley will be coming to town shortly. I want to get a copy of Frankenstein before everyone else remembers that they haven’t read it yet. Shall I lend you my copy when I’m finished?"
    "No, thank you. I believe I shall be better off with Miss Austen’s books, or perhaps Lord Byron’s latest volume has arrived."
    "Mazeppa?"
    Cherry nodded, and they spent the remainder of the short walk happily discussing their favorite authors and their works.
    It was a stimulating time for Cherry—as much fun as it had been when she and Sara were together. Lord Dexter and Harry Blythe, too, were faithful in their attentions to her. They would show up to take her driving in the park at the fashionable hour of five, or coax her to join a party of several young people to see the Tower of London and the waxworks. Between her friends, strenuous hours at the pianoforte, Lady Cowper’s dinner, and a musical evening at Holland House, Cherry felt like a whirling top, unable to stop the motion. But wherever she went she caught herself scanning the crowds for Marcus’s dark head, for a glimpse of his lopsided smile and his clear, twinkling eyes.
    She had even resumed her early morning gallops. After an absence of three days, Nestor had miraculously reappeared, but she could make no sense of Lady Bolwood’s vague explanation about some delayed arrangements with regard to the horse. Anyway, the rides were not quite what they used to be when Marcus had accompanied her and the groom had remained at home. Even Maria’s companionship could not fill the void his absence had left.

    THURSDAY, the eighteenth, had finally arrived, but Cherry’s pleasurable anticipation of the opera had diminished somewhat. Lord and Lady Bolwood had received an urgent summons from their friend, Lord Castlereagh. The foreign secretary had been obliged to give an unexpected dinner in honor of a delegation of foreign dignitaries, and he had asked the Bolwoods to attend. Cherry would be obliged to visit the opera accompanied only by her maid, Betsy.
    "I cannot like this arrangement, Edwin." Lady Bolwood had cornered her spouse in the privacy of his study and was now trying valiantly to change his mind. "Too many demireps attend the opera, with their maids to lend them decorum, until they’ve found a protector. What if some rake approaches Cherry and makes her an indecent proposal?"
    Lord Bolwood chuckled. "I think our little Cherry is well able to take care of herself. In any case, it is well known that she lives under my protection. No one would dare accost her."
    "But it would be so much more agreeable if I could accompany her. Could you not go to Lord Castlereagh’s dinner by yourself? Last time we attended one of his dinners, I was seated between some prince from Beluchistan and a grandee from Barcelona. Neither one spoke a word of English." She shuddered delicately. "I have no wish to repeat those interminable hours."
    "My dear, you have no choice," he said quietly but with emphasis. "We cannot let Lord Castlereagh down and upset his seating arrangement. Remember how much we are obliged to him for his assistance with our claim on the vineyards in the south of France after the war. If you really have qualms about Cherry going to the theatre with only Betsy, you had best send for young Dexter or Bennington, hadn’t you?"
    "What an excellent notion, my love!" Lady Bolwood beamed. She sent a note to Lord Dexter—who, in her mind, made a perfectly unexceptionable substitute for the Duke of Belcourt as Cherry’s prospective suitor—and appealed for his assistance in the matter of the opera visit.
    Lord Dexter complied promptly by presenting himself and Harry Blythe at Berkeley Square. They politely offered to escort Cherry to the opera. After some debate, it was agreed that they would make up a small party consisting of Cherry and Maria, Dexter and Harry.
    Before leaving for Lord Castlereagh’s dinner party, Lady Bolwood insisted that Cherry don the lavender and white gown she had worn at Almack’s and made her a loan of a long rope of seed pearls which Simpson wove with clever fingers among the clusters of curls pinned high on Cherry’s head. She was certain she’d stand out like a peacock among sparrows at the Covent Garden Theatre. At home, when they’d visited the theatre in Saltash, or across the Tamar in Devonport or Plymouth, they had worn nothing more spectacular than their "Sunday best." As soon as she stepped inside the Covent Garden Theatre, however, her fears of being overdressed were laid to rest. Beside the other ladies in their gleaming satins and silks with lavishly displayed precious gems all over their elegant persons, she felt insignificant.
    She was grateful for the calm and assured presence of her three friends. Harry and Dexter were dressed to the nines in dark coats and champagne-colored pantaloons. Like Marcus, they followed the trend set by the great arbiter of fashion, Beau Brummell, who now lived in France in penury and loneliness. Only by their extravagantly embroidered waistcoats did Dexter and Harry stand apart from the Beau—and Marcus.
    When the Earl of Dexter had first set eyes upon Maria, he’d been struck dumb by her breathtaking appearance. So far he had not recovered his speech, but neither had he left her side or taken his awed gaze off the stunning girl in a gown of primrose gros de Naples, elaborately embroidered around the hemline and along the rather daring décolletage in the same rich brown hue as her shining eyes.
    The opera house itself was a spectacular sight in its splendor of elegant boxes, all curtained and supported on tall, slender pillars. The roomy pit was filled by those who could not afford a subscription to the boxes and by the elegant young bucks of society who liked to get a very close look at the slim ankles of supple young chorus girls.
    Mr. Bishop had reserved one of the best boxes for Cherry and her companions. Adjacent to the Royal Box—empty tonight—it afforded an excellent view of the stage and even the orchestra pit. Opera glass in hand, Cherry took her seat and waited impatiently for the curtain to rise. She was too excited to join in any conversation. Not only was this her first visit to the opera in London, but after the performance she would finally hear what proposition Mr. Bishop and Mr. Clementi had to lay before her. Her heart turned several somersaults, leaving her quite breathless.
    When, finally, the overture began, she put everything from her mind to concentrate completely on the music. Her great expectations were fulfilled. Mozart’s comic opera The Marriage of Figaro was delightful; the orchestra performed brilliantly under the direction of Henry Bishop; and the singers were excellent, particularly Mrs. Dickons as the Countess and Miss Stephens as Susannah.
    When the curtain came down after the final act, Cherry set down her opera glass to applaud with unrestrained enthusiasm. She turned bright eyes on her companions. "I must make time to attend the opera more often. What a wonderful evening I’ve had! How I wish I had but a particle of Mozart’s talent...to compose as he did! Let’s leave now and await Mr. Bishop and Mr. Clementi in the Green Room. I’ve no heart to sit through the farce."
    Harry demurred but gave in with good grace when he saw that Maria and Lord Dexter were willing to comply with Cherry’s wishes.
    The two musicians did not keep them waiting long. Beaming, Muzio Clementi kissed the ladies’ hands. "Miss Wilmott! My dear Miss Cherry! Please let us depart at once, for here we cannot talk. Soon the Green Room will be overrun by gentlemen eager to meet the performers."
    Conversation was general while they partook of one of the famed suppers in Grillon’s elegant rooms. When the cloth was removed, some excellent port was set before the gentlemen, and the ladies were served chilled champagne.
    Henry Bishop cleared his throat in preparation of the great announcement. "Mr. Clementi and I have been contacted by Colonel Mellish, the Prince Regent’s equerry. As you may know, our Regent has been plagued by fits of despondency since the death of Princess Charlotte, and lately these have increased due to the scandalous news he is receiving about Princess Caroline’s conduct on the Continent. He has always enjoyed music; it uplifts his spirits, and he has often invited musicians to the Pavilion in Brighton and to Carlton House. Now he plans to have regular weekly concerts."
    He beamed at Cherry and nodded to Muzio Clementi, who took up the tale. "The Prince Regent has asked us to perform after his Tuesday dinners at Carlton House, while he and his friends are enjoying their cigars and port. I daresay he is wishing to set a new trend.
    "Oh, but he cannot!" interrupted Cherry. "Lady Cowper thought of it already. She had me play after her dinner last Monday while the gentlemen—and some of the ladies-sipped their liqueurs."
    There was brief silence while they wondered if the Prince Regent, when he learned of Emily Cowper’s coup, would fly into a pelter or sulk like a child whose favorite toy had been snatched away.
    "I hope His Royal Highness may not cancel the concerts! I’d hate to think Lady Cowper and I spoilt this marvelous opportunity for you."
    "I shouldn’t worry, Cherry." Dexter shifted his attention from Maria Wilmott long enough to pat Cherry’s hand . "One of the guests at Lady Cowper’s dinner was Colonel Mellish. I daresay you paid no attention when you were introduced to him. He stayed through your performance but left before the card tables were set up. Prinny’s bound to know all about it."
    "Why didn’t you say so right away?" she asked in exasperation and relief.
    "Well, that’s quite all right then." Muzio Clementi reached for his glass and drank deeply. Then he rose and bowed courteously. "My dear Miss Cherry," he declared formally. "’Henry Bishop and I wish to invite you most cordially to join our small orchestra made up mostly of members and associates of the Philharmonic Society. We have been greatly impressed by your talent and virtuosity and feel that the inclusion of a beautiful young lady will enhance the status of our orchestra. I, Muzio Clementi, will personally undertake to act as your guardian and protector, although I’m certain His Royal Highness poses no threat to your virtue." He chuckled and winked at the company at large. "It is, after all, no secret that our Regent’s preference lies with grandmotherly ladies. However, some of his boon companions will certainly merit watching."
    "I, too, will stand Cherry’s protector," promised Lord Dexter.
    "At your service," Harry said with a bow.
    "And so will Benny, and, of course, Marcus, when they hear about this," continued Dexter. "Prinny is constantly asking us to his dinners. We’ll make it a point for one or t’other to attend."
    "That’s all very well," interposed Henry Bishop. "But so far I’ve not heard a word from Miss Cherry indicating she’d want to join us."
    Cherry, who felt as though she’d been holding her breath all this time since Muzio Clementi had addressed her, burst out laughing. "Can there be any question? I’d play in Newgate Prison if it meant performing with members of the Philharmonic Society—of course, Carlton House is vastly preferable. Oh, I do thank you gentlemen for asking me!"
    She jumped up and hugged both Mr. Bishop and Mr. Clementi, and for good measure included Harry, Maria, and Dexter in her embraces.
    "Let’s have a toast," proposed Dexter. "To Prinny and Cherry, to the Philharmonic Society, and to a succession of grand concerts at Carlton House."
    "Hear, hear," muttered Maria under her breath and winked at Cherry before downing her champagne with enthusiasm.

    "BUT, Cherry, you’ve not performed in a concerto before. I mean, isn’t it quite different from playing solo?" queried Lady Bolwood, who had grave misgivings about the wisdom of having Cherry perform at Carlton House. The Prince Regent and his friends were such a rackety set.
    "Yes, it’s different, but I have plenty of time to rehearse," Cherry assured her. She stretched her toes closer to the fire in Lady Bolwood’s sitting room, where she had found the countess waiting up for her. "This coming Tuesday they’ll perform some of Purcell’s Suites for Strings, like ‘The Married Beau’ and ‘The Virtuous Wife,’ etcetera. That gives me nigh on two weeks to prepare for the Brandenburg Concerto Number 3, which I adore. I’ve often tried my hand at the cadenza improvisations which separate the corner movements..."
    She stared off into space as snatches of Bach’s music drifted through her mind. Mr. Clementi had assured her that on several mornings she might come to the Argyll Rooms to play the harpsichord there. They would also plan to have two full rehearsals—which was more than the Philharmonic Society generally held.
    "Cherry!" expostulated Lady Bolwood. "I swear, there’s no talking to you when you think about music. What will your mama say when she learns of this?"
    "Why, ma’am," she replied, straight-faced but with a wicked twinkle in her eyes, "Mama will be in alt to learn that I’ve gained admittance to Carlton House.".
    "If you say so, dear, but I cannot help worrying. And I dare not contemplate what His Grace will say!"
    "The Duke of Belcourt will have no say at all in this. But, if he were inclined to comment, what could he do but congratulate me? After all, I will be playing with the Philharmonic Society, and Carlton House should rate as high as the Argyll Rooms. What more could I want to start out my career?"
    "Money?" the countess suggested dryly. "The Prince is notorious for not paying well or, worse, not paying at all. As usual, he’s way over his head in debt."
    "Oh."
    That put paid to some of her hopes. She could consider herself an established musician only when she was earning sufficient funds for her own upkeep.
    She straightened her back unconsciously. "Perhaps I may not be able to move out just yet and rent a villa in Bloomsbury, but it should lend credit to my name. Soon some of the richer members of the ton will engage me to entertain their guests, and then I shall ask for a high fee to make up for the loss at Carlton House."

Chapter 9

    Marcus had returned from Morning Glory in Devonshire. Sprawled in a deep leather chair in his study, booted feet propped casually on the corner of the ornate mahogany desk, he took cursory inventory of his mail while his thoughts raced ahead in anticipation of his next meeting with Cherry. He’d missed her companionship more than he liked to admit, and he was eager to be gone and meet her for the customary morning gallop.
    Should he, or should he not, tell her where he’d been?
    Unheeded, the stack of mail slipped from his fingers and fanned into an untidy pattern on the pristine surface of the desk as he stared into space. His visit to Morning Glory had had its high points. He grinned as he contemplated one particularly pleasant aspect of his stay in Devonshire. His estate was located north of Dartmoor, and from there it had been but a day’s drive to Lostwithiel in Cornwall.
    He’d been warmly welcomed by the Sinclair family. Mrs. Sinclair and the siblings had inundated him with questions about Cherry and London until the Reverend Sinclair had put his foot down and sequestered himself with Marcus in the study.
    Much to his own surprise, he’d found himself telling Cherry’s papa about his ill-starred proposal and his scandalous behavior that had led up to it.
    The Reverend Sinclair had looked hard at Marcus for agonizing moments, but apparently he’d borne up satisfactorily under the scrutiny, because Cherry’s father had relaxed and said, "I won’t insult you by asking about your future intentions regarding my daughter and Lady Aberlaine. I pride myself on being a fair judge of character, and I like what I see. You’ll do everything that’s right and proper, but if you care to hear a bit of advice from one who has known Cherry intimately for all of her three-and-twenty-years, pray heed my words. She requires a very light touch on the reins. Any attempt to push her—be it ever so subtle—will only result in disaster. She’s proud and stubborn, and she’s on the brink of entrée into the music world. Much as I wish for her complete success, I also pray for her personal happiness. Don’t rush your fences; woo her gently, Your Grace."
    They had both agreed to keep the subject of their conversation strictly between themselves for the time being, since the ladies could not be expected to treat the matter with the required calm and objectivity.
    Marcus called himself sharply to order and gathered up his mail again to concentrate on the invitations that had come in during his absence. At which of these functions was Cherry likely to appear this evening? Quickly he scanned the gilt-edged cards and one lavishly scented letter. The heavy perfume of orchids was unmistakably Sylvia’s. With an offended twitch of his nostrils he pushed it to the bottom of the stack. Next was an invitation to one of Prinny’s boring dinners. He was about to toss it aside when a name caught his eye.
    His feet came off the desk with a crash as he read the missive again and again. "What the devil...!" Prinny was inviting his friends to join him this evening for dinner and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, to be performed by members of the Philharmonic Society, with Miss Cherry Sinclair at the harpsichord.
    A wide smile spread over his face. Little Cherry had done it!
    But just as fast, his dark brows snapped together in a scowl. "At Carlton House!" he groaned. An unprotected girl could get into just as much trouble at Carlton House as at Madame Fellini’s. He pocketed the invitation, snatched up his gloves, and stormed out of the house. One look at his dark frown sent the grooms in the mews scurrying. Hercules had never been saddled faster.
    "Where’s Nestor?" he barked.
    "He’s out, Yer Grace. Ye will remember yer orders to send him to Bolwood House ever’ mornin’, Yer Grace," his head groom replied evenly.
    Without a word Marcus swung himself into the saddle and raced off to Hyde Park. He saw Nestor at once and recognized the slim figure in dark blue on his back. His breath caught in his throat. Sitting the huge stallion with ease and elegance, Cherry looked like a young Diana. But she was accompanied by two riders. He squinted to make out Dexter on his roan gelding, Bolt of Lightning, and Miss Wilmott on a prancing bay mare. He bit back an exclamation and touched his heels to Hercules’s sides. Why in tarnation had she picked this morning to ride with friends?
    "Morning, ladies, Dexter!" he called and gave them all a brief nod. "Dexter, pray lead on with Miss Wilmott. I have to discuss some matter of importance with Cherry. We’ll follow you shortly."
    Cherry had been watching his approach silently, trepidation and eager welcome mirrored in her eyes. At his curt greeting she blinked and swallowed hard.
    "I wish Maria and Dexter to remain with me," she stated calmly. "Anything you feel you cannot discuss before them will have to wait, if you please."
    "I do not please, but it makes no odds. I merely wanted to save you embarrassment by pointing out in private that it is not at all the thing for you to play at Carlton House. There are no ladies present at the Tuesday dinners, except, occasionally, Lady Hertford—or is Lady Conyngham the current favorite, Dexter?"
    Dexter made no reply, and neither did Marcus expect one. He jerked out the royal invitation and waved it accusingly before Cherry’s eyes.
    "Oh, I’m so glad you received an invitation," she said kindly. "Shall you attend? I know you will enjoy the concert if not the dinner. Please come. I should welcome another occasion to greet you after your long absence from town. We’d better forget we met this morning, don’t you agree?" She nodded to Marcus, smiled briefly, and turned her horse. "Are you coming, Maria?"
    When the two young ladies were out of earshot, Dexter remarked, "Never thought to see you ham-fisted on the reins, Marcus. Should have gotten your facts straight before tackling Cherry. Now she’s got the bit between her teeth."
    Marcus groaned inwardly. Dexter’s metaphors reminded him sharply of the Reverend Sinclair’s advice. How could he have allowed his disappointment in not finding her alone to overrule his good judgment? The girl was turning him inside out, changing him from a self-assured man-about-town who charmed the ladies to do his bidding by the mere crooking of his little finger, into a veritable clodhopper.
    "Besides, Carlton House is all proper and aboveboard," continued Dexter. "Special protégée of Bishop and Clementi and all that. And between Benny, Harry, and myself, we’ve worked out for one or t’other to take her to Carlton House and escort her home again. We all thought you’d be pleased. We were quite certain you’d want your share of escort duty for Cherry. I’ll be taking her tonight."
    "Duty!" Marcus ground out. "If that’s how you think of it, forget about escorting her tonight. I’ll take her myself each and every time! And it will be my pleasure!"

    HE presented himself in Berkeley Square at nine o’clock to accompany Cherry to Carlton House.
    "Your Grace! I thought Lord Dexter would be Cherry’s escort tonight," flustered Lady Bolwood. "I had no idea you’d returned from Morning Glory. Pray be seated, Your Grace. Cherry will be down directly." She waved him to a comfortable chair by the fire and returned to her tambour to set several erratic stitches in her embroidery.
    When Cherry entered the parlor, Marcus rose and bowed deeply. "Miss Sinclair, how charming you look. May I say that I am extremely happy to find myself back in your most delightful company?" He offered her a small, tissue-wrapped box, his eyes pleading with her to accept his gift in apology.
    Cherry looked from him to Lady Bolwood. When the countess nodded, Cherry slowly stretched out her hand and accepted the gift. "Thank you very much, Your Grace. And may I say I am pleased to see you safely back in town."
    The ice was broken; their hesitant smiles widened foolishly until they both dissolved in laughter, blithely ignoring Lady Bolwood’s disapproving frown.
    "Go on, open it, Cherry!" Marcus finally managed to say. "I guessed you’d be wearing your green velvet gown and the pearls, and I want to see for myself if I came up with a perfect match."
    With unsteady fingers she removed the tissue paper. This was the first gift she’d ever received from a gentleman, discounting Papa and her brothers, of course. She opened the lid, and her heart skipped a beat. "Marcus, I cannot accept jewelry from you," she choked out.
    She held out the box to him, but he took no notice. With a helpless glance at Lady Bolwood he asked, "What is your judgment, ma’am?"
    The countess rose and fluttered over to them. Gently she lifted a cunningly fashioned dark-green velvet rose from the box. Several exquisite pearls of the same pinkish hue as Cherry’s necklace clung to the soft material like dew drops. A delicate gold filigree leaf with clasp was designed to hold the rose firmly in the wearer’s hair.
    "Unexceptionable, my dear," she decreed. "It may be regarded in the same light as a nosegay in a filigree holder." If she had any doubts about the propriety of Cherry’s accepting the pearls, she did not voice them. After all, one could not expect the Duke of Belcourt to give paste.
    "Thank you, Lady Bolwood. Allow me, please." He took the ornament from her and bent toward Cherry.
    She felt his fingers brush her neck as he pinned the rose behind her left ear. Her skin burned where he was touching it, and she hardly dared breathe.
    Finally Marcus stepped back to regard his handiwork. A gleam of admiration appeared in his eyes as he looked at the dark rose nestling against her golden hair drawn smoothly into a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. The gold leaf had become a part of her coiffure, adding still more highlights to the shining strands.
    "Beautiful," Lady Bolwood said softly. Then, to hide the strong emotions which threatened to overcome her at the sight of Cherry—so like dear Esther over two decades ago—she added gruffly, "If you don’t wish to be late for the Prince Regent’s concert, you had better look sharp. Where is your cloak, Cherry?"
    "Right here, ma’am. Good night." She turned to Marcus, who proffered his arm. "Thank you. This is the most beautiful gift I’ve ever had. I’m amazed how well you matched the velvet and the pearls."
    "Nothing miraculous about it, dear. I have a very discerning eye where you are concerned."
    The short drive to Carlton House was accomplished in silence. Cherry sat lost in thought, comparing all the different facets of Marcus she had discovered since she met him but a short month ago. First there had been the devil-may-care Corinthian who’d joined his cronies in a foolhardy bet, and who’d planted that lout Blake such a facer as to knock him out. From Lady Bolwood she had learned that Marcus was a responsible and responsive humanitarian who supported orphanages and schools for the poor. She had encountered him as an irresponsible rake who kissed her and compromised her name, but he was also her protective friend who proposed marriage to her out of a deep sense of honor and duty; who lent his support to her search for fulfillment of her dreams. She had seen him teasing, angry, overbearing, encouraging, and kind. And tonight he’d appeared humble in his implied apology.
    She was fascinated by him and realized that the danger of falling in love with him was greater than she’d believed possible. But her down-to-earth common sense and her ambition to succeed in her chosen career would keep the danger at bay, she consoled herself.
    When the carriage pulled up before Carlton House, she stared at the porticoed facade brightly lit by countless flambeaux. Splendidly arrayed footmen rushed forward to assist them to alight, then the carriage rumbled off to join the many others lining The Mall, where muffled coachmen dozed on their seats or visited together in small groups, smoking their pipes.
    Cherry gasped in dismay. "I’ve just realized, you missed the Prince’s dinner!"
    "Don’t fret. I sent an apology and explained why I would arrive in time for the concert only."
    In the huge foyer she handed her cloak to a hovering footman and carefully studied her surroundings. Her eyes widened in awe as she took in the glittering chandeliers, the velvet carpets, the priceless painting, and the graceful double stairway leading up to the private apartments. She paled before so much splendor and instinctively drew closer to Marcus.
    "What do you think of it, Cherry? Do you approve of His Royal Highness’s taste?"
    She let out her breath in a sigh. "It’s just a little overpowering to be homelike, is it not?"
    He was much struck by this novel point of view and looked about him with new eyes. "Do you know, my dear, you are quite right. Carlton House is an exquisite showplace, but I wouldn’t want to live in it. Come along now. The footmen are waiting to show us into the Golden Drawing Room. It must be later than I thought."
    Cherry hung back. "I cannot go in there with you to be announced like a guest. I must find the other musicians."
    "If you are to play at Carlton House at all, you will walk in there on my arm. I’ll introduce you to the Prince Regent and then lead you to the musicians—who are even now tuning their instruments. Come!"
    At his peremptory order—and propelled by a firm hand pressing against the small of her back—she moved willy-nilly with him toward the great double doors.
    Marcus whispered to one of the footmen, the doors were flung open, and their names were announced in stentorian tones. Silence fell over the room as all eyes of the assembled company and the musicians in the far corner turned toward them. She had the cowardly wish to hide behind Marcus’s broad back, but even as they started to walk toward the dais, her mother’s invaluable schooling asserted itself. Her back straightened, and her head assumed a prouder tilt. Marcus led her to the corpulent gentleman on one of the gold-covered sofas on the dais; resplendent in a midnight-blue coat decorated with numerous orders, cream-colored pantaloons stretching tightly over a bulging middle—His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.
    Cherry sank into a deep curtsy and wondered how they could ever please this ill-humored gentleman with the deep frown on his fleshy countenance.
    Then the Prince himself raised her up, and when she looked at him again, his petulant expression had disappeared. He was smiling broadly, his eyes glistening with interest, and he still held her hand, pulling her even closer.
    "This is a pleasurable surprise to us, my dear. We did not anticipate such a golden beauty to play the harpsichord tonight. How very fitting that we chose the Golden Drawing Room for this concert." He chuckled deeply, which set several of his stays a-creaking.
    Cherry curtsied again and dimpled at the Prince. He was not half as intimidating as she’d feared. "Thank you, Your Royal Highness. I am deeply honored to play for you and your distinguished guests. May the music bring you great pleasure, Sire."
    He beamed. "Bless you, child." Then he turned to Marcus and demanded, "Who is this beautiful young lady that you must needs bring her to us on your arm? When we saw you arrive, we were prepared to excuse your absence from dinner on the grounds of her spectacular beauty and intimidate you into giving her up. However, we seem to have been mistaken in her...identity. She’s a lady!" Toward the end of his outspoken, long-winded address the Prince had begun to wheeze from shortness of breath. He let go of Cherry’s hand—to her infinite relief—and repositioned himself with some difficulty against the soft cushions of the sofa.
    "Miss Sinclair was raised in Cornwall, Sire. She stays in town with Lord and Lady Bolwood. You may remember her maternal grandfather, the Earl of Wroxham, and her paternal grandfather, Viscount Sinclair."
    "Wroxham, eh? You are related to the Lady Esther, then?"
    "Lady Esther—though she prefers Mrs. Sinclair, Sire—is my mother," she stated proudly.
    "We thought as much. She was just such a golden beauty as you are." And with another beaming smile Cherry was dismissed.
    Marcus led her to the harpsichord and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze of encouragement. She threw him a grateful look. She needed courage. Suddenly it had dawned on her that this night might well be the making or the breaking of her career. Henry Bishop was not present, but Muzio Clementi nodded to her with an understanding smile, and she felt her confidence rising. Mr. Clementi believed in her—she would prove his trust in her ability justified.
    With the first notes played, she blocked out everything that had no connection with the harpsichord or the string instruments of the orchestra. The magnificence of the Golden Drawing Room receded; she forgot her illustrious audience. But this did not isolate her from them. Her joy and delight in the music as she played was a tangible thing. It touched her listeners and carried them with her in appreciation of the frothy baroque composition.
    The Prince Regent was immensely pleased. After the performance he rose from his couch and mingled with the musicians, graciously addressing words of praise to each of them. He motioned the footmen to serve wine and made his stately way back to Cherry, beaming and nodding his approval. He addressed her quite informally, dropping the royal third-person plural from his speech.
    "You are a true artist, Miss Sinclair, and I’m looking forward to hearing you play again. But now I see your beau already strategically positioned behind you, ready to carry you off. Not that I can blame him; with such a treasure to protect, he must be vigilant." He winked at Marcus and took possession of Cherry’s hand, bowing over it with courtly grace.
    She felt her cheeks sting hotly. Confused, she sank into a deep curtsy while wondering frantically how one told a Royal Prince that he was mistaken, that the duke was neither her beau nor her protector. She was about to explain when Marcus stepped forward and took her arm.
    Smoothly he interceded. "You are quite correct, Sire. I must be vigilant, and I feel that I must take Miss Sinclair back to Bolwood House before our good friends here descend upon her." He nodded in the direction of a cluster of the Prince’s companions who hovered nearby in hopes of an introduction to the pretty young musician.
    The Prince chuckled. "Not content with stealing the march on them, you also want to deprive us all of Miss Sinclair’s delightful company this evening. That’s hardly fair, Belcourt. Tell you what, you bring Miss Sinclair with you to next week’s dinner, and I shall invite Lady Hertford, Sally Jersey, and a few other ladies to lend her countenance." With gracious nods and smiles in all directions, he made his slow and stately exit from the Golden Drawing Room.
    As soon as they were seated in the carriage, Cherry rounded upon Marcus. "Why did you prevent me from telling the Prince that you are not my beau? Or you should have corrected him yourself. Now my position will be intolerable."
    "It was for your own protection, Cherry. Nobody at Carlton House will dare offer you insults now. And it wasn’t quite such an untruth as you make it out to be. You will remember that my offer of marriage still stands."
    "And I told you that I would not marry you. I want to marry for love only!"
    As the words left her mouth, the blinkers she herself had put up fell from her eyes. She loved Marcus. All her pretenses of how she could fall in love with him if she would permit herself blew away like the straw decoys they were to prevent herself from knowing the truth. And now she must face facts squarely. If only he were not sitting right beside her at this moment. She was incapable of rational thought while she remained in his proximity. Any moment she might be called upon to reply to his conversation.
    But Marcus left her quite alone. His face wore a closed, guarded look. She could not tell how he had received her heated words.
    Somehow she must keep a distance between Marcus and herself—both physical and emotional. She squirmed restlessly on the comfortable, upholstered seat of the elegant carriage. With the season in full swing now, it would be nigh impossible to avoid meeting him. Thanks to Lady Bolwood, she was becoming inextricably enmeshed in the web of balls, routs, drums, Venetian breakfasts, and other spectacular entertainments of the ton, where, quite naturally, the Duke of Belcourt would rank tops on every hostess’s guest list. She was bound to meet him everywhere. But then, did she really want to avoid him? As long as she made certain she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve....
    She stole another glance at him. Their eyes met. She felt the contact like a physical touch, warm and intimate, driving color into her cheeks.
    "I shall take you riding tomorrow morning," he stated firmly with an undertone of defiance in his deep voice.
    The sudden glow in her eyes and the gentle upward curving of her lips was his answer.

Chapter 10

    Marcus had been caught off guard by Cherry’s emphatic declaration that she would marry for love only, and had found to his chagrin that he’d been rendered speechless. Did love, as Cherry envisioned it, actually exist?
    When he had seen her safely inside Bolwood House, he had directed his coachman to drive him to White’s. A few hours spent playing cards and listening to his married friends’ boasts and praises of their latest highflyers had brought no enlightenment to his confused mind. There was no trace of love in them, not for their wives or their mistresses. And he knew enough of their wives to realize that they did not sit at home brokenhearted, mourning their spouses’ infidelities.
    He was also rather shaken by his inability to classify his feelings for Cherry. He’d experienced and knew how to recognize infatuation, lust, and desire, but he’d not known love—unless he counted the idyllic encounters with the dairymaid at Morning Glory when he was fifteen and believed himself desperately in love. But that feeling had waned with the passing of the glorious summer nights....
    His feelings for Cherry were quite different. With her, he felt protective, possessive, yet at the same time he desired her happiness above all else. He felt tenderness toward her, yet no one could make him lose control over his emotions faster than she. With his mistresses his emotions had never been involved. He’d been aloof and in complete control—with the exception of his loss of temper with Sylvia. But then, basically, that outburst had concerned Cherry more than Sylvia.
    It was rather confusing, and confusion was a state of mind with which the Duke of Belcourt had no experience or patience. Firmly he pushed the desire to analyze to the back of his mind. He’d not worry about his or Cherry’s feelings for the time being, but would take the Reverend Sinclair’s advice and woo her very gently. Cherry’s papa was a knowing one.
    As promised, Marcus presented himself the following morning on his Hercules to accompany Cherry on Nestor to Hyde Park. And thus he continued regularly each morning at seven o’clock. The weather was wonderfully cooperative as each new day dawned bright and clear with the promise of a warm, sunny spring. On some occasions they were joined by Maria and Dexter, but most of their rides were private. There was no repetition of a race or a kiss. Marcus displayed a gentle, teasing manner which he might have affected toward a beloved young sister. Cherry felt at ease with him and blossomed under his constant attention.
    Not only did he take her riding, he made his protective presence felt during the nightly entertainments she attended. He would be the first to note that she was in need of refreshments at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s rout, or that she would benefit from a breath of fresh air halfway through Lady Merton’s ball. He was always there, entertaining her, frowning discouragingly at certain young gentlemen who showed signs of having imbibed too much, and he boldly inscribed his name twice in her dance program.
    Cherry became quite used to sharing secret looks of amusement with him if she happened to observe a crafty matron trying to corner an eligible bachelor for her plain, overdressed daughter, or when Sir William Wainwright slipped off to the card room to escape from his sharp-faced, sharper-tongued wife. Indeed, if Marcus was not nearby to converse with her, or at least smile with her, she found herself scanning the room for his dark head and broad shoulders.
    Naturally, such devotion by the Duke of Belcourt toward Miss Cherry Sinclair did not escape notice. Tongues wagged freely, but there was a gulf of disparity between two factions of professional gossips. While the more charitable-minded attributed honorable intentions to the duke, the rest of the ton expected with malicious pleasure to see Cherry established as his latest chère amie.

    CHERRY and Maria stepped out of Miss Swift’s haberdashery in Bond Street. "Whew!" Cherry exclaimed. "You called this a treasure trove, and indeed it is. But a bazaar with all its hustle and bustle would appear a paradise of quiet compared to Miss Swift’s prattle."
    "Ah, but where else could you match your silks quite so perfectly? And I think the trim you selected for your spencer is most elegant."
    "The price is elegant, too," Cherry grumbled.
    "Cheer up, the shilling more you paid for the trim, you saved on the silks and the ribbons you purchased," Maria consoled. "Oh look! There’s Lucinda Newcombe with her mother. Let’s ask if Lucinda may go with us to Somerset House this afternoon to see the exhibition."
    Lucinda saw them approach and waved her parasol gaily. Mrs. Newcombe looked up, squinted short-sightedly to make out the faces of the two young ladies bearing down on her and her daughter, and grabbed Lucinda’s arm. There was a brief, whispered argument, then Mrs. Newcombe dragged Lucinda across the street, ignoring the heavy traffic and the shouts and curses of irate drivers who had to pull up their teams to prevent a nasty mishap.
    Cherry and Maria stared after them in bewilderment. "What do you suppose that is all about?" Maria demanded indignantly.
    Cherry sighed. "I expect Mrs. Newcombe doesn’t approve of me," she said quietly.
    "Oh, Cherry, you are mistaken! Everyone adores you. I swear you’ve made the biggest splash in town since Sarah Siddons came to Drury Lane."
    Cherry shook her head and smiled sadly. "I’ve encountered several turned backs and overheard snatches of conversation about Marcus and me, about our rides...Somehow they’ve even found out that he gave me the velvet rose—there’s wagering among some of the ladies whether the pearl drops on the rose are paste or real!"
    "Who will they call on to settle their bets? You or Marcus?"
    Taken aback, Cherry slanted a glance at her friend, just in time to catch a quickly concealed gleam in her hazel eyes. And suddenly it all seemed rather ridiculous.
    "Let’s go and wheedle Lady Bolwood’s cook to prepare a pot of her delicious chocolate and we’ll celebrate my purchases," she suggested, her spirits buoyed by Maria’s presence and loyalty.
    They’d just settled into the parlor to enjoy the rich, sweet brew when Lady Bolwood stormed in, eyes blazing dangerously, and demanded their presence in her sitting room.
    "I’ve just returned from Lady Cowper’s, " she said with a groan, settling herself into her favorite wing-back chair. "And I never want to suffer through such a grueling half-hour again! I was quizzed by the Ladies Jersey and Dexter, your mama, Maria, and the Misses Arbuthnot—the two most vicious gossipmongers in town it has been my misfortune to encounter. Poor Emily tried so hard to give the conversation a different turn—but to no avail."
    "But whatever was the problem?" asked Maria.
    "Cherry and the Duke of Belcourt!"
    Cherry and Maria exchanged glances but found they had no comfort to offer.
    "I finally excused myself with a sudden attack of nausea and left them sitting there with their big mouths agape, but I did not even get to taste one of Emily’s famous tea cakes!"
    "I am sorry you had such a miserable time. I know how much you’d been looking forward to Lady Cowper’s tea," Cherry commiserated.
    The countess turned accusing eyes on her. "I don’t see that you are any help, young lady. Something must be done immediately if we are to stop the gossips, but as long as you continue to sit in the duke’s pocket—riding with him, attending dinners at Carlton House in his company, dancing and laughing with him at every ball..." she said, ticking off Cherry’s offenses on her fingers, and let out a despairing sigh.
    "Yes, ma’am," Cherry agreed. "I can see there is only one thing to be done—I must retire from the social scene and concentrate on my music instead."
    "That’s not the way to do it, child! As though I’d agree to such a cork-brained notion," the countess scoffed.
    "But it would be a simple and painless remedy. I don’t wish for a busy social life; I came to establish a career. I feel I’ve made some progress in that direction, but now I’m being hemmed in on all sides by entertainments and rumors—and it all swallows valuable time I should be spending at the pianoforte."
    "Yes, but your dear mama would have my head on a platter if I didn’t make the slightest push to get you creditably established. If only the duke would make his intentions clear!"
    Maria had listened to this interchange with some amusement. Cherry’s intitial reluctance to enter into the fun and frolic of the season was no secret to her, nor were Lady Bolwood’s efforts to find a suitable husband for Cherry. But she suspected that Cherry’s protests since the duke’s return had only been halfhearted. Now she offered diffidently, "I’ve had occasion to observe Marcus with Cherry. I’d hazard a guess that he is extremely serious in his pursuit of her. In her company he is completely transformed; none of his cynical flirtatiousness, which he offers to most ladies, is evident when he speaks to her. I’ve seen him tender and protective only."
    "Don’t forget that you witnessed his peremptory, authoritative, and masterful manner toward me when he met us in the park," Cherry supplied dryly. "Anyway, all this speculation about Marcus is not to the point. He did propose to me after the fiasco at Lady Aberlaine’s, but naturally I turned him down."
    "Naturally," Lady Bolwood said with dreadful calm. Then she shrieked. "You turned down the Duke of Belcourt? And not a word to me about it, you unnatural child! Cherry, how could you do this to your mama, to say nothing of me?" She subsided against the cushions of her chair and covered her eyes with trembling fingers. Finally she demanded, "Then why on earth do you still see so much of him? Has he renewed his suit? I simply don’t understand any of this."
    But Cherry wore her mulish look and would not reply. Her chin was jutting defiantly, and her expression was obstinate, Maria observed. It seemed, nevertheless, that she was perilously close to tears. "Cherry, if you cannot get out of your social obligations, could you perhaps bring yourself to see more of some other gentlemen?" she asked quietly.
    Cherry gave her a rather watery smile. "Harry suggested much the same, even offered to set himself up as my latest flirt. But it won’t do, Maria. Now I’m considered fast because it is believed I’m setting my cap at Marcus. If I transfer my attentions to another, I’ll be called a fickle coquette. Which of the ladies would then ask me to perform at her home? They’d all wonder whether I’ll choose my next victim among their sons and husbands."
    "You are exaggerating shamefully, but I do see your point."
    "So, what’s to be done?" Lady Bolwood queried.
    "Nothing at all, ma’am," Cherry assured her staunchly. "Since His Grace has graciously extended his friendship to me, I’d be an ingrate if I refused to see him. Besides, I like him."
    The countess gasped, but before she could deliver another homily, Benson chose this auspicious moment to knock and announce callers.
    "His Grace the Duke of Belcourt, and Lord Dexter, my lady."
    "Speak of the devil," Maria muttered.
    Cherry’s sense of the ridiculous quickly won the upper hand over her attack of the dismals. She covered her face with her hands to hide the bubbles of laughter she could not suppress.
    "Indulging in a spot of the vapors, Cherry?" Marcus raised a quizzical brow at the sight of her shaking shoulders. "In that case, I shall not ask you to drive with me. Lady Bolwood—" His bow was perfection as he turned toward the older woman. " Will you do me the honor of taking a turn in the park with me?"
    Torn between amusement at his audacity and annoyance at his untimely arrival, the countess declined politely. "I have come in but a few moments ago. I was at Emily Cowper’s, and a most harrowing time I’ve had—" She stopped short. After all, she could not very well tell His Grace that it was his conduct toward Cherry which had caused her discomfort—but she could certainly drop a hint.
    With a sly glance at Cherry, who had uncovered her face but showed unmistakable signs of wanting to dissolve in more undignified giggles, she said, "However, if you will be so kind as to take Cherry off my hands—vapors and all—I shall be most grateful. I know you won’t mind my request. Your frequent visits here have made you quite one of the family." With a smile she leaned her head against the back of her chair to better observe the effects of this taunt.
    With Cherry, the shot had hit home. All traces of laughter and mischief were wiped from her face. She looked with narrowed eyes first at Lady Bolwood, then at the duke.
    Marcus, in turn, studied Cherry in hopes of a clue to the reason behind these pointed remarks, yet neither could read anything in the other’s well-schooled features. Finally he shrugged lightly and smiled his lopsided grin.
    "Of course, Lady Bolwood. Your wish is my command, especially since I cannot ask Maria to accompany me. Dexter would have my head if I did."
    Lord Dexter took his cue with a flourishing bow. "Miss Wilmott, would you care for a drive? Your butler told me I might find you here when I called at Upper Grosvenor Street."
    Maria was happy to accept and soon found herself next to Lord Dexter in his sporting curricle, while Cherry ascended to the high perch of the duke’s phaeton.
    "And what was that all about, my dear?" Marcus demanded when they were under way.
    "Just one of Lady Bolwood’s odd humors. It’s best to take no notice of it at all."
    He threw a quick glance at her tight-lipped countenance before turning his attention to his grays. "For a moment I thought you had changed your mind and accepted my suit," he observed casually.
    "Without telling you? Don’t be a ninny, Marcus. Doing it much too brown, you know." Her eyes sparkled again, and her dimples peeped endearingly.
    "It might have slipped your mind," he murmured.
    "If you believed that, even if only for a moment, it must have tipped you quite a leveler."
    Marcus chuckled. "Pray remember where you are, Cherry. In London you must not copy your brother Robin’s style. Tipping me a leveler, indeed!"
    "And just how did you get to know Robin’s vocabulary?"
    Caught off guard, the top-sawyer Duke of Belcourt slackened his grip on the reins, causing his surprised pair to take the comer at Chesterfield Gate just a mite too fast. For a few seconds the phaeton teetered on one wheel, on the brink of disaster. But immediately he had himself and the horses under control again, and mishap was averted.
    "Damn! Half the Four-in-Hand Club watched this cowhanded performance of feathering a corner. They’ll dine out on it for months."
    "Pray remember where you are, Marcus. In London gentlemen do not swear in the presence of a lady. Nor anywhere else, for that matter."
    "Touché. And I do apologize—for my lack of manners as well as my lack of driving skills."
    "You can’t bamboozle me, you know. You’ve never lacked the latter. My question threw you off balance, which makes me wonder even more how you seem to know so much about Robin."
    When no answer was forthcoming, she quirked one eyebrow at him. Marcus looked ill-at-ease. In a lesser man she’d have called it sheepish. "Well?" she demanded sternly.
    With an exaggerated sigh and the familiar grin he muttered, "In for a penny, in for a pound. I confess, I’ve met Robin. In fact I’ve met all of your family." He ignored her gasp and continued, quite unruffled, "Do you know where Morning Glory is situated?"
    Cherry shook her head.
    "I thought not. It lies just north of Dartmoor, and I simply could not resist driving over to see your family. They are wonderful, Cherry. I fell in love with your mother and perhaps just a trifle with Melly. That’s what you must have been like at sixteen, and during your matronly years you’ll look like your beautiful mama. I found it very intriguing."
    "Yes, that’s all very well." She dismissed the beauties of her family with one sweep of her hand. "But what did you do? What did you talk about?" By no stretch of her imagination could she see what the debonair duke had found of interest in her family.
    "Let’s see now. I played at lottery tickets with Melly, Sara, and Robin; your mama and I discussed what the season had to offer this spring, and we also discovered that we have several mutual acquaintances. She is very hopeful, by the way, that you will be creditably established before long, and expects you to bring out Sara next season."
    "What?" she squealed in deepest indignation.
    "I’ve no doubt Sara will take the town by storm. Her fiery hair, if not her poise and charm, will guarantee it. You need not worry she’ll be a wallflower," he said consolingly.
    Cherry swallowed a retort. As though she’d ever question Sara’s beauty and appeal! The twinkle in Marcus’s eyes assured her that he was only teasing. She relaxed and tilted her head to regard him from the corner of her eye. "And Simon and Robin? I suppose they, too, expect a season?"
    "They wouldn’t mind a few weeks in London to acquire a bit of town bronze, but I don’t believe they’ll ask for vouchers to Almack’s, m’dear. Gentleman Jackson’s and Manton’s are more in their line."
    "Don’t I know it! I wager they plied you with questions until Papa put a stop to it." My God, Papa! she thought. With a stricken look in her eyes she asked hesitantly, "Whatever did you and Papa find to talk about?" Not my scrapes, I hope, she prayed silently.
    There was an infinitesimal pause before he replied, "We discussed ‘Orator’ Hunt, digressed into philosophy, and ended the evening with a lively discussion of The Iliad."
    "Yes, I can believe that." She was breathing easier now. "Papa is debating whether he should engage in writing another translation. He feels he can improve on George Chapman’s version. But, on the other hand, he wants England’s aspiring scholars to read the original. He fears if a second translation is at hand, they’ll become even lazier."
    "I can attest to that. My brother Phillip never would learn Greek. He contends that anything worth reading should be printed in the English language. Your father definitely could find a market for his work. I encouraged him to go ahead with it because, after all, The Odyssey was first translated by Chapman and then, a century later, by Alexander Pope."
    Dozens more questions about his conversation with her father milled in Cherry’s head, but she was loath to ask them—neither did Marcus volunteer any more information.
    Hyde Park was crowding fast with fashionable carriages, with dashing riders and elegant ladies and gentlemen on the promenade. Cherry and Marcus had lost sight of Maria and Dexter some time ago and decided to wend their way home. The crush of carriages was now so great that it was impossible to turn about. Marcus, perforce, completed the circuit and was about to exit through the Grosvenor Gate when they were hailed by Lady Jersey. Obedient to her summons, he pulled up and waited until her coachman had maneuvered the barouche alongside the phaeton.
    "Our inseparables. How charming!" Lady Jersey gushed. "My dear Miss Sinclair, I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when Prinny invited me to his dinner to meet you. And you played so delightfully! I am planning a musicale in a fortnight. Dare I ask you to come and play for us?"
    "Is there anything you would not dare, Sally?" the duke asked. "I feel certain Miss Sinclair will be pleased to play for you, but give us a few days to work out her schedule and pay scale. What is the date you set for your musicale? Thursday, April fifteenth? Very good. I’ll take note of it. You see, Sally, I’m by way of acting Miss Sinclair’s agent. You shall have a definite reply and a quote of her fee in a few days."
    "Dear Marcus. Always so obliging," she murmured with a tight little smile. "But does our bright young pianist have nothing to say for herself?"
    "I’d be delighted to come," was all Cherry could mutter.
    She was completely overwhelmed by Marcus’s high-handed dealings regarding her time and money. Part of her wanted to remonstrate with him for demanding a fee when, obviously, Lady Jersey had expected her services free. But, on the other hand, he was establishing with finesse what she herself had been struggling to do in vain: her status as a professional musician. Wisely, she kept quiet.
    Lady Jersey nodded graciously, but as the two vehicles started to roll, she gave her parting shot. "I saw Lady Bolwood at Emily Cowper’s today. Did she mention it? Such a dear, sweet lady. We had a most comfortable coze—so enlightening, too."
    Marcus exited Hyde Park, and Lady Jersey’s barouche entered into the throng of carriages making their slow and stately progress around the park.
    "Since when have we become the ‘inseparables’?" he queried with a grin. "If ‘Silence’ had a comfortable coze with Lady Bolwood, it must have been deucedly uncomfortable for the dear countess. Now I need not speculate any longer about her strange behavior."
    "No, but you could do something about it," Cherry retorted.
    "About Lady Bolwood’s behavior? My dear, I may be a duke, but that doesn’t give me the right to censure her. She has a perfectly capable husband to do so. I could snub her, of course, but somehow the thought doesn’t appeal."
    "If you weren’t driving, I’d box your ears, Marcus! You know full well that I’m talking about your behavior. Your singling me out and the subsequent cattishness of her so-called friends is causing Lady Bolwood distress."
    "I don’t think her distress is caused so much by my attentions to you as by not knowing whether my intentions are honorable," he guessed shrewdly. "But you could so easily put her fears to rest, Cherry. Or are you telling me to go to the devil?"
    She flinched at his question and looked at him in consternation.
    "In that case, my dear, you must be more specific. I’m awfully thick-skinned, not at all sensitive to hints."
    While she considered the matter at some length, Marcus grew restless. A gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach caused him to question his prudence. Had he pushed her too far too soon? Damn her obstinacy. So many young ladies would give their eyeteeth—and more—to be in Cherry’s shoes, and he couldn’t care less about them.
    But this stubborn chit, whom he wanted to fall for him, considered her career more important than the illustrious position of Duchess of Belcourt. And she might even attain her cherished goal. It was an unheard-of feat for a lady of quality, but she was well on her way to becoming a renowned concert pianist.
    He regarded her anxiously, searching her face for a reflection of her thoughts. But her eyes, which usually gave away her feelings, were screened behind long, tawny lashes. His gaze caressed her profile, lingered on the delicate blue veins in her temple, on the high cheekbones, and came to rest on her shapely lips. How they seemed to invite his kiss! He turned away abruptly, only to be recalled by Cherry’s voice.
    "I don’t think so, Marcus," she said softly, apologetically.
    "You don’t think what?" he asked, disoriented by the trend his thoughts had been following.
    Her eyebrows rose in astonishment. "I don’t think I want you to go to the devil. You surprise me, Marcus. Have you become so scatterbrained that you do not recall your own question?"
    "Never mind my question. Kindly explain to me why you still want my company if the notoriety of that association is so painful."
    "Pray remember that it is Lady Bolwood who is very distressed. Quite honestly, I’m afraid I enjoy your attentions. Something must have gone sadly wrong with Papa’s teachings," she mused. "I think I may have encouraged you shamelessly since you returned from Morning Glory. I’ve come to realize—deflating though it may be to my ego—that a certain amount of notoriety is very helpful to my career. Lady Jersey, for instance, would not have asked me to perform at her musicale if she didn’t think she’d cause a stir by having me. Am I not correct, Marcus?"
    "Yes," he admitted gruffly. "But don’t ever think that’s all there is to it. In the end it will be your talent and your diligence alone which will prove your success."
    "Oh, I know that. But you are boosting me up several rungs of the ladder to success with just a few words, while I might have struggled several years. I appreciate that, Marcus. I do. And if you don’t mind terribly, I should like to remain at the center of your attentions occasionally."
    She did not tell him, of course, that she could not even bear to think about the possibility of his turning away from her. It was too painful to contemplate.
    "I shall endeavor to give you my full cooperation." Marcus lapsed into gloomy silence. It was a lowering thought that he was to be part of Cherry’s life merely on the merits of his rakish reputation, because he was helpful in giving her "a certain notoriety." Was this any different from Sylvia’s wanting to gain advantage through him?
    Oh yes, he protested quite vigorously to his doubting inner voice. Cherry could make it on her own! If he withdrew his support from her, she would strike out on her own rather than give up and accept his proposal of marriage as a way out.
    Suddenly it was vital to him that she achieve her goals soon. His proposal—made because his sense of honor demanded such—popped up in his thoughts too often for his own peace of mind. It was just possible that he had finally fallen in love and wished to marry her for that reason alone.
    But it was too early to put the question to her again. Let Cherry get her profession established first. Meanwhile, he would pursue this matter of love a bit longer to be quite certain about his feelings. It wouldn’t do to tell a woman he loved her, only to find a little later that he’d been mistaken or to have his love thrown back in his face by her because she didn’t return his regard.
    These were such new and startling thoughts that he pulled hard on the reins and brought the phaeton to a halt.
    "Well, I like that!" Arms akimbo in exasperation, Cherry turned to Marcus. "You’ve driven around the square twice without heeding my wish to be set down, and now you stop fully two doors away from Bolwood House. I know you think exercise and fresh air important to my health, but aren’t you taking it just a bit far, Marcus?"
    Under her dancing eyes his rugged features turned a shade darker. Hastily he rectified his faux pas.

    CHERRY trailed slowly into the house. What a day it had been. She needed to hide somewhere and think, but Lady Bolwood was sure to find her in her chamber or in the back drawing room. The small garden at the back of the house? It would be quiet and peaceful there. She slipped out and sat down on the wooden bench. It had received a new coat of white paint since she’d been here last, she noted. There were other changes, too. The snowdrops and crocuses had given way to riotous tulips in all colors of the rainbow, the forsythia bushes were opening their fragrant blossoms, and bees droned busily around the blooms. More birds than before had found a haven from soot and dust in the evergreen shrubs and the budding elm trees.
    With a contented sigh she stretched out her legs and tilted her head back to expose her face to the gentle April sun. Bother the tiresome freckles which would surely show on the morrow—this was as near as she could get to the blissful, sun-drenched hours in the thriving vicarage garden in far away Cornwall. Untrammeled, her thoughts drifted on to Morning Glory in Devonshire...so close to home. She’d never seen it or heard it described, but the name conjured up a vision of green, well-tended lawns, shrubs, and flowers—by no means just the morning glories. Her brow wrinkled. Somehow she could not envision formal gardens at Morning Glory, where the gardener would watch with jealous eyes that not one bud was cut to upset the symmetry of his carefully planned beds. There had to be at least one spot where everything grew in abundance and no one would notice if two or even three baskets full of flowers were picked. She’d have to ask Marcus about it—
    Shocked into awareness, she bridled her wayward thoughts. Surely she’d done enough mischief today by assuring Marcus that she enjoyed his attentions. Forgetting decorum and modesty, she’d even asked him to continue in the same vein to further her career. No wonder he’d been distraught when he drove her back to Bolwood House.
    "Pardon, Miss Cherry, but you have a caller." Benson looked apologetic at having to disturb her solitude. "It is a Mr. Clementi. Shall I tell him you are not receiving?"
    "Oh no! I shall be in directly, Benson. Or better still, ask Mr. Clementi to come here. He might enjoy the flowers, too. And please bring some wine, Benson."
    One footman carried a tiny round table out into the garden, another balanced two brimming glasses of a light white wine on a tray, while Benson bowed Muzio Clementi into the garden.
    "Ah, Miss Cherry. This is delightful." The musician smiled. His white locks were flying as he darted admiring looks here and there. "Just like the days when I traveled on the Continent. There is nothing like a glass of spritely Rhine wine in a garden alive with blooms to quench a thirst on a warm spring day. A votre santé!"
    After they had tasted the wine, he came straight to the point. "We have had some excitement at the Philharmonic Society. The Earl of Scarborough requested that we postpone the fourth concert by one week and perform it on Monday, the nineteenth. We agreed, only to learn today that Mr. Braham will not be available that day. I am hoping you would wish to help us out by coming to play in our concert. We have an associateship open, and I am authorized to invite you most cordially to join us."
    Cherry was speechless, but Mr. Clementi seemed not to mind her lack of response. Beaming happily at her, he continued, "I know you’ve been working on the Emperor Concerto. Do you believe you will have mastered it by the nineteenth? I am not pressuring you, my dear, and if there is any doubt in your mind, please let me know now. You may then perform one or two of my little sonatinas, which Henry Bishop assures me you play to perfection."
    "I am ready for the Emperor Concerto," Cherry exulted. "Would you like to listen to it? Ohh...!" She leaped and whirled about, hugging herself. "I cannot believe it. I am to play at the Argyll Rooms!"
    Muzio Clementi chuckled. "Believe it, my dear. And I know you will do us proud. To tell the truth, I am mightily glad Mr. Braham cannot attend. It was planned that he sing Beethoven’s great scena ‘Ah perfido’ in the changed version ‘Ah perfida,’ which I could not like."
    He rose slowly, straightening his frock coat with meticulous care. "Please let us retire to the pianoforte now. I must hear you play and decide what is to be done. As you know, we shall have only one rehearsal, and that one on the morning of the performance. It may be a long rehearsal," he said with chuckle. "It is all we get."
    Cherry remained at the pianoforte long after Mr. Clementi had taken his leave. She did not play a note, just sat there with joy radiating from every pore of her body. Her mouth curved in a dreamy smile and her eyes shone with happiness as she savored the triumph of the moment.
    The Philharmonic Society...the Argyll Rooms...She would he able to meet Miss Stephens, whom she’d admired at the opera, and such other famous lady performers as Madame Bellochi, Miss Corri, and Mrs. Salmon, who was to sing at the fourth concert.
    Then a small voice far back in her whirling mind insisted on admittance into her consciousness. No need now to look for an excuse if you are afraid to be in Marcus’s company. You are committed to long hours of practice; you have no time to go gallivanting all over town.
    Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. She was so close to her goal—pray let her be prepared for the challenge!

Chapter 11

    "Cherry! Have you seen him yet?" In a flurry of skirts and petticoats, Charlotte Wilmott burst into the back drawing room, a full twenty paces ahead of her elder sister.
    Resigning herself to the fact that her piano practice would have to be postponed indefinitely, Cherry took her hands off the keys and rubbed her eyes. "Seen who?" she asked without curiosity.
    "Lord Phillip, of course—the Duke of Belcourt’s young brother. He has returned from the United States!"
    "No, Charlotte, I have not. I did not even know he was expected back. Marcus didn’t say anything—or possibly I paid no heed when he told me. Lately my thoughts have a tendency to wander off and concentrate on my concerts instead of conversation," she said, half in apology, half as a threat. Too many callers were cutting short her time at the pianoforte, and she meant to put a stop to it.
    "Just this once your distraction is not to blame, Cherry." Maria had finally caught up with her sister and hugged Cherry affectionately. Her brown eyes twinkled with merriment as she continued, "Not even Marcus knew that Phillip would return today. He simply walked in and joined Marcus for breakfast, as the gossips will have it. Naturally, this gives rise to all manner of lurid speculations. But to the point, we have come with strict orders from Lady Bolwood to unchain you from this instrument of torture. Come along! We’ll accompany you wherever you may wish to go. The lending library? The Burlington Arcade? You may wish to purchase new gloves, or silk stockings, or whatever, for tonight."
    Maria took one of her arms, Charlotte grabbed the other, and amid chuckles and squeals, they pulled the recalcitrant Cherry from the room.
    "Peace!" she cried. "Give over, do! I’m perfectly willing to visit with you while I take a bite of luncheon, but then I must return to the Emperor Concerto."
    "Lunch? At four o’clock?" Charlotte blinked in surprise.
    "Well, tea then," she conceded. "I must have missed luncheon."
    In the parlor she flopped onto the chaise-longue and leaned back against the brocade-covered cushions. Until she’d risen from the piano bench, she hadn’t realized how sore and stiff her shoulders and back were. She allowed Maria to pour the tea and serve the sandwiches and cakes that cook had thoughtfully sent up.
    "But, no matter which fabulous affair you have planned," she managed to protest between bites of cucumber sandwich, "I am not leaving the pianoforte tonight."
     "It sounds like you are speaking of a sick child instead of a brand-new Broadwood instrument," Charlotte marveled. "Why can’t you leave it?"
    With a little choke of laughter Maria placed her cup on the table to avoid spilling tea on her new gown. The stains would not go well with green-and-white-striped cambric. "Charlotte, my dear, you are turning into quite a wit. I couldn’t have put it better, except to point out that she surely deserves a rest after working diligently for a week. Come, Cherry, it won’t improve your playing if you wear yourself out before the concerts. Except for your rides with Marcus, you haven’t allowed yourself any relaxation." She raised an imperative hand to nip any protest in the bud. "Don’t bother to deny it! Lady Bolwood sent me a note overflowing with desperate pleas for help. You know I’m not the meddling sort, but if only half of her complaints have merit, I should still have come. And if you won’t listen to me, I shall send for Mr. Clementi to talk to you!"
    "Maria Wilmott! Don’t you dare. I cannot believe you’d serve me such a backhanded turn. And you call yourself a friend!"
    "Yes, dear. That’s what friends are for." Maria met her stormy look with slightly raised brows.
    Cherry’s eyes fell first. Her shoulders sagged, and her head drooped. Suddenly she looked as worn out as she felt. "You are so awfully correct," she admitted. "I have overdone it, but I’m scared, Maria!"
    "Why? You have given several performances. Even when you went to Carlton House for the first time, you didn’t experience such qualms, and I should think that playing before the Prince Regent would give anyone the jitters."
    Cherry pondered this for a moment, then haltingly put her feelings into words. "For years I’ve worked toward performing as a concert pianist. Nothing could distract me from my goal. And high up, as the bright star of my dream, always beckoned the Philharmonic Society." Her voice dropped in awe, and her eyes assumed a faraway look. "To play at the Argyll Rooms with Muzio Clementi...Johann Peter Salomon...Henry Bishop..." She jerked out of her revery and squeezed Maria’s hand tightly. "I have been invited into the Society as an associate. There are only twenty-five, Maria, and I shall be one of them!"
    "But Mr. Clementi is a member, I believe, not an associate?"
    "Yes, he is one of thirty members, and when a membership comes open, a successor will be chosen from among the associates."
    Some of Cherry’s intenseness transmitted to Maria. She whispered, "And now your dream is being fulfilled!"
    "Is it, Maria?" Cherry looked nervous, her brow creased in worry. "I shall be judged by the most outstanding musicians of our time—and I’m afraid I may be found wanting."
    "Don’t fret, dear. You’ll do splendidly. I still say, if you can play for the Prince Regent, you can play for anyone."
    Cherry smiled wryly. "You are regarding it from a social point of view and see my playing at Carlton House as the pinnacle of achievement. Don’t misunderstand, I feel very proud to be included in that group of performers, but to me the Philharmonic Society will always be the final test."
    "Perhaps Prinny will attend your concert. Shall that make you happy, Cherry?" Charlotte asked artlessly.
    Cherry exchanged amused glances with Maria. "Indeed, it would make me very happy," she replied solemnly—and promptly yawned.
    Maria rose briskly and removed the plate of sandwiches from Cherry’s unresisting fingers. "I do understand why you are working so hard. But today is only the seventh, and if you continue in this vein, you’ll be sick by the nineteenth. What other engagements do you have?"
    "On Tuesday I’m playing at Carlton House, and Thursday week at Lady Jersey’s musicale."
    "You have almost a week to prepare for Prinny’s concert. That is more than enough time. To bed you go! Take a long nap. Tonight I expect to see you at Almack’s, and if Lady Bolwood is not planning to attend, send me word. Dexter and I will gladly take you up in the carriage."
    "So it’s ‘Dexter’ now, is it? You’ve been very busy yourself this past week," Cherry teased.
    "Mama says that Lord Dexter will declare himself any day now," Charlotte piped. "Personally, I don’t see what Maria finds so fascinating about him. He’s not dashing at all like the duke or Mr. Blythe. But he is very kind," she added hastily when she noticed her sister’s darkling look. "And with him Maria can talk horses to her heart’s content. He even has a stud farm and breeds his own racehorses."
    "That’s quite enough now, miss. Make your adieus to Cherry; we’re leaving."
    Cherry gave Maria a quick hug after Charlotte had flounced out of the parlor. "I am very sorry I teased you. You are serious about him, aren’t you?"
    Maria blushed. "Yes, and you may wish me happy. Dexter has asked me to be his wife, and I have accepted. We are keeping it secret for a while to give his mama time to get accustomed to seeing us together. We’ve known each other for such a short time only. Well, of course, we did meet last season and the year before, but it simply wasn’t the same."
    "I wish you very happy, and I know you won’t have any difficulties with Lady Dexter. She’s so glad that her son has escaped my clutches..."
    "That she would welcome almost anyone?" Maria finished dryly. "I know. But how can my ego survive such knowledge?"
    They collapsed back onto the chaise-longue, trying vainly to stifle their mirth.
    "What’s keeping you?" Charlotte poked her head back into the room and watched them suspiciously. "Why are you two giggling like schoolroom misses? You are forever telling me to show more decorum, and now just look at you!"
    "Quite right, Charlotte. Let’s get back to serious business. Off to bed with you, Cherry. Don’t forget, you are expected at Almack’s!"
    "Do you think the Duke of Belcourt will bring his brother to the assembly?" Charlotte asked breathlessly.
    But her sister squashed such hopes. "Phillip arrived only this morning. Do you seriously believe he traveled all the way across the Atlantic to attend Almack’s?"

    A LONG nap and an excellent dinner had done much to restore Cherry’s physical well-being, although she still felt tense and listless. She was torn between pangs of guilt that she was skimping on her time at the pianoforte and a fervent desire to forget all her worries and fears for a few carefree hours in the company of her good friends. However, she knew that if Marcus remained at home tonight with his brother, she would miss him sorely. No one else had the knack to distract her as he did.
    She stared moodily at the rows of leather-bound volumes in the library, where she and Lord Bolwood were waiting for the countess to complete her toilette. The earl—as silent and lost in thought as Cherry—poured two glasses of port. They were sipping the ruby wine when the Duke of Belcourt was shown in by Benson.
    "Marcus! I did not look to see you tonight." As always when she encountered him unexpectedly, her pulse started racing.
    "I came to bully you into attending Almack’s, but I see I need not waste my breath. You’re dressed to the nines. It is for Almack’s, is it not?"
    Cherry nodded, and he let his eyes feast on the lovely vision in pale-blue silk falling in straight, classical lines from the high waistline. Wispy puffs of midnight-blue lace hinted at sleeves and beckoned him to brush kisses onto her exposed shoulders. Cherry’s shining hair was caught up in an elaborate knot on top of her head, with three long curls teasing him from behind her left ear.
    Cherry, in turn, had her admiring gaze fixed on Marcus. Since she had only seen him attired in casual riding dress this past week, his stunning appearance in a perfectly tailored dark coat and knee breeches had the same effect on her as on their first meeting, leaving her senses reeling. An air of quiet elegance surrounded him, unmarred by a surplus of showy jewelry as so many of the dandies liked to display. Only a single diamond sparkled in the folds of his cravat, and one slim ruffle of snowy lace was allowed to peek from under each sleeve of his coat.
    So engrossed were they in each other that neither paid heed to the young man who had followed in Marcus’s wake. It was left to Lord Bolwood to welcome and introduce Lord Phillip to Miss Sinclair.
    Lord Bolwood brushed aside the duke’s apology. "Never mind, Belcourt. Much can be forgiven as long you’ve come to take Cherry to Almack’s. To tell the truth, Alicia is suffering from the headache a little. She’ll be glad if she may stay at home. If you hadn’t come, she’d have attended if she had to be carried on a litter, so worried as she’s been that Cherry has closeted herself in the back drawing room for a whole week." He shook his head in disbelief at the caprice of women.
    "I am so sorry," exclaimed Cherry, conscience-stricken. "I had no notion that Lady Bolwood is feeling poorly. Had I but known, I’d have accepted Maria’s offer to take me up in her carriage."
    "And now you shall go with us. After all, that is precisely why Phillip and I came here. We intend to make a grand entrance with you, Cherry."
    For the first time she looked fully at Marcus’s young brother and blinked in surprise. He was a younger, gentler version of Marcus. Where the duke’s chin was forceful and his cheekbones seemed chiseled into his rugged features, Phillip’s were softer, more delicately modeled. But he possessed the same blazing, light-blue eyes as Marcus and an identical mop of unruly, dark-brown hair. About two inches shorter than his elder brother and with just a bit less width in the shoulder, he was a very handsome young man indeed. She guessed his age to be about twenty-five or twenty-six years.
    Lord Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Is there ought amiss with my person, Miss Sinclair?"
    "Nothing at all, my lord," she assured him hastily. "I’m just amazed at the similarity between you and Marcus."
    "Now you can appreciate how I felt when I confronted Melly for the first time," Marcus said with a grin. "But let’s be off. We don’t want to be locked out by the lynx-eyed Mr. Willis."
    Cherry hesitated. "I understand you arrived only this morning, my lord. Are you up to the vigors of Almack’s after your long journey?"
    "Lord, yes, Miss Sinclair. I’ve accomplished more strenuous feats. But please, call me Phillip. After spending eighteen months in the United States, my title rings false in my ears. Only parvenus and social climbers stress a title in America."
    "And you must call me Cherry. Tell me, did you travel across the continent or did you spend all your time in one city?"
    That released a veritable flood of tales and descriptions, which was cut off only when the carriage stopped in King Street and they were ushered into Almack’s famous ballroom. They did indeed achieve a grand entrance. The sight of Cherry’s golden-haired beauty flanked by the two dark Corinthians stopped several dancers and certainly attracted all eyes. Then they were surrounded by a bevy of Phillip’s old friends and young ladies who wished to catch his attention.
    Laughing, Lord Phillip drew away from them all. "Cherry, they are striking up a waltz. Would you care to dance?" He turned to the group of disappointed young people and promised, "I’ll find time for all of you, never fear. I’ve come home to stay. You see, I ran out of coats, and since neither Weston nor Stultz could be persuaded to emigrate to America, I’ve decided to remain here as well."
    Amid guffaws and chuckles he led Cherry to the dance floor and swung her expertly into the stream of waltzing couples. "You are quite as beautiful as Marcus described you."
    "And you are quite as brash as he is. How you two get away with it is more than I can understand."
    "Nothing but the old Belcourt charm," he said, grinning.
    "I shan’t contradict you, my lord. I imagine the ladies in America must be heartbroken now that you’ve left. Will they follow you across the ocean, do you think?"
    Phillip wrinkled his brow. "I don’t believe so, Cherry," he said quite seriously. "I found that most young ladies there are more sensible than I remembered the debutantes in London to be. But possibly my perspective is at fault. After all, I was but a callow youth when I left. I have returned a man."
    She studied him carefully, then a smile lit up her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "You are as much a man as Marcus. Did the realization of your maturity bring you home in such a helter-skelter way?"
    He grinned. "So you didn’t believe I’d run out of coats. Actually, I’d been toying with the idea of returning home for some time, and when I learned that friends of mine were planning to try out their yacht in an ocean-crossing voyage, I asked for a berth. They took me as far as Ireland, and from there I made my own way."
    When the waltz ended, he relinquished her to Harry Blythe, who was replaced by young Lord Merton, and so on. Cherry danced, laughed, and was the doubtful recipient of dozens of compliments. Finally she begged off and asked her escort to take her into the refreshment room. In a quiet corner she espied Maria and Dexter with their heads together. She excused herself to her disappointed young swain and joined them instead.
    "I know you must be wishing me to the devil, but I need a respite from dancing and the stifling conversation the gentlemen have adopted as de rigueur. What makes them believe I want to hear a dozen times that my hair is like ripe wheat, and my eyes are like a leaden sky before a thunderstorm, or something equally inane?"
    Maria smiled and moved closer to Dexter to make room for Cherry on the narrow settle. "Surely not all of them, dear? Will you take some orgeat or lemonade?"
    Cherry shuddered. "Either will be vile and almost impossible to swallow, but I’m parched. Let it be orgeat," she declared courageously.
    When Dexter had left to procure a glass, Maria observed dryly, "I’m happy to see you in bloom again. You’ve had a miraculous recovery since this afternoon. At least one or two of the gentlemen must have offered you more than commonplace phrases. Out with it. Was it Marcus...or Phillip? It can’t have been Sylvia—her black looks at you would surely not cause such a glow in your eyes."
    "Oh, is she here?" Cherry asked without much interest. "Maria, you were so right to drag me away from the pianoforte. I believe I’d have suffocated had I secluded myself much longer. And yes—" She smiled mischievously. "Phillip is a very charming young man. He regaled us with hair-raising tales of America. Very edifying. Should you like to meet him?"
    "I’ve known Phillip since he was in short-coats. I doubt he changed much during his absence. But Charlotte is aux anges to have him introduced to her."
    "That may be arranged just as soon as I’ve had this waltz with Cherry." Marcus loomed tall and demanding above them. "May I have the honor, Miss Sinclair?"
    She rose without demur and placed her hand on his arm. Just then Dexter arrived, bearing a brimming glass of orgeat. "Here, I say," he protested. "At least give her time to take a swig after I’ve fought a veritable battle to get to this noxious brew."
    With a grin Marcus took the cup from him and held it to Cherry’s lips. She took a small sip, then shook her head, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
    "Here you are, old boy." Marcus handed the drink back to Dexter. "Satisfied?" Before any more delays could prevent his dance, he drew Cherry toward the ballroom. "Sorry about the haste, my dear, but I didn’t want to miss half the waltz. I demand at least as much time with you as my pesky little brother enjoyed. Do you like him?"
    "Oh, yes." She smiled up at him. "He’s a great gun, and an outrageous fibster. Some of the exploits he recounted will tax the most credulous mind, but I adore him."
    Marcus swung her into the throng of dancers and pulled her roughly against his chest.
    "Marcus!" she hissed. "Mind your manners. You are holding me too close."
    "It’s not too close for me," he responded promptly. "Well, Phillip’s nearer you in age than I am. I suppose that accounts for your taking an instant liking to him?"
    Surprised by the note of uncertainty in his voice, she peeked at him covertly. She wanted to giggle at this unusual show of childish behavior in Marcus, but the troubled look in his serious face soon set her heart racing. She searched frantically for a noncommittal reply. This was not the time or the place to get into deep waters. "I haven’t known him as long as I have you. So, how can I tell?" she quipped.
    He looked down at her, his eyes dark, burning into hers. She could not turn away, even had she wanted to. She felt bonded to him—by the strength of his arm around her waist and by the fire in his eyes. They danced in silence, absorbed in each other. Mute questions volleyed between them, but now there was no urgency for answers.
    Then the music stopped. The jostling of the other couples as they left the floor broke the magic ring that had encircled them. Cherry pulled away.
    They walked over to a group of their friends who were gathered under the musician’s balcony. Cherry noted with some surprise that Lady Aberlaine had joined Phillip and seemed to hold him spellbound with her glinting green eyes and long red hair falling like a fiery cloud about her bare shoulders. Marcus frowned and steered her toward the pair. When she would have removed her hand from his arm to go to Maria instead, his strong fingers clamped down over hers.
    With a sickening lurch deep inside her, she realized that Marcus was jealous and would use her to get back at Sylvia for flirting with his brother. She felt the blood drain from her face and knew she must sit down. Yet she could not jerk herself free of his tight grip without causing an embarrassing commotion.
    "Good evening, Sylvia. I see you’ve met my scapegrace brother. Pray do not let his gentle appearance fool you, for he’s up to every rig in town. And if not, I think I can still bail him out as I used to before he went on his educational tour." Marcus’s voice was silky, but the underlying threat rang crystal clear.
    Sylvia’s eyes blazed in fury, and Cherry felt bewildered. This was not what she had expected him to say to his mistress. But then, Marcus never did the expected. Phillip only darted watchful looks from one to the other.
    "I was merely telling Lord Phillip about a gelding the Duke of Clarence is selling from his stables," Sylvia purred.
    "That’s right," Phillip confirmed. "and I was trying to convince Lady Aberlaine that I’m not in need of a horse."
    "But then, your little brother does not know yet that you’ve given Nestor to Miss Sinclair, does he, Marcus?"
    Cherry recoiled as though Sylvia had slapped her. She focused with some difficulty on Marcus. "Nestor is Lord Bolwood’s horse, is he not?" she pleaded.
    "Cherry..."
    She spun around. The stricken, guilty look on Marcus’s face had confirmed Sylvia’s words. Never mind that he’d only loaned her the horse....
    This explained why there was so much gossip about their rides, why she’d not been able to order Nestor saddled at will. No wonder tongues were wagging freely about her. In the eyes of society, she was probably Marcus’s chère amie. What a fool she’d been!
    Cherry walked away blindly, fighting valiantly against the stubborn tears of disappointment and rage. A hand on her arm forced her to halt in her aimless flight. "Cherry, please wait." That was Phillip. Immediately afterward came Marcus’s voice: "Where do you think you’re going, Cherry?" Then Phillip again: "Gently, Marcus. Don’t you see how upset she is?"
    "I am going to find Maria and Dexter!" Cherry had finally succeeded in blinking her tears away, and she noted dimly that she was near the doors to the entrance hall. "I shall leave with them immediately," she determined. "Almack’s does not appear to agree with me."
    But Marcus very definitely thought differently. "You arrived here with Phillip and me, and you shall leave under our escort."
    "I shan’t!"
    "Take my arm, Cherry," Marcus demanded tersely.
    She gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, and asked in a voice that was only the slightest bit unsteady, "Will you give me your arm, please, Phillip?"
    He bowed and complied with her request, looking shaken and upset. His eyes signaled an urgent message. Cautiously she peeked back into the ballroom and found a multitude of eyes staring back at her. Clearly could she read the varying emotions: naked curiosity, pity, malicious amusement, and compassion.
    Cherry stole a glance at Marcus. He was so pale under his tan that, for an illogical moment, she feared he was seriously ill. But of course that was foolish. He was feeling the humiliation as strongly as she.
    Gathering the remnants of her shattered dignity, she slowly extended a hand toward him. When he met it and placed it on his arm, she felt the tremors and the involuntary stiffening of his muscles through the cloth of his shirt and coat.
    "Thank you, Cherry." His husky voice was like a gentle breath.
    Phillip retrieved her wrap and secured it about her shoulders, and together they left Almack’s.
    When they were seated in the carriage, Marcus turned up the small oil lamp that hung suspended from a short chain by the window. He entreated, "Cherry, look at me, please! Try to understand what happened. I was afraid you wouldn’t ride with me if you learned that Nestor was mine. Lord Bolwood does not keep horses in town, and I knew you would enjoy Nestor more than a livery hack. Besides, he needed the exercise as much as you."
    "As if your grooms couldn’t have exercised him," she retorted scathingly. Then her control crumbled and she cried out, "Why, Marcus? Why are you so bent on doing me mischief?"
    Stung, he flared up. "I wouldn’t harm you! I love you! I want to marry you."
    She sank back against the squabs and stared wide-eyed at him. "You love me?"
    "Yes!" he shouted; then, with the lopsided smile which never failed to touch her heart, he continued somewhat more calmly. "I know I picked two deucedly awkward moments to propose—and the first time I hadn’t even recognized that I love you. It all boils down to my inexperience."
    Phillip, who had kept so quiet in his corner that Marcus and Cherry had all but forgotten his existence, sat up like a shot at Marcus’s last words and snorted. "Now is the time for me to depart. You can’t expect me to sit by and listen to this. Inexperience—ha!" He rapped on the panel. When the carriage slowed down, he jumped out and slammed the door shut.
    "Cherry?" Marcus tried to read her face, but she had turned away, pretending an interest in the watchman calling out the hour and informing interested parties that it was a clear, cool night. "You understand what I was trying to say, don’t you? I’ve never been in love before—neither have I proposed marriage to any but you. We don’t have much time," he urged when the carriage started rolling again. "Please say you will marry me!"
    "No!"
    There was a moment of silence, then he asked, incredulous, "You do not still believe I’m proposing out of a sense of honor like that last time? Or that Sylvia has any claim on me? I told you, Cherry, I love you!"
    "You have a strange way of showing your love if you resort to underhanded dealings to get your way."
    "At the time we started our rides together, I did not know yet that I loved you, and—"
    "Please, Marcus," she interrupted. She swallowed hard to banish the lump in her throat. "I do not want to discuss it now."
    The eloquence of her tear-bright eyes was not lost on him. "Have it your way, my love," he consented reluctantly. He left his seat and sat down next to her. Before she realized what he was about, she was caught up in his arms and kissed soundly.
    "I’ve wanted to do this since my return from Morning Glory," he stated with eminent satisfaction.
    Cherry was so surprised by his sudden move that she did not even protest. Within the circle of his arms she felt herself relax, the warmth and security driving all other emotions from her mind, leaving only the wish to be able to halt time, to ride locked in his arms forever.
    But all too soon they arrived at Bolwood House, and he handed her from the carriage. "Good night, my love," he murmured and brushed his lips fleetingly against her wrist and palm.
    The touch was electrifying. "Thank you for being patient, Marcus," she whispered with some difficulty.
    As if in a dream she floated up the wide, curving stairs to her room. She encountered only Simpson leaving Lady Bolwood’s suite, and responded automatically to the news that the countess was sleeping soundly after having taken a small dose of laudanum. At least she need not face Lady Bolwood now. What could the countess have been about, to let her ride the duke’s horse?
    Cherry sat for a long time by her window, staring with unseeing eyes at the carriages and the enterprising young bucks on the stroll in the square, while in her mind she went over every nuance of Marcus’s declaration of love, and relived his kiss.
    For a long time—or so it appeared—she had loved Marcus with no hope that he would return her regard. She had carefully built an armor around her heart to ensure that she could enjoy his companionship without getting hurt. But Marcus did love her. It was wonderful, intoxicating knowledge to be savored and cherished. It was knowledge that would sustain her during the trying days ahead.

Chapter 12

    "How did you enjoy your evening, my dear?" Lady Bolwood, quite recovered from the headache, faced Cherry across the breakfast table. She was consuming cups of black coffee to dispel the distressing "cottonwool" effect the use of laudanum had on her head. "I am sorry I did not accompany you, but surely the escort of His Grace and Lord Phillip quite made up for it?"
    Cherry, who had just come in from her ride with Marcus, was demolishing a hearty meal of country-cured ham and boiled eggs. Since Marcus had made no reference to the night before, and had exerted himself to put her at her ease and reestablish their former, companionable relationship, nothing untoward had occurred between them to spoil her appetite. She took another bite of scone before replying.
    "I’m afraid the assembly was not as delightful as it might have been," she said finally, carefully choosing her words. "Lady Aberlaine deemed it necessary to warn Lord Phillip that the duke had given Nestor to me."
    The countess’s cup settled with a distinct crack on its saucer. "That mischief-maker! Cherry, I’m sorry you had to be exposed to such a spiteful cat. Don’t pay her any heed. She’s jealous, don’t you know. She used to be the duke’s latest...flirt."
    "Mistress is the correct term, Lady Bolwood. And in this case I felt I had to heed her, as it concerned me very closely. Would it not have been better had you told me the truth?"
    For a moment Lady Bolwood looked disconcerted, but then she rallied. "No, Cherry," she declared firmly. "Because you would not have ridden Nestor, and you would probably not have let me arrange for a livery horse either. But that’s all water under the bridge, and I hope you won’t be so silly as to refuse Nestor now, because that would certainly give rise to more speculation."
    "I have already ridden Nestor this morning. It is a vicious cycle, is it not?" she asked pensively. "Again I have committed a faux pas, but I cannot set it aright for fear of more gossip. I’m so tired of everything connected with the ton—I wash my hands of it! I’ll keep to myself from now on and concentrate on my career."
    "You can’t do that, Cherry. Not now! I am deep in preparations for a ball in your honor to be held after your performance at the Argyll Rooms, and I may possibly have a special surprise for you then, but I won’t talk about that yet."
    "Oh, ma’am, you shouldn’t! Even Mama wouldn’t want you to undertake the bother and expense of a ball. Please remember the purpose of my coming to town. I cannot let you do this."
    Lady Bolwood nodded cheerfully. "Very proper sentiments, my dear. But it is what I want to do, and you’d please me greatly by obliging me. It’ll be such fun—just like launching a daughter into society, which privilege, as you know, has been denied me. Besides," she added practically, "it is too late to halt the preparations. I’ve arranged with Gunter’s for the catering, the decorations have been selected, and the wines and champagnes have been bespoken."
    "But won’t it be rather awkward? I can hardly be back here before eleven o’clock—and I was hoping you and Lord Bolwood would attend the concert."
    "And so we shall. A ball should never commence before ten o’clock in any case; we’ll set a new trend by starting at half past eleven. But, truth to tell, I did toy with the notion of holding the ball Tuesday night, but what with the Regent having his dinner, it is out of the question. I know you don’t play at Carlton House that night, but too many of your friends might feel obliged to attend Prinny’s dinner rather than my ball."
    Cherry knew very well that the countess was referring mainly to Marcus and fought back a smile. Surely he would have come to Bolwood House, had the countess but known. After all, he loved her....
    Feeling rather lightheaded by that uplifting thought, she said, "Mayhap you should invite the Prince Regent to the ball; he might cancel his own arrangements to oblige you."
    "Well now, that is a thought! Yes, indeed, we shall hold our affair on Tuesday night after all."
    Happily Lady Bolwood immersed herself immediately in the pleasurable daydream of receiving His Royal Highness at Bolwood House and did not see Cherry rolling her eyes in dismay. With a murmured excuse, Cherry left the breakfast parlor to spend a few hours at the pianoforte.

    MARCUS was tying his cravat when a soft knock sounded on the door of his dressing room. His valet tiptoed across the carpet to admit one of the footmen, but neither addressed the duke until he had lowered his chin to press the folds of the starched muslin into place and had indicated by a satisfied nod that the procedure was completed.
    The footman bowed respectfully. "Lady Aberlaine has called, Your Grace."
    Marcus picked up his heavy signet ring and his watch. "Where have you put her, Harper?"
    "In the small parlor, Your Grace."
    "I shall be in my study. In five minutes you may show Lady Aberlaine in."
    "Yes, Your Grace."
    Marcus shrugged into his bottle-green coat and went downstairs. A deep frown marred his brow, and he closed the door to his study with unnecessary force before he sat down behind his desk. He disliked having to face unpleasantness before his breakfast—and he entertained no doubts that Sylvia’s visit would prove very unpleasant indeed. He wished he dared let her cool her heels until after he’d eaten; riding with Cherry had made him devilishly sharp-set. But undoubtedly that procedure would serve only to make the inevitable scene worse.
    When Harper admitted Lady Aberlaine, Marcus was busy scratching away with his pen in one of the many ledgers on the desk. At her entrance he wiped the pen carefully, placed it on the blotter, and rose courteously.
    "Good morning, Sylvia. Is that a new hat? Very fetching, my dear."
    Sylvia, who had been debating whether to throw herself passionately into the duke’s arms or put up a demure and restrained front, stopped in her tracks. She preened a little, twisting this way and that, affording him a good opportunity to admire her black-and-white-striped taffeta gown with a wisp of lace inserted at the revealing neckline, and her wide-brimmed black silk hat, trimmed with three white roses and bows of white lace.
    "Won’t you sit down and tell me to what I owe the honor of your visit?" He waited until she had disposed herself to advantage in a red plush chair before resuming his seat behind the safety of the mahogany desk.
    She pouted at this arrangement but deemed it prudent to come straight to the point. During her short association with the duke she had learned that when he was most scrupulously polite, it was best not to try his patience too hard.
    "Marcus, my dear, can you really wonder at my visit? What am I supposed to do but throw myself at your mercy when I’ve sent you four urgent notes already and none of them was heeded?"
    "Unless my secretary has suddenly turned negligent, your notes should have had the results you desired. Did you not receive five hundred pounds to help you out of your temporary difficulties?"
    "Yes, my dearest, and I assure you I am very grateful." Carefully she blinked her eyes until one glistening tear clung to her blackened lashes. "But the arrangement was so impersonal, so cold. Not once did you come to see me." The strategic tear rolled slowly down her rouged cheek.
    Marcus remained unmoved. "I saw you at Almack’s last night. That meeting proved none too felicitous, if I may remind you."
    "Oh, that." Sylvia dismissed the incident with a wave of her hand. "I was overwrought. And then there was no opportunity to be private with you to beg your pardon. I should not have spoilt your chances with Miss Sinclair. I am sorry, Marcus," she concluded, quite overcome by her own magnanimity.
    The duke’s lips tightened. His fingertips beat a rapid tattoo on the highly polished surface of the desk. "Sylvia," he said finally, looking her straight in the eyes, "I had hoped you’d take the hint of five hundred pounds and my silence as your congé. Since you refuse to play by the rules, I shall have to be more concise: our affaire has come to an end!"
    "So that you can make an even greater cake of yourself over that chit?" she flared. "Think well, Marcus. Remember what I have to offer you, and take note that you will lose it all to George Mortimer, who has become very pressing in his attentions to me."
    "I advise you to accept his suit. He is a very worthy merchant and can set you up in style. Undoubtedly he’ll lavish on you all the luxuries you crave and make you very happy. You’ll like him—he’s as rich as Golden Bull."
    Sylvia blanched. As a last effort she pleaded, "He’s also sixty-nine years old. I’d rather have you, Marcus!" She had risen quickly to slip behind the desk and throw herself into his arms. Surely he wouldn’t be able to refuse her while she clung to him.
    But he was faster. He met her at the corner of the desk, gripped her arm, and propelled her toward the door. "I shall see you to your carriage." Just as he led her across the hall, Phillip came running downstairs, two steps at a time.
    "Hello, Marcus!" he called. "Lady Aberlaine, what a...surprise. Are you going for a drive?"
    Marcus swore softly under his breath, but Sylvia, never one to miss an opportunity, smiled graciously. "I’m afraid your brother does not care to oblige, me, my lord. I wonder...would you accompany me instead?"
    "Well...yes...I daresay," Phillip stammered, looking in perplexity from one to the other. "But I haven’t even broken my fast yet!"
    "Come with me," she purred, "and you shall have the most delectable breakfast you’ve ever tasted. Good-bye, Marcus." She flashed him a triumphant smile and left on the arm of the bewildered Phillip.
    Marcus smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. Short of ordering Phillip back into the house—which, in view of his having come of age five years ago, was rather absurd—there was nothing to be done at the moment. He left instructions to have his curricle brought around in half an hour and strode off in search of his own breakfast.
    After a hearty repast of sirloin, fried potatoes, and porter, he was on his way to Tattersall’s to look over the horses that would be auctioned off that morning. It was his intention to make Cherry the proud owner of a spirited mare on the day she promised to become his wife. There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that she would be his very soon. That much he’d learned from her response to his kiss, even if she didn’t yet realize the inevitable.
    His quest met with success. The moment he set eyes upon the young mare from a reputable stable in Ireland, he knew he’d found the horse for Cherry. Careful inspection of the mare’s points confirmed his first impression: she was sound, fast, spirited, well built, and beautiful to look at, with a glossy reddish-brown coat, white forelegs, and a snowy vee starting at her ears and coming down almost to her nose. He bid successfully against the Marquis of Bath, who congratulated him with good sportsmanship on his discerning eye.
    A luncheon at Watier’s in the convivial company of such good friends as Lords Alvanley, Dexter, and Palmerston, Major Redmyn, and Mr. Harry Blythe did nothing to dispel his mellow mood, nor did the loss of two hundred pounds at the card table. He even bore with equanimity his friends’ unmerciful teasing about his run of bad luck at cards.
    When he presented himself at Bolwood House in the late afternoon, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Cherry, or, with a streak of good luck in love, to persuade her to go driving with him, he received a severe setback. Lady Bolwood was holding her "salon." When he was shown upstairs into the formal drawing room, he found himself the center of attention of a bevy of ladies—rather long in the tooth, he noticed, and each one of them in possession of a biting wit. Of Cherry there was no sight. Soon he was castigating himself for having asked for Lady Bolwood, as good ton prescribed, instead of Cherry herself.
    After several cups of tea he did not want, and defensive replies like, "Yes, I am in favor of educating the working classes," and, "Yes, I do believe ladies to be quite capable of holding occupations other than those of governess or companion," he was briefly rescued by Lord Bolwood from further questioning.
    When Cherry finally joined the company, she was carried off immediately to meet Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, who was holding court in the far comer of the drawing room, while Marcus found himself monopolized by Mr. Wilberforce, the very worthy but crusty M.P. from Hull.
    Someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. His stomach tightened. If Lady Bolwood was trying to add him to the ranks of admirers around Mrs. Wollstonecraft Shelley, he would turn tail and run! He spun around with a most forbidding expression on his face—and found Cherry regarding him with dancing eyes.
    "Please forgive the interruption, gentlemen. But if I don’t wish to be late, we should leave now, Marcus. I feel certain Mr. Wilberforce will understand." She dimpled engagingly at the M.P. "Good day, sir." Then she practically dragged Marcus from the room and down the stairs.
    "Late for what?" he demanded when Benson handed her a light woolen scarf and bowed them out the door.
    "I don’t know yet. But it’s best to leave first, then decide where to go, don’t you think?"
    "You little minx!"
    Their eyes met in delighted conspiracy. Cherry was no more able to contain the laughter bubbling inside her than was Marcus. How well they understood each other! Hastily they climbed into the curricle that Jemmy had fortuitously kept close to Bolwood House and left Berkeley Square as fast as conditions allowed. Perhaps a bit too fast, because Jemmy was heard to mumble, "Who’d ‘ave thought he’d be wishful of stickin’ ‘is spoon in the wall, and then with a leddy?"
    "Keep a respectful tongue in your mouth, Jemmy, or you’ll find yourself walking home," admonished the duke.
    Jemmy only grinned. Weren’t they turning into Park Lane even as His Grace uttered his threat...with Belcourt House only a stone’s throw away?
    For a while they drove in companionable silence, skirting Hyde Park and traveling in the direction of Knightsbridge. Only when they turned into Sloane Street did Cherry rouse herself sufficiently to ask, "Where are you taking me, Marcus?"
    "I want to show you the Botanic Gardens, or have you seen them?"
    "No, and I should dearly like to go there. How thoughtful of you. Did you realize that I was becoming quite bored with Hyde Park, even Green Park?"
    He chuckled. "Two months in town and already you are jaded. How shall I contrive to keep your interest alive once we are married?"
    "Oh, but we shouldn’t live in London all year!" she exclaimed, and promptly blushed a fiery red. She had neatly fallen into his trap.
    His eyes caressed her warmly. "Quite," he agreed with devilish smile. "May I take this as your answer?"
    "Marcus," she pleaded, "if you love me, you’ll not ask me until after the concert of the Philharmonic Society. I want to be plain Cherry Sinclair, spinster, for that occasion; not the fiancée of the Duke of Belcourt, or any other nobleman. Can you understand that?"
    "I think I do." He frowned in concentration. "I believe you need to prove to yourself that you can succeed without any assistance—real or imagined."
    "It is not imagination that I would be paid more notice as your betrothed!"
    "True. But you would not gain the recognition you desire unless you merit it." He slanted a quick glance at her pinched face and tight lips and sighed. Gone was the mischievous Cherry who had spirited him from Bolwood House. No human rival could be more formidable than that demmed pianoforte.
    To distract her, he expanded on his reason for shunning the crowded parks at this fashionable hour. "This morning I had a bit of a run-in with Sylvia. She departed in a huff, taking Phillip along with her. I’ve no wish to run into them until I’ve decided whether I need to drop a word of caution in Phillip’s ear."
    "Somehow I garnered the impression that your brother is well able to fend for himself. He is a very levelheaded, mature young man."
    "You may be right," Marcus agreed. "After all, he gave a good account of himself while in the United States; but when he’s with me, my mother-hen instincts soar sky-high." He grinned ruefully. "I suppose that playing wet nurse to him for ten years has left its mark. It’s not easy to shake off old habits."
    Cherry regarded him with compassion mixed with pride. "Was it when your father died that you started looking after Phillip?" she asked softly.
    "Yes. Father died in the spring of ‘98—in a duel. Mother lived until 1815, but she’d not been able to cope with us as children, let alone when Phillip was a wild youth."
    "A rare handful Master Phillip was!" came gruff confirmation from the tiger’s perch.
    The duke smiled, but shook his head at Jemmy.
    "I am sorry, Marcus. It must have been an awesome burden on you. But now Phillip is six-and-twenty?" she questioned, and Marcus nodded. "Surely he is old enough to be expected to stand on his own two feet. As you said, he coped very well while he was out of your reach across the Atlantic."
    "When I sent him off eighteen months ago," he mused, "I was not certain whether it was for his own benefit, or whether it was to get him out of my hair. I’m still not certain. I can only hope I did right by him."
    "Oh, look!" Cherry hissed, startled. "Look who’s just descending from that emerald-and-white curricle."
    "No need to look," he growled. "Only Sylvia Aberlaine has a curricle of that description. I should have remembered that she likes the orchid houses!"
    In silence they watched as Sylvia allowed Phillip to lift her from the carriage. She clung to him for a moment, then threw her head back with a laugh, touching his cheek with a caressing finger. Phillip and Sylvia walked off, heads close together, completely absorbed in each other.
    "He’s besotted!" Marcus ground out. He flicked the reins and, again, took off just a mite faster than was called for in a pleasure drive. "How can he be so blind and not see through her? She’s old enough to be his mother!"
    A bubble of laughter escaped Cherry and earned her a smoldering look. "Surely not, Marcus," she protested. "I doubt even Sylvia would have been that precocious. Besides, it shouldn’t surprise you that Phillip has fallen for her charms. You might want to cast your mind back just a month or two, and you will recall that then you were Sylvia’s staunchest admirer. I remember a circumstance when Dexter pointed out certain shortcomings in her, and you convinced us very eloquently of her superior position and abilities."
    She had gone too far. Marcus’s eyes had narrowed and his voice was tight with suppressed emotion when he answered her. "Sometimes I feel a very ancient mentor indeed when I’m with you, Cherry. Have you no delicacy, no notion of polite restraint? You never hesitate to point out my failures and shortcomings with childlike candor." He gave a snort, then burst out laughing. "Demme, but if you aren’t good for me, my love!"
    "And you have a most disconcerting habit of making me believe you are furious with me when you’re only fighting back a laugh," she admonished severely.
    "I’ll try to improve, my love." His grin was decidedly teasing, his clear eyes daring her to take exception to his form of address.
    She wisely let it go. The ton had been scandalized by their intimate use of first names; they could hardly be more shocked by "my love." Besides, no one but Jemmy had heard, and he was no gabster. Cherry turned cautiously and risked a peek at the diminutive tiger on his precarious perch. Jemmy’s face was inscrutable, his nose held proudly aloft, but his right eyelid had developed a sudden tic. It blinked once, very quickly, then remained immobile as he stared woodenly ahead. With a little smile, Cherry sank back against the cushioned backrest of the box. Her thoughts dwelled on Lord Phillip and Lady Aberlaine. Perhaps Marcus was right after all. Having seen them together a second time, she was struck anew how dazzled Phillip appeared by Sylvia’s fiery beauty.
    "We need Sara."
    She wasn’t aware she had spoken aloud until Marcus agreed wholeheartedly. "By George, that’s it! Sylvia’s red hair has been the downfall of many an unwary young blade. To have two redheaded beauties in town would prove a splendid distraction."
    Cherry shook her head regretfully. "Sorry I spoke. Sara won’t come, not as long as the squire has his nephew Tony Hawkins staying at the manor."
    "Tony Hawkins of Hawkhurst Farm in Devonshire?"
    "Yes. Do you know him?"
    "Of course, he’s my closest neighbor. So that was the problem," he said and followed his words with a long, slow whistle. "Apparently you are not aware that Tony became engaged to his childhood sweetheart, Maryanne Smythe, when I was at Morning Glory. I was even invited to the celebrations, but did not attend because of my plans to travel into Cornwall."
    "Poor Sara." But even while she felt deep compassion for her disappointed sister, relief and a certain measure of gladness could not be suppressed. Cherry had not cared much for young Mr. Hawkins.
    Marcus’s thoughts echoed her sentiments. "I’d rather see Sara turn every young man’s head here in London," he declared hotly, "than have her engaged to Tony. He’s a prig!"
    "I know," she agreed with feeling. "But Sara was very attached to him."
    "A visit to town will cheer her immensely. However, I could have sworn she was not wearing the willow for Tony when I was visiting your family. Surely she must have been aware of the engagement?"
    "I don’t know. She did not write a word about it to me. I cannot understand it. Sara and I are so close..."
    "Promise you’ll write to her as soon as I return you to Bolwood House. Do not, I beg you, get sidetracked by the pianoforte."
    She raised an admonishing brow at his impatience. "At least I should ask Lady Bolwood’s permission before I invite another guest into her home."
    "Very well, Miss Proper. " He saluted and pulled up in Berkeley Square.

    CHERRY found Lady Bolwood at her desk in her sitting room, buried up to her dimpled chin in invitations. Timidly she broached her request.
    "Oh, that is too bad of you, Cherry!" the countess exclaimed with a frown.
    "I’m sorry, ma’am." Cherry was taken aback. "I would not have dreamed of asking you had I realized it would be inconvenient."
    "It’s not that, child." She rose and pulled Cherry along to sit with her on the sofa. "But I hate having my surprise spoilt. You see, I invited Sara to your ball. I was only waiting for your mama’s consent before telling you."
    Cherry hugged the older woman warmly. "Thank you, Lady Bolwood. That is the most wonderful surprise you could have planned for me. I’ve missed my family sorely. And you’ll find an able conspirator in Sara." She twinkled. "She’ll see to it that I don’t sprout roots at the pianoforte!"
    The countess responded with a sunny smile for her young houseguest. "You are a good girl, Cherry. Having you around has given me quite a lift. I believe my life had become just a trifle...drab, but since I’ve let a few of my committees slide and have started introducing you around, I’ve felt like a new woman. Even dear, shortsighted Edwin has remarked on the change in me. I guess I’m not cut out to be a bluestocking."
    For a moment she looked guilty, like a child caught with her hand in the sugarplum jar. Then her eyes regained their sparkle as she said archly, "I only hope Sara will be more biddable than you. I’m not certain I’m up to dragging two young ladies by their ears to the balls and routs in store for us."
    "No need to worry on that account," Cherry assured her blithely. "Sara will aid you in dragging me along."
    "Excellent." Lady Bolwood grew in stature. Too bad it hadn’t occurred to her earlier to have Sara come and give a hand at launching the recalcitrant Cherry on the "marriage mart."
    "In that case, your mama should be more than willing to let her go. I promised to have the coach waiting for Sara at the Gloucester Coffeehouse on Monday."
    "May I please go along? I love watching the West Country mails speed along Piccadilly and pull up before the Gloucester. I declare there’s none more dashing than the postilion of the Devonport Mail. When I came up in it, I learned through painful experience just why it had earned its nickname, ‘Quicksilver Mail.’ It should be entertaining to see it from the perspective of spectator—and I can be the first to greet Sara."
    "That will be quite unexceptionable. I had planned to send Betsy, but she’s such a timid little mouse, she’ll be glad not to have to go by herself."

Chapter 13

    "Sara!"
    Cherry wrenched open the door of Lady Bolwood’s elegant town carriage and jumped down without benefit of steps or the footman’s assistance. She flew along the narrow sidewalk and threw her arms around her sister, who had just alighted from the dusty yet impressive mail coach with its scarlet wheels and maroon panels bearing the royal arms, with the stars of the four great orders of knighthood blazoning on either side of the windows, and the cipher of King George III on the forward boot.
    They were ruthlessly jostled by disgruntled, tired passengers searching for their baggage while eager urchins, more hindrance than help, darted in and out in hopes of earning a penny. For a while they stood arm in arm on the edge of the milling crowd, watching the guard in his brilliant red coat disappear on horseback to deliver the bags of mail at the G.P.O. in Lombard Street. The coachman, in a magnificent, many-caped driving coat, left his team in the experienced hands of the hostlers at the Gloucester Coffeehouse and stomped into the public room for a well-deserved tankard.
    Cherry and Sara turned toward each other. "Let me look at you, Cherry. Oh, it’s marvelous to see you, and you haven’t changed a jot!" Sara’s busy fingers were doing up the buttons on Cherry’s spencer while her eyes searched her face and person with loving concern. "Still no gloves or hat for you?" she marveled. "And we feared you’d be transformed into a veritable fashionplate here in London!"
    Cherry laughed. "Without you to aid me? Impossible! But come, Sara, let’s be off!" she shouted in an effort to be heard above the din of screeching’ voices and clattering hooves as another coach pulled up before the posting inn. "Which are your trunks?"
    When the luggage was safely stowed away in the boot, Lady Bolwood’s coachman cracked his whip over the horses’ heads and eased the carriage into the heavy traffic on Piccadilly.
    "How is everyone at home?" Cherry asked eagerly as they settled themselves on the plush seats.
    "Mama and Papa send you their love. They miss you—we all have missed you dreadfully!" She fell around Cherry’s neck, and they hugged and kissed until the necessity of finding handkerchiefs drove them apart.
    After a final sniff, Sara said, "Melly threw a tantrum when she learned I was to go to London, too. She’s fallen violently in love with the Duke of Belcourt and wants to let down her skirts and put up her hair to prove she’s not the child he sees in her. Does he call on you frequently?" Her eyes were riveted expectantly on Cherry, who merely smiled and shook her head in the direction of Betsy.
    "Later, dear. But you may assure Melly that he’s quite besotted with her as well."
    At Bolwood House Sara received a warm welcome from Lord and Lady Bolwood, who were already stationed in the hall, on the point of departing for an early dinner engagement and subsequent card party.
    "I know I need have no qualms about leaving you two to your own devices on your first night in town, Sara," the countess said with a twinkle. "Cherry has been so impatient for your arrival, she probably can’t wait to see us out the door. Enjoy yourselves, children, but pray remember to make use of your beds sometime before morning." She swept up her elegant silk shawl, embroidered with drawn work and gold metal thread, and tripped off, followed by her beaming spouse.
    Sara’s bedroom was the mirror image of Cherry’s and furnished in like fashion, except that the draperies and chair covers in Sara’s chamber were of white-and-jade-striped fabric while Cherry’s were of primrose velvet. The two chambers were separated only by a narrow, closetlike space in which reposed a huge sphinx-legged, turquoise bathtub and that epitome of modern amenities, the water closet, behind an elegant Chinese folding screen.
    "How lush!" Sara exclaimed and made liberal use of scented soap and warm water to wash off the dust and grime of fast travel.
    "Let’s sit in my room," Cherry suggested when Sara had donned an informal robe de chambre. "Betsy will see to your unpacking."
    Seated before the fire, with a generous supper tray and pots of tea and chocolate to keep them company, Sara leaned back against the cushions of her chair and heaved a contented sigh. "What luxury to be stationary after the endless hours of being jolted about. And to have a fire even in April!"
    "Yes." Cherry chuckled. "Life in London society is shockingly extravagant. I’m not certain I’ll ever quite get used to it."
    "But you’ve not managed too badly, I notice. ‘Betsy will see to your unpacking,’" Sara mimicked. "A duchess could not have proclaimed it more graciously."
    Cherry pulled her down onto the soft rug before the hearth to ruffle the already untidy riot of Sara’s flame-colored curls. But Sara would not be sidetracked. Her eyes narrowed and fastened on Cherry as she questioned, "Shall you be a duchess?"
    Cherry did not reply instantly but stared dreamily into the fire, a soft smile playing about her lips. A log hissed, crackled, then burst into wild, leaping flames. She looked up.
    "I think I shall," she said, still more than a little awed by the title she might one day carry. "If Marcus asks me again after the concert at the Argyll Rooms."
    "If...again...after the concert? Cherry, are you in a scrape?"
    "No! Well, yes." And then it all tumbled out, the words tripping over one another as she recounted all the details she’d not dared mention in her letters home.
    Sara’s hazel eyes grew big and round. Although she was the younger by two and a half years, she’d always been Cherry’s confidante, had helped her out of childish scrapes, had known her woes and joys, and had been the first to know of her ambitions and dreams. But if this didn’t top all! Madame Fellini...the flight through the dark alleys...Sarah blanched and gripped Cherry’s arm firmly for reassurance that her sister was safe. Even the most lurid novel from the lending library seemed insipid against the tale of intrigue and scandal Cherry was pouring forth.
    When Cherry came to a faltering halt with Marcus’s second proposal of marriage and her refusal of it, Sara sat as if in a daze, trying to recover her wits. "I must say," she confessed finally, "I fully expected to find you betrothed, and so does Mama. Your letters have been dripping with ‘Marcus this’ and ‘Marcus that,’ and after his visit at the vicarage we—he does not object to your being a concert pianist, does he?" she demanded, at once prepared to give the Duke of Belcourt a piece of her mind.
    "No, dear. But I want to have my career established before I accept a proposal of marriage from him...or any peer of the realm, for that matter!"
    Sara’s eyes narrowed again. She looked just like their papa when he was on the point of clinching an argument. "I never would have believed it possible, but you’re a snob, Cherry Sinclair!"
    Cherry flinched, her mouth trembling with hurt. "Oh! How can you even think it! A snob is a coxcomb who feels superior to others."
    "And isn’t that exactly what you are doing? Because he is a duke, you must needs achieve your goal before you can accept his proposal. In your view, the concert will give you a superior position. Had plain Mr. Jones proposed, you wouldn’t have hesitated; you’d have looked to him to be by your side while you struggle with your career."
    "Oh, Sara! I don’t know...could you be right? Am I indeed a snob?" she wailed in distress.
    "I didn’t mean to upset you, Cherry. I am sorry. But sometimes you lack common sense, and you become a prisoner of your music. It requires—"
    "A knock on my breadbox. I know. Simon told me a dozen times if he told me once."
    Sara giggled. "Goose," she said lovingly. "Just a nudge to get you back on track will suffice. Do give it some thought, but not now. Let me tell you about Tony Hawkins before I fall asleep on my feet."
    "My poor Sara, I know all about it." She embraced her sister warmly. "The numbskull went and got himself engaged to some Maryanne What’s-her-name. I am so sorry."
    "Cut line, Cherry. You never liked him above half," Sara said, laughing. "So you needn’t say you are sorry."
    "Well, I only said it because I thought you were hurt by his defection. Aren’t you upset?" She watched the smiling Sara suspiciously, as though she expected the tears to flow at any moment.
    "Of course I felt hurt. However, I soon recognized that it was my pride which had suffered, not my heart. You need not waste any compassion on me. I am not crushed by unrequited love, only embarrassed by the situation. You can’t imagine the pitying looks I had to bear! Nothing was more fortuitous than Lady Bolwood’s invitation. So, what’s in the offing besides a ball in your honor and your concert at the Argyll Rooms?" She cocked an expectant brow.
    "Marcus and I have an important mission for you—a marvelous scheme," said Cherry, looking mischievous. "We shall set it in motion on Wednesday night at Almack’s."

    "YOU look charming, my dears," Lord Bolwood declared as he personally assisted Cherry and Sara with their silken wraps.
    "Stunning," the countess agreed. "You bid fair to rival the sensation created by the Gunning sisters. Nothing could have been better than your choice of colors for tonight. Cherry, you should wear that shade of deep rose more often.
    As the rich satin was also daringly piped with narrow black trim around the neckline and hem, and the short, puffed sleeves were slashed to reveal more of the bold, contrasting color, Cherry blinked in surprise. She had rather expected the countess to frown upon the gown.
    Lady Bolwood continued in her breathless manner, "Of course, I’d not ordinarily approve of the casual way you’ve dressed your hair." Her glance encompassed both girls, whose long curls were brushed loosely and hugged their shoulders. "But for a spectacular effect tonight, nothing could be more alluring." She nodded approvingly at Sara, gowned in cream-colored satin shot with emerald and gold, and whisked the party into the carriage.
    The two girls entered Almack’s ballroom demurely, two steps behind Lord and Lady Bolwood. Despite the distinct difference in their coloring, it was obvious to the assembled company that they were sisters. They had the same high cheekbones, wide forehead, slightly retroussé nose, and generous mouth curved in a delightful smile. Cherry’s chin might be a trifle more stubbornly pronounced than Sara’s while Sara was the plumper by perhaps a pound or two. The effect of their entrance was all they could have wished for. Gentlemen raised their quizzing glasses for better observation, and ladies whispered behind their fans.
    The Duke of Belcourt had been waiting just inside the door, chatting idly with Lady Jersey. From his vantage point he had a full view of the Bolwood party’s arrival. One dark eyebrow rose fleetingly in surprise before an appreciative grin spread over his features. He made his excuses to Lady Jersey and strolled over to Cherry’s side. Instantly Lord Bolwood seized this opportunity to leave his charges in the duke’s capable hands and led his not unwilling wife into the card room.
    "Hello, Sara." Marcus smiled. "You look more beautiful than I remembered."
    "Thank you, Your Grace." She curtsied and dimpled happily.
    "You must call me Marcus," he admonished. "I hope to be one of your family very soon."
    He flashed a quick glance at Cherry, who promptly blushed. She’d not yet had the leisure to reflect upon Sara’s accusation and suffered a twinge of guilt. Should she, indeed, have accepted Marcus much sooner? His deep voice, whispering into her ear, recalled her to the purpose of their visit to Almack’s.
    "Phillip and Sylvia have disappeared into the refreshment room. Let’s join them and introduce Sara. Does she know what she’s getting herself into?"
    "Yes, she does," Sara announced. "There’s no need for you to whisper and tiptoe around the issue. I am to slay the wicked witch!"
    "Sara, for goodness’ sake! Pray watch your tongue." Cherry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her sister’s levity. "What’s happened to the Miss Proper I knew at home?"
    "She must have departed along with Tony Hawkins," Marcus said with a grin.
    "Aha. So you’re the tattletale who carried news of my humiliation to London before I could tell Cherry in person."
    "I must plead guilty. Presently you may think of a suitable punishment for me—like having me chained to your stubborn sister for life, or something equally atrocious. But first let’s repair to the refreshment room before Phillip and Sylvia decide to dance again."
    The two parties encountered each other in the arched doorway. Lady Aberlaine, in white lace and pearls, would have brushed past with only a cool nod in their direction, but Lord Phillip halted and bowed. Unless she removed her hand from his arm to walk off alone, she would have to suffer through an introduction to the redheaded newcomer—and she had no intention of letting go of Phillip just yet. Sylvia mentally berated her abigail for allowing her to change her mind and dress in white lace instead of something more daring. It made her look positively insipid next to the other girl’s lustrous satin. If only she’d not wanted to impress Phillip with her youthful, girlish appearance.
    "Well met, Cherry, Marcus!" Phillip beamed as his inquisitive glance strayed to Sara.
    Marcus bowed to Lady Aberlaine. "May I present Miss Sara Sinclair? She has come to bear Cherry company for a few weeks."
    Sylvia inclined her head in frosty acknowledgment, while Phillip seized Sara’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Sara. Any sister of Cherry’s may be certain of a warm welcome."
    Sara rewarded him with a quick smile, then turned to Sylvia Aberlaine. "I’m so happy to meet you. I never thought to see another carrot-top like me," she confided, an impish twinkle lighting up her eyes. "I must say, it takes a load off my mind, knowing that I shan’t have to bear the brunt of everyone’s teasing alone."
    No one had called Sylvia a carrot-top since her early childhood days when she had bloodied some pesky neighbor boy’s nose for his pains. She stared balefully at the audacious newcomer, but since Miss Sara had robbed the words of their sting by including herself in the epithet and, moreover, smiled at her quite disarmingly, she was at a loss how to put the chit into her place. A strained silence fell and was broken only when the orchestra struck up a waltz.
    "May I have the honor of this dance?" Lord Phillip bowed before Sara.
    "Oh, Phillip, she can’t," Cherry interceded hastily. "Sara hasn’t received permission yet to waltz."
    Sara’s face fell in disbelief. "Permission?" she asked with a gasp. "I’m certain Mama never forbade the dance, Cherry."
    "Not Mama’s permission, silly. The patronesses of Almack’s need to give their sanction."
    It looked very much like Sara would say something outrageous, but fortunately she encountered Sylvia’s triumphant stare, and bit back the pithy comment she’d planned to make. It would appear that it was not only Cherry who paid scant attention to Mama’s strictures. "How does one go about receiving permission?" she asked demurely.
    "You take my arm," Lord Philip instructed with a grin and extricated himself with a murmured excuse from Sylvia’s clutches. "Then we shall walk over to Princess Esterhazy, who happens to be rather fond of me, and very humbly we shall beg her assistance."
    With sparkling eyes and a happy bounce to her step, Sara tripped off on Phillip’s arm. A short while later they were seen circling the dance floor in perfect harmony, while at the same time carrying on an animated conversation—just as though they’d known each other for most of their lives.
    Cherry stole a furtive glance at Lady Aberlaine. Sylvia’s face was almost as green as her eyes and had lost all beauty and charm.
    "Would you care to take some refreshment?" she suggested hesitantly.
    Sylvia did not vouchsafe an answer, but shot her a poisonous look. Cherry knew a moment of heart-stopping fear and felt quite relieved when Sylvia turned to Marcus and demanded, "Please call my coach. I have the headache."
    "Of course," he agreed smoothly and offered his arm, then possessed himself of Cherry’s hand. "I’ll take you to Lady Cowper, my dear, until I’ve seen Sylvia safely into her carriage."
    "I believe that won’t be necessary, for I see Harry approaching, and he will bear me company. "
    Marcus took Harry aside and gave a brief explanation, to which Harry listened attentively. He frowned and shot a dark look at Lady Aberlaine, then nodded consent to Marcus. "Don’t worry about Cherry, old fellow. I’m delighted to take your place." There was just a hint of a slur in his words; obviously his refreshments had been of a higher potency than orgeat or lemonade.
    Marcus hesitated, but when Sylvia tugged impatiently at his arm, he bowed and led her from the ballroom.
    "Let’s dance," Harry suggested.
    But Cherry had also recognized the signs of someone in his altitudes. "Actually, I’d rather sit this one out and converse with you." Hoping to keep him out of mischief, she led the way toward a quiet alcove where he would be able to hide until he had overcome his handicap. "I haven’t seen you since last week, and then for the duration of a quadrille only." She chuckled. "Which, you must admit, is not very conducive to any meaningful intercourse."
    The moment they’d slipped into the alcove, partially screened by a pillar and some potted plants, she came to rue her decision. Harry leaned toward her, enveloping her in a cloud of noxious spirits, and patted her hand.
    "Always happy to be of assistance to you, m’dear. But Marcus shouldn’t have left you alone here, y’know, and he was being a cad last Wednesday also."
    "Harry! I thought Marcus was your friend. How can you speak thus of him!"
    "I’m keeping my eye on you, Cherry. Don’t like the way he treats you. Don’t like it at all!" He extracted a slim flask from his coat pocket and drank deeply.
    Cherry’s eyes widened in alarm. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
    "Had a wager with Benny. Laid him odds that the six of us could smuggle in flasks and empty them with none the wiser. Had to drink three flasks myself, though," he explained with a disapproving frown.
    "How could you, Harry!"
    "It ain’t fair, I know," he agreed solemnly. "Don’t like the stuff by half, but Merton and Ainsworthy have observant mamas sitting over there. No backbone, that’s what I say!" He saluted Cherry with the bottle and put it to his lips again.
    "Put that away instantly," she hissed. "It’s disgusting."
    He looked uncertainly at her, then peered into the flask. "Good. It’s empty," he said with quiet pride and stashed it among the luscious leaves of a fern. There was a distinct clinking sound as glass jarred against glass. "Now Benny’ll have to go ‘round counting the bottles in the plants. Should be a grand spectacle, Benny sneaking from pot to pot, inspecting the leaves."
    "Harry Blythe! If you don’t sober up this instant and behave in a sensible, serious manner, I shall leave you sitting here by yourself looking foolish beyond belief," she threatened.
    His immediate response was one small hiccough, but he appeared not to notice. He focused his glazed eyes on Cherry. "Be serious," he confirmed and nodded vigorously. "But mind you, Marcus shouldn’t have left you to go off with Sylvia. Not at all good ton."
    "Sylvia had the headache," she explained patiently. "Marcus is taking her to her coach."
    "Still not good ton," he insisted mulishly. "But now must be serious. Been meaning to be serious for quite a while, just never had the guts. Cherry...!" He clutched her hand and whispered loudly and urgently, "‘Member our conversation at the Herricks’ do? I was wrong, you know. Am in the petticoat line after all." He pressed her fingers painfully, making it impossible for her to extricate herself from his feverish clasp.
    "How wonderful," she tried to humor him. "Who is the lucky young lady? Do I know her?"
    "Course you do," he mumbled. "It’s you!"
    She chuckled. "Stop funning. Tell me who she is, Harry. You can’t leave me dangling in suspense now."
    Cherry’s laughter angered him. His eyes narrowed and he pulled her closer. "I am not funning. If Marcus won’t come up to scratch, you’d best marry me!"
    She blinked and would have pinched herself had her hands not been imprisoned by Harry’s. "Fiddle! There’s no need for me to marry anyone at all if I don’t care to do so, and if you weren’t three parts disguised, you’d not be talking such fustian."
    "Is not fustian," he insisted. "Think I love you, Cherry."
    "You are not in love, you’re in your cups!" She smiled to lessen the blow and looked at him ruefully, but had no time to say more.
    Harry’s arms clamped around her like a vise and his mouth came down on hers in a bruising kiss. Angry now, she struggled with him, but when she could not extricate herself from his grip, she felt panic rising suffocatingly within her. Where was Marcus when she had a need of him? She was imprisoned, overpowered, and there was nothing she could do—except move her feet! She brought the French heel of her dancing slippers in sharp contact with Harry’s instep.
    With a hiss of pain he pushed her from him. "What did you do that for?" he asked in puzzlement.
    "I don’t want to kiss you, and I don’t want to marry you. Get that through your brandy-soaked skull, Harry Blythe!"
    "‘Twasn’t brandy, ‘twas blue ruin," he muttered defensively, his eyes still resting in pained surprise on her determined face. "You don’t?"
    "No."
    Bright red flushed his face, then receded, leaving him pale and shaken. Unsteadily he rose and bowed. "I beg your pardon, Cherry. I must be more disguised than I thought. Shouldn’t have forced my unwelcome attentions on you."
    He looked so miserable that she felt her anger melt. She rose, too. "I know you meant no harm. If I know anything about the state you’re in, you won’t remember a thing in the morning, but that’s no consolation at present, is it, dear?" She patted his arm with sisterly affection and tried to steer him from the alcove, but he stood his ground and continued to regard her with painful intensity.
    Cherry raised herself on tiptoe and whispered, "I love you dearly, Harry. But you must not create a ruckus now, or I’ll box your ears." Then she pulled his head down and planted a tender kiss on his cheek.
    "Cherry!" Marcus’s voice boomed so close that she and Harry jumped apart.
    Blinking, she focused on Marcus’s angry face. His eyes blazed icily from her to Harry, and behind him Sara’s and Phillips’s astonished faces slowly came into view.
    "What’s the matter?" Cherry asked, looking from one to the other.
    "Your behavior, ma’am, is the matter!" Marcus snapped.
    Her nose came up, her shoulders squared. "I only explained to Harry that I could not marry him."
    "Marry that puppy? I should think not!" Marcus bared his teeth in a derisive laugh.
    Harry’s fists came up, but quickly Phillip stepped between the two men. "We appear to be attracting undue attention. Our priority for now should be a very dignified exit."
    For a moment it looked as if the antagonists would ignore his warning and their august surroundings in favor of exchanging blows as their instincts dictated.
    Then Marcus forced himself to relax. He darted a rueful glance at his younger brother. "Thanks, bantling. You have changed, indeed. Eighteen months ago you’d have cheered us on."
    He turned to Cherry, his cool gaze fixed on a point just beyond her left ear. "I beg your pardon. I lost my head; but Phillip is quite right, you know. We should leave. Harry, will you accompany us? Fresh air might do the trick for your condition."
    "No, thank you."
    "Oh, come along, old fellow. You’re shot in the neck and you’ll find yourself barred from Almack’s if you stay much longer."
    "Don’t want to miss the sight of Benny inspecting ferns. I’m staying here," Harry muttered mulishly.
    Marcus’s dark brows rose, but he shrugged and forbore any questioning of Harry’s provocative statement. Possibly similar experiences during his salad days made any further inquiries unnecessary.
    Phillip certainly appeared to understand, for he chuckled and slapped Harry on the back. "Then, if it is agreeable to Miss Sara, she and I will remain also and keep an eye on you, old chap. ‘Twould be a pity if she had to leave so soon. After all, this is her first visit to Almack’s, and she’s hardly had time to enjoy herself. And we’ll say all that’s proper to Lady Bolwood, or you might have her hard on your heels, Marcus."
    "That won’t be necessary. I shall remain with Sara," Cherry declared.
    Marcus’s lips tightened ominously, and Phillip interceded yet again. "Why don’t you two have a dance first and then leave together. That way no one will accuse you of running off in a tiff. Yet, you obviously have a crow to pluck and if you do it here, you might also find Almack’s doors permanently barred to you."
    Marcus’s and Cherry’s eyes locked. By mutual if unspoken consent they moved toward each other, and she placed her hand gingerly on his arm to be led to the dance floor. Silently they joined one of the sets being formed for the quadrille. The intricacies of the dance and the constant movement and changing of partners made it less obvious—as long as they smiled at each other occasionally—that they were not on speaking terms.
    But tête-à-tête in the carriage it was very noticeable. Silence hung between them like a thick, unwielding curtain. Several times Cherry attempted to speak, but lost her courage when she encountered Marcus’s stony countenance. Already penitent about the lack of decorum she’d displayed at Almack’s, she longed to reach out and smooth away the tight lines engraved on his face; but her hands remained in her lap like inanimate objects over which she had no control.
    The coach drew to a halt before Bolwood House, and Marcus rose to assist her. She could see only his profile, but even in the dim interior of the carriage she perceived a whiteness about the corners of his mouth. The sensitive lips that had kissed her so tenderly a short week ago now formed a harsh, straight line; a telltale muscle twitched in his cheek.
    Love and compassion welled up in her and melted away her inhibitions. Suddenly it was easy to speak. "Please let us not part like this, Marcus."
    He jerked around and studied her intently.
    "Henry, drive us around until I tell you to return to Berkeley Square," he told his coachman and shut the door with an energetic slam.
    "Cherry!" he murmured urgently and leaned forward to take her hands. His fingers curled around hers with strength and warmth. "I apologize for my outburst—my curst temper! I had no right to criticize you in that fashion."
    "You had every right. I must learn to think before I act. No matter how sorry I felt for Harry, I should not have kissed him.
    "My dear, your impulsiveness and your tender heart are part of your charm, but..." His lopsided smile appeared as he continued, "At times like this I wish you would choose somewhere less public to show your compassion. To kiss a confirmed bachelor during an assembly at Almack’s...well, you’d as lief announce it to the town crier."
    Her face flamed in embarrassment. "I know, and I am very sorry. I wish I could promise not to act impetuously again, but I had better not. That’s one promise I know I shan’t be able to keep."
    "You didn’t fall around my neck and kiss me when you refused my offers..."
    "Only because you beat me to it!"
    He chuckled, then sobered and leaned closer. "Do you realize what you are doing to me, my love?" he whispered hoarsely. "At times I know from your responses to me that eventually you’ll marry me. But you have not told me so. Other times I’m beset by doubts, and when I saw you kissing Harry, jealousy tore me apart. I don’t have your word that you are mine, and I had nothing to help me fight my rage."
    "I’m sorry." She knew her reply was inadequate, but she could not find the right words to set his mind at ease.
    Desperately his eyes searched her face, then he spoke again. "I had fully intended to give you up until after the concert, but I can’t! I must have your answer now. Do you realize that I was jealous even of my own brother that first night you two met and danced together?"
    His agony was so tangible that Cherry could feel the pain of it. Tears stung her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She gave a little sniff.
    "Marcus, my dearest, I love you!"
    When he did not move, only stared at her in disbelief, she shook his shoulder roughly. "I want to marry you, Marcus. I feel a veritable beast for treating you so shabbily, but I wanted to prove that Miss Nobody from Cornwall could succeed. Only now it doesn’t matter any longer. Your affection and love are more important." A second inelegant sniff put a stop to her outburst.
    Marcus smiled, pulled out his snowy handkerchief, and presented it to her. Then he slipped into the seat next to her. "My love, calm yourself. I quite understand, although understanding doesn’t appear to help me cope. I am quite willing to wait with the announcement as long as I have your answer now. And I do have it, don’t I?’ he asked anxiously.
    She nodded vigorously between blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. He took the handkerchief from her shaking fingers and enfolded her in a loving embrace. His mouth brushed a trail of kisses over her face and neck, and finally, hungrily, fastened upon her lips until she feared she’d melt under his passion.
    A sickening lurch of the carriage flung them apart. "Where the deuce is that old fool taking us?" Marcus wrenched down the window and stuck his head out into the cool, dark night to survey their surroundings.
    "Henry!" he shouted. "If you ditch us into the Serpentine you’ll hang up your livery for good. Why the devil are we in the park at all?"
    "If’n it helped bring the young leddy to the stickin’ point, ‘twas well worth the risk, Yer Grace," the old coachman muttered. "Are ye gettin’ leg-shackled or are ye not?"
    "I am!" he growled. "And no thanks to you! A cold dip in the middle of the night would have undone all my hard work. See to it that you take us back to Berkeley Square, and mind you get us out of here without breaking an axle!"
    He slammed the window shut. Uncertainly he looked at Cherry, who had huddled into her corner. He took in her shaking shoulders and the muffled sounds emanating from behind the thin shawl she’d pressed to her mouth. Understanding lit up his eyes, and he wrested the shawl off her face brimming with laughter and mischief.
    "I ask myself, what would he have done had you not admitted you were ready to get ‘leg-shackled’?" she mused. "Would he have driven us straight to Gretna Green, do you suppose?"
    "You never can tell with Henry. But I suspect he’d have put you across his knees and blistered your backside to aid you in coming to the ‘sticking point.’ My love, will you mind terribly having a houseful of ancient retainers who refuse to be pensioned off? It would break Henry’s heart if I didn’t let him do the in-town driving at least."
    "Oh no, I’m sure it will be most interesting to watch you being put in your place by him and others who feel they have some authority over you. No one else ever dares."
    "Little vixen!" Ruthlessly he punished her with another kiss, to which she submitted with amazing good grace and cooperation. After a while Marcus released her and put some distance between them. "This must suffice for tonight, my enchantress," he said with a sigh.
    Cherry agreed, but, feeling bereft, she snuggled closer again and placed his arm around her shoulders. "Tell me, do you think Sara’s introduction to Phillip was successful?"
    "Eminently so, my love. He’d hardly have stayed behind with Sara had he felt the slightest attachment or obligation to Sylvia. Most of their meetings must have been at Sylvia’s request. I trust Phillip is gentleman enough that he would have escorted her home had he asked her to Almack’s in the first place. "
    "Of course your brother is a gentleman," she confirmed sternly. She wrinkled her brow and added thoughtfully, "Sara appeared quite taken with Phillip also. Our little scheme worked out better than we planned."
    "Then why do you sound so glum about it?"
    She drew herself up and looked at him with troubled eyes. "I am afraid, Marcus. Afraid of what Lady Aberlaine might do next. She’s a bitter and dangerous woman."
    "What could Sylvia possibly do? My little goose, there is nothing to be afraid of. Sylvia may have questionable morals, but she is, after all, a lady and would not lower herself to the status of a demirep by brawling publicly with you.
    "I’m not worried about myself so much—" What a liar you are, she thought. Every time you encounter that blazing look of hatred directed at you, you shrivel and die a little inside. "But what will she do to Sara, who appears to have taken Phillip from her?"
    "Sylvia always knew she could not have Phillip. I had made that quite clear to her. Now hush, my love. Time for one more kiss before we arrive at Bolwood House. And tomorrow, I suppose, I’ll lose you to the pianoforte again—for a few more days."

Chapter 14

    "Wake up, sleepy-head!" Cherry shook her sister vigorously. When that produced no result, she ruthlessly snatched the covers off the bed. Sara merely groaned and hugged her shoulders.
    "Wake up!" Cherry ordered again. "I’ll be off to the park in a little while, and I must tell you something important before I go."
    "Hmm...what?"
    "I’m betrothed!"
    "What?" Sara sat up poker-straight. "When? How?"
    "Last night in Hyde Park."
    "Gracious! And here I thought you and Marcus were at daggers drawn. Tell me about it. No, wait ...let me get dressed." She leaped from the bed and disappeared into the powder closet only to rush back out and throw herself into Cherry’s arms.
    "I’m so happy for you, love! It’s the best news I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. I want to tell Marcus how prodigiously pleased I am! I’ll ride with you."
    Cherry eyed her sister dubiously. Of course, Sara had learned to ride and was quite proficient in the saddle, but she had always preferred driving herself. "If you are quite certain? I’d better send a note to Marcus asking him to bring a mount for you."
    "Preferably a quiet one," Sara reminded.
    A footman was speedily dispatched with the request while Sara dressed in record time.
    "I’m so curious to see your Nestor, Cherry. But pray don’t ask me to pet him. Arab stallions petrify me, their eyes always roll so wildly. I do hope Marcus has a very gentle mare for me!"
    Sara tripped after her sister, carefully raising the long skirt of her dove-gray riding habit lest her kid boots catch in the full fabric and cause her to tumble headlong down the stairs. Long ago Cherry had shortened her habit by a full six inches, which enabled her to take the steps two at a time. She was already waiting in the hall, looking up at Sara with a teasing smile.
    "Don’t worry, I stressed emphatically that you require a gentle horse—a pony, should he have one."
    "You didn’t! I promise, if you made me out such a poor-spirited mouse, I shall hide your music portfolio."
    "And I shall bid Nestor to greet you—he loves to nuzzle."
    "Eeegh!"
    Their bickering was effectively stopped by the sight of Marcus and Phillip on Hercules and Nestor, each leading a mare with sidesaddle.
    "Welcome into the family, Marcus!" Sara called, then turned to the duke’s brother.
    "What a pleasant surprise, Lord Phillip." She cocked her head and dimpled charmingly from beneath her saucy green hat with iridescent plumes curling against her cheek.
    "I would not miss the opportunity to spend an hour in your delightful company, Miss Sara. How beautiful you are," he added impulsively. "Your hair glints like burnished copper in the sunlight."
    "Thank you, my lord. If it wouldn’t be considered forward in me, I should compliment you also." She smiled at the dark-haired young man, admiring the way his sky-blue riding jacket with wide, black velvet lapels and gold buttons fitted snugly across his shoulders.
    Phillip grinned and slid off Nestor to introduce Sara to Molly, a quiet mare whose only vice was that she would not gallop if she could possibly avoid it.
    Cherry and Marcus were standing by the prancing, eager mare he’d been leading. Their eyes met in a glowing message of love, and Cherry had to suppress the desire to throw herself into his arms.
    "She’s beautiful. What is her name?" Cherry fed the mare a lump of sugar and ran her hand lightly through her foxy mane.
    "It’s for you to name her; she’s yours."
    Her hand dropped, and she looked up at Marcus in speechless wonder.
    "My love," he murmured, "with me, at least, you may give in to your impetuosity. Go on, follow your instincts!"
    "You tempt me almost beyond endurance, but since you desired me to keep my demonstrative nature hidden from public view, I dare not."
    "Fustian! There’s no one here to see us."
    "I perceive a dozen scullery maids who are neglecting their chore of scrubbing the front steps and are ogling us instead," she pointed out.
    "They’d enjoy a brief glimpse of romance to brighten their dull mornings." He caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
    "Thank you," she whispered against his questing lips, and then she was still, giving herself up to the warmth and tenderness of the moment. But when his caressing fingers on her back awakened her body to a host of disturbing but infinitely pleasurable sensations, she pushed him resolutely from her.
    "May I really name her?" she asked, breathless. With unsteady fingers she tightened the ribbon that held her hair confined at the base of her neck—so far she had not replaced the hat she’d lost during her race with Marcus. "How was she named at the stud?"
    "Cailin the Third," he said dryly. "If I may make a suggestion? I believe Vixen would be an appropriate name."
    Cherry frowned at him suspiciously to gauge whether this was in reference to his calling her a vixen the night before. Marcus was busy stroking the mare’s glossy side and she could not see his face, but when he turned back to her there was a gleam in his eyes that told only too plainly that he was aware of her thoughts.
    "I’m not casting aspersions, love. Admit, her coat cries out for a descriptive name."
    "A coat which glistens like fire in the sun," she mused. "I wager she has fire in her veins as well! A vee on her forehead—I shall christen her Firebrand."
    Marcus threw her up into the saddle. "Exquisite," he murmured with a wicked grin and flicked her chin with gentle fingers before mounting himself.
    "Ambiguous man," she retorted, then frowned again. "I wonder, is it quite proper to accept your gift when we’re not officially betrothed?"
    He groaned, and Sara and Phillip voiced their protests at her scruples. "You and Marcus are pledged to each other, therefore it is quite unexceptionable to accept a betrothal gift," Phillip assured her.
    And Sara demanded, "What other affirmation might you require, Cherry? A ring? I bet you Lombard Street to a China Orange that Marcus will have taken care of that already."
    "I’d have wished for a private and less public occasion to do this," Marcus grumbled and reached into the breast pocket of his coat. "But I’d be a numbskull to let such a small matter as a ring stand between you and Firebrand. May I have your hand, Miss Sinclair?"
    "For goodness’ sake!" she remonstrated. "Not in the middle of the square, even if you do believe the maids and vendors to be in desperate need of some entertainment." But her protests were ignored.
    Marcus maneuvered Hercules closer to Firebrand, slipped a ring onto Cherry’s third finger, and raised her hand briefly to his lips. The sunlight caught on a large sapphire surrounded by a circle of diamonds, and a cluster of blue sparks dazzled the four riders.
    "It’s beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you." Her eyes told him plainly what she didn’t say aloud—I love you, Marcus—and his blazed a heartfelt response.
    "And to forestall any further objections on your part, my love, please take note that I do have your father’s consent. I made certain of that before I left Cornwall. So, you see, our betrothal could not be more official than it is—until I send a notice to the Gazette after your concert."
    "How farsighted of you," she said with a smile. "I think perhaps I should be affronted, but I’ll forgive your highhandedness, just this once, mind you!"
    They turned their horses and proceeded toward Hyde Park. Once inside the gates, Hercules, Nestor, and Firebrand were off in a wild gallop, leaving Sara on Molly far behind. Sara tried hard to prod the sedately trotting Molly into a faster pace but finally admitted defeat. "They need not have taken my request for a quiet horse quite so literally," she muttered in disgust.
    After a while Phillip returned to her side. He studied her disgruntled expression and smiled engagingly. She understood suddenly why Cherry had fallen so quickly under Marcus’s spell, but she was not to be bowled over by a pair of twinkling, ice-blue eyes and a heartwarming smile.
    She raised her brows haughtily. "My lord?"
    "Ah, Sara," he coaxed. "Tomorrow I’ll bring Minuet—so called because she’s a real high-stepper, not because she’s slow. She won’t leave you behind, nor will she toss you," he promised. "And to make quite certain of it, I shall remain at your side."
    "Thank you, Phillip."
    "Thank goodness we are back at first names. Am I forgiven, then?"
    A slight toss of her head brought Sara’s nose up in the air. "While I consider the matter, my lord, you may prove your repentance by entertaining me with tales of your American adventures."
    "My pleasure."

    AFTER breakfast, Cherry and Sara sat in the parlor, each with a half-finished needle point chair cover for the vicarage dining room in her lap. They were not plying their needles as they should, but chatted idly about Almack’s, upcoming events such as Lady Sefton’s Venetian Breakfast, and a fête on riverboats planned by Lord Alvanley, and exchanged confidences about Marcus and Phillip, while time and again they sat lost in admiration of Cherry’s ring.
    They were interrupted in this pleasant pastime by the tempestuous entrance of Miss Charlotte Wilmott. She stopped in her tracks, doorknob in hand, and stared in surprise at Sara.
    Maria’s more sedate steps and soothing voice could be heard in the hall as she apologized to Benson for her sister’s hoydenish manners. When she came to the door and found the entry blocked by Charlotte, she nudged her with her lacy parasol. "Since you made it this far without the butler’s help, you may as well enter all the way."
    Cherry tossed her embroidery aside and ran toward her friends. "Wonderful! How kind of you to spare me the effort of writing a note," she called out in greeting. "Come, I want you to meet Sara."
    Introductions were made and mutual pleasure was expressed, but very soon Charlotte, in her impetuous manner, put a stop to such insipid conversation.
    "We heard something dreadful happened last night at Almack’s. Oh, why do I always have to miss the most exciting events! What happened, Cherry? Everyone is telling a different story. Did you and Lady Aberlaine come to blows? Or did you and the Duke of Belcourt have a fight?"
    Cherry did not blink an eye. With just a hint of amusement in her voice, she told the excited young girl, "Neither of the two dire events came to pass, Charlotte, so you may sit down and compose yourself. Only one event of import took place last night—Marcus and I pledged our troth after we left Almack’s." She held out her hand to show off the ring. "The notice won’t be in the papers until after the concert at the Argyll Rooms, but I want you to be among the first to know."
    "Fabulous!" Charlotte squealed.
    "I wish you very happy, Cherry," Maria said quietly and embraced her. "How wonderful for you that you have at least one member of your family with you to share your happiness. I’m glad you came, Sara. You’ll watch over Cherry, won’t you? I mean..."
    "I know exactly what you mean," replied Sara, laughing. "I’ve read the desperate letter Lady Bolwood sent Mama. And I’ve had two days to observe my ambitious sister. Don’t worry, I shan’t permit more than five hours a day at the pianoforte. Indeed, there’ll be less if I have any say in the matter."
    Charlotte interrupted. "We are going to the masquerade at Vauxhall tonight. I shall be a shepherdess, and Maria will be Juliet. I suppose Lord Dexter will appear as Romeo." She giggled. "Are you coming, Cherry?"
    "No, dear. I’m promised to play at Lady Jersey’s musicale tonight."
    "Oh." Charlotte’s face fell. It was plain to see that she judged a musicale a very poor substitute for a masquerade. She glanced pityingly at Sara.
    "Don’t look at me like that," Sara protested with dancing eyes. "I promise you, ‘tis no hardship for me. I am looking forward to the musicale. I haven’t heard Cherry play for nigh on two months. She performed at Carlton House on Tuesday; alas—" She made a mock-tragedy face. "I hadn’t been invited." She laid her arm around Cherry’s shoulder. "I’ve missed your playing, love. We all have. But I suppose we must get accustomed to the thought that you’ve left the vicarage for good."
    Before the mood could turn solemn, Charlotte piped up again. "We’ve received Lady Bolwood’s invitation to your ball, Cherry. Now it can also be your betrothal ball. How famous!"
    "Lady Bolwood’s sentiments, exactly," Cherry murmured. "I gave her the news this morning, and she almost bounced up to the ceiling in her elation. But I’m afraid for poor Lord Bolwood’s sanity. The plans for the ball are growing more ambitious by the minute."
    "May I see the ballroom, please?" Charlotte begged. "Mama said that Lady Bolwood’s ballroom is no bigger than a closet. It would be a dead bore if there’s room only for a few dozen couples to stand up."
    "Be my guest, explore as much as you like." Cherry winked at her sister. "Sara, would you be so kind as to take Charlotte to the upper floors?"
    When the two girls had left the parlor, she patted the seat next to her on the sofa. "Come, Maria. Tell me quickly what’s amiss before your prattlebox sister returns. Has something happened between you and Dexter? You are so withdrawn today, even a blind person could see that something is wrong."
    "Oh, Cherry, is it so obvious? But I certainly don’t mean to dim your happiness with my tales of woe."
    "I hope you count on me as your friend. I’ll always want to know if aught is bothering you."
    Maria leaned her head back against the sofa cushions and stared up at the ornate scrollwork that decorated the upper portions of the walls. She sighed heavily, still hesitant to cast a damper on Cherry’s joy.
    "Is it so awful that you cannot confide in me?"
    "Actually, no." Maria produced a shaky smile. "Let me first of all assure you that there is nothing amiss between Dexter and myself. It’s his mother! He has tried to talk with her about his plans, and she’s cutting up stiff that he’d wish to marry anyone not of her choosing. It appears there is a certain Lady Hesther Ipswich who’d make a splendid daughter-in-law for Lady Dexter."
    "But she’s too old for him! She’s thirty-two if she’s a day!"
    "But she has a very impressive dowry and a title," Maria supplied dryly. "Dexter doesn’t want her fortune, doesn’t even need it. He says he’s more than willing to leave it to some poor fellow who’s at the end of his rope. So, tomorrow night, during the masquerade, we’ll slip away and drive to Chichester, where his uncle is bishop. He has agreed to marry us by special license."
    Wordlessly Cherry drew Maria into her arms and hugged her. "You have not told your mama, I take it?"
    "No. Mama would be of no help at all." Maria laughed bitterly. "Now that Charlotte is well on her way to being launched into society and appears to be taking very well, Mama has changed her mind about getting me married off. She now wishes to have me at her side during her ‘declining years.’"
    "Go with Dexter to Chichester," Cherry said firmly. "Is there aught I can do to help?"
    "I need a place to change—a precaution in case Mama decides at the last moment to stay at home and instead have us chaperoned at Vauxhall by one of her friends. Do you think Lady Bolwood would permit me to use your room? I could bring a few items of clothing over later this afternoon."
    "She’ll be delighted to help," Cherry promised. "Both your mama and Lady Dexter have given her a hard time over me. This will afford her an opportunity to get even with them." She mentally apologized to her papa because, apparently, his teachings of Christian love and charity had not had the desired effect on her. "What about Dexter?" she remembered. "Does he need to change also?"
    "No. Contrary to Charlotte’s assumption, he’ll not be wearing costume, only a mask and domino. Oh, I hear her returning already!"
    "Unmistakably so. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. Best of luck, Maria, and give Dexter my love and good wishes, too."

    MARIA returned in a hackney coach shortly after lunch. Cherry had been lying in wait for her, peeking through the curtains of the front parlor every so often. When she saw her friend alight, clad in a delightful sprigged muslin gown, a chipstraw hat tied with cerise ribbons under her left ear, and, incongruously, a heavy traveling cloak draped over her arm, Cherry sped outside.
    The burly driver lifted a bandbox and a large leather bag from the coach and dropped them at Maria’s feet. He whipped up his horses and clattered off, leaving Maria and her luggage far from the door of Bolwood House.
    No longer surprised at the surly, unhelpful attitude of many of the Londoners, Cherry yet felt her ire rise at the coachman’s thoughtless act. What a contrast to the friendly country folk who’d surrounded her all her life. "Wretch!" she shouted after him and picked up the heavy bag.
    "Come inside, Maria. How on earth did you succeed in getting away with all this?" In a sweeping gesture she encompassed cloak, bandbox, and traveling bag.
    Maria blushed crimson. "I’m afraid I told Mama a lie. While she was busy entertaining the Misses Arbuthnot, I whispered to her that I would be taking some old linens and clothing to an East End orphanage. I knew that in the presence of company she’d not try to detain me or scold if she noticed that I was taking a hackney."
    "Excellent scheming for a good cause," Cherry approved and was rewarded with a grateful smile. "In that case you’d best remain with me for a while. You wouldn’t be expected back from your errand so soon."
    "Actually, I was hoping you’d come with me to Madame Celeste’s to buy a hat. I’ve packed my ivory lace gown for the wedding and a lovely silk shawl embroidered in the most delicate shades of pink, jade, and primrose. But I have no hat, and I do not wish to wear flowers or plumes."
    "Of course I’ll come. Shall we take Sara along? What could be more innocuous than three young ladies shopping for a hat?"
    "Does Sara know what I’m about to do?" Maria asked anxiously.
    "Yes. I’ve spoken with Sara and Lady Bolwood. Everything is set for your speedy departure from here. You need only rap the knocker three times tonight and Benson will lead you straight to my room. You will change and then ring for help with the luggage."
    "Thank you,Cherry. I believe you’re getting your share of enjoyment out of this. ‘Rap the knocker three times’! What happens if I rap only twice?" Maria chuckled. Cherry’s touch of intrigue had succeeded in lightening her spirits. "You are a wonderful friend, dear. Dexter and I shall always be grateful. By the way, we will be back in town on Sunday. Not for anything would we miss your concert or your ball."
    Cherry pressed her hand. "Thank you. I need your support." Then, practical again, she suggested, "Let’s find Sara now."
    On the first-floor landing they encountered Lady Bolwood. "Oh, there you are, Cherry. I was just trying to find you. See this?"
    She waved a piece of heavy, embossed paper. Cherry could just make out the royal coat of arms in the flurry of Lady Bolwood’s excited movements.
    "The Prince Regent is coming to your ball!" the countess bubbled. "And listen to this. He also plans to attend the concert on Monday, if the uncertain state of his health permits it."
    "That is excellent news, ma’am. But please, excuse us now. Maria and I were just setting out to buy a hat for her wedding. We only came up to see if Sara cared to accompany us."
    "Maria, my dear child!" Only now did Lady Bolwood notice that Cherry was not alone. "Of course you must buy a hat. Are you going to Madame Celeste’s? Good. Cherry, have her put it on my account."’
    She clutched Maria briefly to her bosom and kissed her on the cheek. "It shall be my wedding gift to you. I wish you very happy, my dear, but I know you will be. Lord Dexter will make you an exemplary husband." Still waving the royal note like a banner, she fluttered back into her sitting room.
    A short while later, Sara, Cherry, and Maria entered Madame Celeste’s small but very exclusive establishment. Maria described the gown she would be wearing, and Madame paraded for her inspection every type of headdress she considered suitable with ivory lace. The selection was not great. Maria’s face fell as she looked at the last one, a white turban with three fluffy golden plumes. Sadly she shook her head.
    "That is all I ‘ave ready-made. But, naturellement, I can design any ‘at mademoiselle would desire," the modiste offered.
    "I’m afraid I can’t wait. I need the hat at once."
    Sara had lost interest and wandered off to inspect several riding hats by the window, but Cherry remained with her friend. Again and again her eyes strayed to a small silken toque with narrow ribbons of violet and green velvet wound about it and tied into an intricate bow at the side. She picked it up and took a closer look. The ribbons should come off easily....
    "Maria! If Madame Celeste were to replace these ribbons with palest pink, jade, and primrose..."
    "It would match my shawl! Oh, Cherry, you are a genius. Please, can you do it, Madame?"
    "Mais oui, mademoiselle. Let us select the proper shades, and it shall be done in less than ‘alf an hour."
    "Cherry!" Sara called from the window. "Come and look at the riding hats. Why don’t you buy one to replace the old relic you lost?"
    "My pockets are quite to let, dear. I spent my last guineas on new trim and accessories for my ball gown. Oh, Sara, only look at this one. A la Hussar, I believe the style is called. Isn’t it dashing?"
    "And the black and gold would look stunning on you. Please try it on. Papa gave me one hundred pounds to be spent on both of us."
    Cherry eyes widened. "One hundred pounds?" she asked, incredulous. She picked up the hat and placed it reverently on her head. It fitted perfectly. Slowly she walked toward the mirror.
    As she passed the shop door, it opened and Sylvia Aberlaine stepped into her path. For a moment they stood motionless. Sylvia blinked as though she could not believe her eyes, then slowly she closed the door. Her emerald eyes never left Cherry’s face as she came closer, and Cherry felt the cold touch of apprehension setting her nerves on edge, as had happened whenever she confronted Lady Aberlaine.
    "One hears so many rumours," Sylvia purred. "At times it’s difficult to judge what to believe and what to discard. But since I know that we did not come to blows, I must believe one of the other versions to be true." She lifted Cherry’s hand and stared at the ring. "The Belcourt betrothal ring," she whispered hoarsely.
    With a great effort Cherry refrained from snatching her hand away. Her fingers began to tremble, and her insides contracted in revulsion as though she were touching a reptile or something similarly noxious.
    Finally Sylvia dropped Cherry’s hand. With a thin smile and furiously glittering eyes she said, "Well, I suppose I must congratulate you. I wonder how you brought it off."
    Cherry took a deep breath to control the burning anger aroused by Sylvia’s spiteful words. "I believe congratulations should properly be expressed to the groom," she corrected in her best governess voice. "But you may wish me happy, Lady Aberlaine."
    Without flinching she took the full brunt of green hatred Sylvia blazed at her. Marcus was right; there was nothing Sylvia could do to harm her. This was just the impotent lashing-out of a thwarted woman.
    "Ahh, but do I wish you happy?" One last smile, which raised goosebumps all over Cherry’s body, then Sylvia turned on her heel and stalked from the premises, slamming the door with a resounding crash behind her.
    "Don’t take it to heart, Cherry." Sara touched her arrn gently and recalled her to her surroundings.
    She passed a shaking hand over her brow and noted dimly that it was damp with cold sweat. An anxious look around the shop assured her that Madame Celeste was still deeply engrossed in consultation with Maria at the far end of the long, narrow room, quite unaware of the bone-chilling scene Lady Aberlaine had just enacted. Only Sara had been close enough to overhear Sylvia’s words. Well, at least this confrontation would not give rise to more gossip.
    "How does she do it, Sara? Every time she and I meet, I feel frozen and terribly gauche. Will I ever possess dignity and self-assurance?"
    "You have more poise and dignity in your little finger than Lady Aberlaine will ever have. You delivered an absolutely masterful set-down!"
    "I shall buy this hat!" Cherry declared impulsively. "I am determined to become a model of elegance...even if I have to dye my riding habit black to match this adorable cap."
    "It won’t come to that, I promise." Sara laughed. "We’ll buy a new riding habit instead. Simpson was telling me about this marvelous little seamstress who’s just opened a shop off Bond Street. She does excellent work and asks only half the price other dressmakers charge. But not for long, Simpson warned; her work is too good to remain unnoticed."
    "We’ll see her just as soon as Maria has purchased her hat," Cherry determined.
    Little more than an hour later, Maria was on her way home to prepare for the masquerade. Her precious toque with pale pink, jade, and primrose ribbons was entrusted to Sara to be added to her luggage at Bolwood House.
    Cherry had placed an order with Mrs. Littlejohn for a black riding habit and a white shirt of sheerest lawn, with deep falls of ruffles and lace at the neck and wrists to offset the severe cut of the jacket. She had been promised delivery of the garments by Tuesday morning. What perfect timing! She would be able to ride proudly beside Marcus on the morning their betrothal would be announced in the Gazette.
    Carrying her own hatbox, she went up to her room to take one more peek at her new riding hat before carefully stowing it in the closet, then she kicked off her walking shoes and lay down on her bed to rest.
    This late in the afternoon not a single ray of sunshine penetrated the southeast facing windows of her bedchamber. Only the pale yellow drapes and chair covers provided bright patches of cheer in the gloomy light. She shivered as suddenly Lady Aberlaine’s distorted face danced before her eyes. She feared very much that she had not experienced the last of Sylvia’s spiteful attacks.
    Why would that woman not leave well enough alone? Cherry closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and expelled her breath to the count of eight. She repeated the exercise steadily. It was almost time to light the candles and check her meager wardrobe for a suitable gown to wear at her first paid engagement. Marcus had arranged that a fee of fifty guineas be paid her—an astronomical amount! It almost justified the expenses she had incurred at Madame Celeste’s and Mrs. Littlejohn’s.
    Stop thinking! she admonished herself. It was time to compose herself for the performance. All thought of Hussar caps and graceful riding habits must be banished, and disturbing memories of biting words and green eyes flashing fury and hatred must be ruthlessly quashed.A musician could not afford to waste energy on self-defeating emotions like apprehension and revulsion.

Chapter 15

    "Your performance last night was excellent, Cherry." For once Lord Bolwood had joined his wife and her two young guests at the breakfast table. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and beamed at Cherry. "Excellent," he repeated. "Quite superb."
    "Thank you. You are very kind, Lord Bolwood. I’d also like to express my gratitude for the assistance you’ve rendered me. But for your and Lady Bolwood’s generosity I’d still be in Cornwall."
    "It has been our pleasure, my dear. Alicia derives a great deal of enjoyment from having you around. And Miss Sara here, I know, will but add to the fun and gig you ladies like to engage in. Am I right, m’dear?" He twinkled at his wife and held out his cup for more coffee.
    "Quite right, love. I’ve never felt more invigorated than now, with some young blood in the house. We shall have a great deal of—"
    Loud, imperative raps at the front door, followed immediately by a strident female voice, caused her to break off in mid-sentence. Instinctively they turned toward the door of the breakfast parlor in anticipation of the visitor’s entrance.
    A footman barely had time to throw open the door before Lady Dexter entered, brushing him aside with a sweep of her arm.
    Seven purple ostrich plumes quivered indignantly on her beturbaned head as she pointed an accusing finger at Cherry and demanded at the top of her powerful voice, "Jezebel! Where is my son?"
    Cherry blinked, and her mouth dropped open, but she was granted no time to formulate a reply.
    "Can you not be content with your ensnarement of the Duke of Belcourt? Must you keep your claws in my poor, inexperienced Bartholomew, as well?" A sob heaved Lady Dexter’s majestic bosom, imposing a brief silence.
    If Cherry had been amazed, even shocked, at the dowager countess’s first words, the rest of her outburst, unfortunately, had the effect of tickling her funny bone. She managed to turn one small chuckle into a cough before it escaped, then kept her lips pressed firmly together and, for good measure, pinched Sara’s arm. This produced a sharp retaliation in the soft flesh of her thigh under cover of the long damask cloth. It was an old trick they’d perfected in childhood when giggles at the dining table would have resulted in banishment to the nursery.
    It really would have been inexcusable had she laughed in the face of Lady Dexter’s distress. But what to say to her? Helpless, she looked to Lady Bolwood for guidance, but obviously no assistance would be forthcoming from that quarter. The countess sat staring in fascinated horror at her distraught visitor.
    Lady Dexter had collapsed onto the nearest chair and motioned the footman to pour a cup of coffee. The oppressive silence in the room was broken only by an occasional sob and a gulp as she tried to swallow the hot, strong coffee.
    Lord Bolwood finally noticed the gaping footman and nodded dismissal, then turned to Lady Dexter. "Ma’am, pray collect yourself," he admonished. "You are addressing a guest in my house. All sensibilities must revolt at your unprincipled accusation."
    The lady roused herself. "Bah, you’ve always been a chuckle-head, Bolwood. But I’m sorry for Alicia, who has to find out in such a painful way that she has nurtured a viper in her bosom."
    Before Lord Bolwood could gather his wits and think of a withering reply, the brass knocker on the front door clanged again and more female voices shrilled in the entrance hall. Cherry jumped up and, with a wink at Sara, carried two more cups from the sideboard to the table. She resumed her seat just as Mrs. Wilmott and Charlotte burst into the breakfast parlor.
    Mrs. Wilmott cast her eyes wildly about the room, then moaned and clapped a trembling hand to her forehead. In the process she managed to knock her hat even more askew than it had been, and several wisps of iron-gray hair escaped to dance about her worry-lined brow.
    "Oh!" she wailed. "Heaven help us now. She’s not here! And I’d been so certain she’d be with you, Miss Sinclair!"
    "But, Mama!" Charlotte pointed excitedly. "There’s Lady Dexter, looking just as much in a pelter as you are. I knew it! If Maria has run off at all, she’d be doing the running with Lord Dexter."
    "What?" both mothers shrieked in unison.
    Lady Dexter rose. Her beaklike nose twitched in agitation as she approached Mrs. Wilmott.
    "I expressly forbade my Maria to marry," snapped that lady, cleverly forestalling an attack by the formidable countess. "She has a duty to her mother. As the firstborn she should feel herself privileged to look after me in my declining years."
    "Hrrmph," Lady Dexter snorted. "My son has his name and his position to consider. Lady Hesther Ipswich would have made a perfect wife for him."
    The two ladies glared at each other while Charlotte flopped down on the chair nearest Sara and calmly proceeded to pour coffee and butter a scone. "We had no breakfast," she confided in a stage whisper. "Mama has been pulling her hair out all night long."
    Finally, since neither Lady Dexter nor Mrs. Wilmott had felt obliged to harangue her, Lady Bolwood regained some of her poise. "Pray be seated, ladies, " she invited. "Would you care for breakfast?"
    Her hospitable offer was ignored by the two antagonists. For a moment it looked as though they would be at each other’s throats, then, amazingly, Lady Dexter extended her hand. Mrs. Wilmott took it in a firm clasp, and the ladies touched cheeks.
    "There’s nothing we can do but put a good face on it," grumbled Dexter’s mama.
    "The lot of a mother is hard," Mrs. Wilmott said with a sigh. "No matter how much she sacrifices for her child, she is repaid only with ingratitude. Come, Charlotte, and let this be a lesson to you," she muttered darkly.
    The ladies proceeded toward the door. Cherry heaved a sigh of relief that she’d escaped further interrogation. Alas, it had been too soon to feel at ease, for Lady Dexter turned back and fastened her piercing eyes on Cherry yet again.
    "If my son planned to elope with Miss Wilmott, then why, pray tell, did he order the coachman to drive to Bolwood House? That much I got out of the footman whom Bartholomew left behind at Vauxhall."
    Oh, Dexter, Cherry apostrophized, why couldn’t you simply elope in your curricle?
    "It was this information which brought me here in the first place," the dowager continued. "I do not intend to leave until I’ve received some very good answers."
    "Maria had asked me to loan her my room to change into traveling clothes," Cherry said quietly. Ignoring the gasps of Lady Dexter and Mrs. Wilmott, she added, "If everything went according to plan, they should be getting married right now."
    All eyes moved to the tall marquetry clock in the corner by the windows and watched the jewel-encrusted hands flip upward to show the full hour. There was a winding noise; ten mellow strikes vibrated through the quiet breakfast parlor.
    "Well! I trust you are satisfied, Miss Sinclair, " Lady Dexter ground out and marched from the room.
    "You may be sure you won’t see me at your ball!" Mrs. Wilmott tossed her head haughtily. Unfortunately, her hat slid over her eyes, detracting considerably from her planned, regal exit. She pushed it back with one hand while groping for Charlotte’s arm with the other. "Come Charlotte!" she ordered.
    Sara called out, just before the door closed behind them, "I beg you will permit Charlotte to attend under Maria’s chaperonage, Mrs. Wilmott."
    But there was no reply.

    "WHAT a rough morning you’ve had, my love," Marcus commiserated after he’d been told the whole.
    "That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid. It boggles the mind to think about the consequences of this escapade. Since Lady Dexter received the news from her footman, fresh rumors are bound to be spread through the servants’ grapevine. If this continues, I won’t have a shred of respectability left to my name by the time we get married."
    "Isn’t it fortunate you’ll be changing your name, then?" Marcus grinned at her, but the stricken look in her eyes touched his heart. "I admit you are somewhat prone to land yourself in a briar patch, my dear. But no great matter. We’ll simply marry a bit sooner," he comforted her.
    They were in the back drawing room, Cherry seated before the pianoforte and Marcus leaning casually against the instrument. At his solicitous words, she smiled up at him. She ignored his reference to an early marriage and asked instead, "Have you come to drag me off for an outing, Marcus?"
    "No." He swept her up and carried her to a sofa.
    The nearby windows stood open with lace curtains billowing gently in a warm breeze. The muted song of a thrush drifted in on the scent of blooming forsythia and budding leaves, beguiling Cherry’s senses with its sweetness.
    "I have come for some companionship," Marcus said firmly.
    Keeping her a prisoner on his lap, he kissed her gently, insistently, until the stiffness left her body and she yielded to his embrace. She felt herself drowning in the headiness of his closeness and warmth.
    Finally Marcus released her. "Now you may sit next to me, love." He allowed her to slide off his lap but kept one arm possessively around her shoulders.
    "I’m so glad you came," she murmured. "Something strange happened while I was practicing. In the midst of playing the rousing first movement of the Emperor Concerto, I suddenly felt drained, completely blank! Not that I had forgotten the music, but I had no feelings to convey. It was frightening! Then you came in—I knew it without turning aroundDand I came alive, pouring my soul into the playing, and then the music came gloriously alive, too. I used to think I needed no one as long as I had a pianoforte—have I become too dependent on you?"
    "No, love, never too dependent. You’ll always be your own person and have the ability to play, to interpret. You were overset by Lady Dexter, and when I arrived you sensed that you’d have a friend to share your feelings."
    He pulled her closer and cradled her head against his chest, with his chin resting on her soft curls. "I love you, Cherry. And I’ll do my utmost to make you happy," he vowed.
    "I love you!" she whispered and raised her face for his kiss.
    "But, mind," he admonished after he’d tasted her lips, "from now on I expect you to communicate your feelings to me always. Don’t leave me to guess and face the danger of misinterpretation."
    "The way you communicate with me?" She smiled impishly. "Shall I pick you up bodily and deposit you where I think I require your presence?"
    "Touché!" He laughed. "I promise I, too, will start practicing as I preach." The laughter died from his eyes.
    "Cherry, when can we be married? I want you as my wife very soon. Let’s set a date and announce it at the ball."
    "Is...a month too soon?"
    "Too late. Let’s be married on the first of May."
    Cherry could only nod. The impact of his words sent her head spinning. The ball was in four days...and less than a fortnight later she would be Marcus’s wife.
    "Can we be married in Lostwithiel?" she asked finally.
    "What!" he exclaimed with a twinkle. "No Saint George’s, or at least Saint Margaret’s? No displaying yourself before all of the ton? Child, the outrageous schemes you propose to me!"
    His arm tightened around her. "Of course your papa will marry us, my little goose. I’ve already written to him and warned him to be prepared, but you’ll need to inform your family of the date," he added sternly.
    "I shall do so this very afternoon, just as soon as you’ve left."
    "Are you trying to hasten my departure, beloved termagant?" Marcus pulled her into his arms yet again.
    A cursory knock and Sara’s bubbling voice as she peeked around the door drew them apart. "Small wonder Lady Bolwood sent me to sit bodkin betwixt you two lovebirds! Cherry, how can you visit with Marcus behind closed doors? Have you forgotten all of Mama’s strictures on propriety?"
    "Go away, Sara. You are de trop," Marcus chided and made as if to kiss Cherry again.
    "The boot’s on the other foot, dear brother-in-law-to-be. Lady Bolwood sent me to fetch Cherry. She is taking her to be measured for her trousseau, and then we’re going to tea at Lady Cowper’s."
    "My trousseau?" Cherry blinked in surprise. "But—"
    "No ‘but’," Sara interrupted. "Just this once, entrust yourself to those who know better."
    Marcus laughed. "I can see I am decidedly de trop. Farewell, charming ladies." He blew them each a kiss and departed.
    After two tedious hours spent at Lady Bolwood’s dressmaker, the countess and her young companions were admitted into Lady Cowper’s splendid drawing room. Lady Bolwood’s keen eyes darted about. She drew a sigh of relief. No other company was expected; the massive silver tea tray bore cups and plates for four persons only. This time she would be able to enjoy Emily Cowper’s hospitality.
    But her hopes were short-lived. Barely had they settled around the tea tray when Lady Cowper caught sight of Cherry’s betrothal ring.
    "My dear, that is the Belcourt ring!"
    "Yes, ma’am." Cherry raised her hand to display the gems to full advantage. "The Duke of Belcourt has done me the honor of asking me to be his wife."
    "But why on earth does no one know about it? Do you not plan to make a public announcement?" In her agitation Lady Cowper poured tea with such vigor that it required two of the dainty, lace-edged napkins to mop up the spillage. "Why, only this morning I was told the wickedest rumor about you and young Dexter...and from someone who should know better, I might add. An announcement of your betrothal would put paid to that kind of gossip."
    "We’ve had a visit from Lady Dexter as well," Lady Bolwood remarked dryly. "She was soon set straight, I assure you." She frowned in recollection of the whirlwind morning. "Lavinia Wilmott also came to see us. Of course, it was her daughter Maria who’s run off with Dexter, not Cherry."
    "In that case, I don’t doubt you’ve had a full-blown Cheltenham tragedy enacted to you, Alicia. But, unless word about Maria and Dexter gets out, Cherry is still in trouble."
    "Never say so, Emily! The child had no hand in this!"
    "Unfortunately Mrs. Drummond-Burrell has already approached me and suggested to bar Cherry from Almack’s, and unless this misunderstanding is resolved, I’m very much afraid Maria Sefton and Sally Jersey will soon follow suit. And then we’re in the basket!"
    "Oh dear!"
    "Let’s see now...Lady Dexter will keep quiet to avoid scandal. Possibly Lavinia will talk—after all, the earl is quite a catch—but we can’t depend on her." She sighed. "Oh, very well. I can see I shall have to resort to gossip myself to help spread the word."
    "Why not tell the Misses Arbuthnot? Then you may sit back, and enjoy the fruits of your labor," Cherry offered.
    This earned her a sharp glance from Alicia Bolwood and a rebuke from her hostess.
    "I swear I don’t know at times whether you are merely catching on to the ways of the ton, or whether you are being cynical, Cherry," Lady Cowper complained. "I cannot like either one of the possibilities, and what your mama would say...however, since your observation is absolutely correct, I’ll let it pass for now."
    "Thank you, ma’am."
    Lady Cowper’s eyes narrowed. "But you did not reply to my question earlier. Even if you consider it prying, Cherry, I should like to know why your betrothal has not been announced."
    "I do not want to be known as the fiancée of the Duke of Belcourt until after the concert of the Philharmonic Society. Marcus is kind enough to oblige me."
    "That’s it?" Lady Cowper’s jaw dropped. "No earthshaking reason, like a duel at dawn, if it’s disclosed sooner? Why does Belcourt let you get away with it?"
    "Because he’s besotted," Sara put in.
    "Pray forgive me, Emily, but I should like to leave now," Lady Bolwood whispered. "I must lie down for a while."
    "Do you have the headache?" Anxiously Cherry helped the countess to her feet. "You were well but a moment ago. Are you upset with me? But you did know that the announcement would be made on Tuesday only."
    "Yes, I knew. But I assumed the duke required more time to extricate himself from his... entanglements. I never dreamed it was simply a caprice of yours."

    ALL the way back to Bolwood House, Lady Bolwood kept her eyes and mouth pressed tightly shut. Once they were admitted by Benson, she headed straight for the stairs. She had not taken more than three steps when her husband came storming out of the library, waving a section of the morning paper in his hand.
    "Just look at this drivel!" he raged. "It’s unbelievable what libelous stuff gets printed in the society columns nowadays."
    Lady Bolwood only moaned and continued on her way upstairs. He looked after her in consternation. "Alicia, my dear, I did not mean to upset you." He bounded up the stairs after his wife.
    "Here, Cherry." Halting briefly, he thrust the paper at her. "You read it. I’ll back you if you want to sue the demmed pensharper for libel."
    Cherry and Sara sank down on the bottom step, the skirts of their walking dresses settling in soft folds of cerulean and cream muslin about their feet. Scanning the page, Cherry found the questionable column without difficulty. It was by far the longest, most eye-catching article, with all its suggestive ellipses.

    "Well! That has to be Lady Aberlaine’s doing!" Sara exclaimed in disgust. "The harlot!"
    "Sara!" Cherry tore her attention from the poisonous words in the paper and turned shocked eyes on her sister. She had never seen the gentle Sara so infuriated. The stormy emotion did not last long, however. Already tears were welling up in her eyes.
    "But what shall we do?" she wailed. "This...piece of rubbish will be your undoing, Cherry. London is dreadful! I hate it! People here are noxious and foul-mouthed. Everyone will read it and whisper and stare. Papa will read it!" she moaned. "Let’s go home, Cherry. We must talk to Papa before he reads the paper."
    "Not on your life, " Cherry vowed. "Papa won’t see the paper for a few days yet—you know that all papers get ‘lost’ at the receiving office until the squire rides up and raises the roof. I’ll write Papa tonight and explain, but now I must get busy."
    "What can you do?"
    "I shall fight back, ‘brazen it out’ as Lady Bolwood would say." She balled her hands into tight fists to give emphasis to her brave words, but deep inside she felt aflame with hurt and desolation.
    Bristling with determination, she got up from the stairs and shook out the skirt of her pretty blue cambric gown. "Benson!" she called. "Have the barouche brought around at once. Miss Sara and I are going for a drive in Hyde Park."
    Sara looked at her, fear and admiration mirrored in her eyes. Cherry was as white as a sheet, and her whole body was trembling, but her voice was firm.
    "We shall show ourselves in the park every afternoon at five," she informed Sara. "Whenever possible, Marcus shall accompany us—and on Monday I shall play at the Argyll Rooms!"

Chapter 16

    "Miss Cherry—" Muzio Clementi interrupted the rehearsal. "A little more pianissimo, if you please."
    Cherry’s hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. They had been rehearsing without a break for three hours, and each time she had bungled the adagio.
    Muzio Clementi walked over to the pianoforte and gently tilted her face so that she had to look at him. "What is troubling you, my dear, that you cannot play this gentle, dreamy movement? Do you worry about the gossip columns?"
    When she flinched, he murmured, "Ah...don’t fret. We have all read them and heard the rumors—and we discount it all completely."
    "I appreciate your trust in me," she murmured gratefully.
    "Not at all, my dear. We’ve seen it happen too many times. When someone extraordinaire appears on the horizon, the jealous turn vindictive. You are a brilliant musician, but you must also acquire a thick skin—as all artists must—if you do not wish to be annihilated by the envious. Come now, put it from your mind, and we shall run through the whole piece one more time. Then, I think, I shall send you home with the duke, who has just now arrived."
    Cherry turned around quickly and fastened her eyes on Marcus’s solid, calming presence. What a rock he’d been during the past days. They smiled at each other across the empty room. She felt the angry, tense mood drain away and nodded her readiness to the orchestra.
    It was almost five o’clock when she and Marcus left the Argyll Rooms, and automatically he turned the phaeton toward Hyde Park, where they’d spent every afternoon since the malicious column had been printed in The Times. Their frequent public appearances had done much to silence the wagging tongues, as had their friends’ unstinting support, yet she could not shake a vague feeling of unease.
    "Let’s keep the drive short today, Marcus," she pleaded. "I should rest for a while before the concert."
    "And you must eat," he reminded sternly.
    "As gauche as it may sound, I’m ravenous," she admitted wryly.
    Two riders caught Marcus’s attention with their energetic arm-waving and loud halloos, and he pulled the phaeton out of the path of other carriages to await Maria’s and Dexter’s approach.
    "I take it congratulations are in order, old fellow?" Marcus grinned at his friend and bowed politely to Maria. "Got the knot safely tied?"
    Complacent, Dexter nodded and exchanged loving looks with his new bride. "Everything’s ship shape; even Mother has come around. If she don’t exactly dote on Maria yet, at least she’s civil."
    Maria had moved her mare closer to the phaeton, and the two girls embraced briefly, as best as their precarious positions allowed. Cherry’s eyes searched her friends’s face. "You look lovely, Maria. The married state agrees with you."
    The young Lady Dexter blushed and laughed. "It is marvelous," she whispered. "And the strange part is, I now take precendence over Mama. It did not sit at all well with her until I pointed out how advantageous it would be for Charlotte to be seen with Dexter and me, say at the concert and your ball."
    "I do hope Mrs. Wilmott vetoed the concert. I fear Charlotte in the audience would prove rather distracting—she’s such a restless child."
    "A graceless imp, I quite agree. Well, you may rest easy, for Mama didn’t like to give in to me completely and denied Charlotte the concert, but graciously permitted her attendance at your ball. You must admit, Mama knows to a tee where to draw the line, even when miffed."
    "But shall I see you tonight?" Cherry asked urgently.
    "Of course. Nothing short of disaster could stop me. And...dearest Cherry, how generous of you not to scold me, but can you ever forgive me?"
    "Forgive you what, Maria?"
    "That I brought more trouble on your head by running off with Dexter. Dearest, believe me, it never crossed my mind that I’d be involving you in further scandal!"
    "For goodness’ sake! Here you’re just arrived in town and some rattle already disturbed you with such gossip!"
    "Actually, we arrived yesterday afternoon, and Lady Dexter would not let a moment pass before filling us in on the latest." Maria frowned. "And I cannot help but believe she had a hand in it herself."
    "Possibly," Cherry conceded. "You saw the column in The Times?" When Maria nodded, she shrugged. "Then you know that most of the information stems from Sylvia’s mouth. However, it may have been the dowager who informed her that Dexter had disappeared."
    "With you!"
    "I admit I was furious, and not a little frightened at first, that this episode would presage my downfall, but as you can see for yourself, no one is cutting me or insulting me." When I’m with Marcus, Cherry added silently, for she’d been given the cut twice while driving with Sara alone.
    "I’m so glad, for I could never have forgiven myself had I caused more problems for you." Maria sensed that Cherry did not wish to pursue the subject further and asked, "When will your new riding habit be delivered? Shall you have it in time for your ride tomorrow?"
    With a sidelong glance at Marcus, Cherry whispered, "I shall, if I play my cards right. Mrs. Littlejohn promised delivery in the morning, and I’ll use the concert as an excuse to sleep in and go riding at eleven o’clock—hopefully dressed in the first stare of fashion."
    "Good. I’ll try to be here." Maria squeezed her hand briefly, then they parted as Dexter clamored to be gone, and Marcus reminded Cherry of her need to rest.
    "You look puckered out, and I’m all a-tremble for fear Lady Bolwood will read me a scold if we arrive much later."
    She chuckled. "Let’s be off, then. She’s only just overcome her pique with me, and I don’t wish to see her portraying the ‘ice-queen’ toward me again."

    PALE and nervous, Cherry sat in the first row surrounded by Marcus, and Sara, Phillip, Lord and Lady Bolwood, the newlywed Lord and Lady Dexter, Mr. Harry Blythe, and several other close friends. The large, elegant ballroom of the Argyll Rooms—converted into a concert hall—was beginning to fill up, stifling her with its buzzing crowd of fashionable patrons. Soon only a large, upholstered armchair and several chairs of a more modest structure flanking it were left vacant near the orchestra in readiness for the Prince Regent and his entourage.
    Apprehension gripped Cherry, and she looked about her with troubled eyes. She espied such notables as Lord Liverpool, no fewer than four of Almack’s patronesses, Lord and Lady Castlereagh, and Lord Palmerston among the audience. At least her name on the program had not induced the ton to remain at home, she tried to cheer herself.
    A stir near the great double doors caused heads to turn, then the swish and whisper of silken materials as the assembled company rose from their seats and the ladies sank into deep curtsies marked the progress of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.
    Barely had everyone settled down again when Mr. Weichsel, the leader, and Dr. Crotch at the pianoforte gave the signal to the orchestra. Act I of the Fourth Concert of the Philharmonic Society had begun with Haydn’s Symphony in G—to be followed by Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in E Flat Major, the Emperor Concerto.
    Cherry smoothed out nonexistent creases in the skirt of her green gown, then fussed with the velvet rose in her hair. Soon, very soon, it would be her turn. Would she live up to Mr. Clementi’s and her own expectations? Her stomach contracted painfully. Please, don’t botch up the adagio, she admonished herself.
    When her hands would have worried the carefully brushed pile of her velvet gown yet again, Marcus’s strong, warm hand stole over from her left and Sara’s slender, gloved hand from her right and held hers captive with comforting, reassuring pressure. She breathed deeply, willing herself to relax.
    This was her opportunity—and she would give her best!
    Muzio Clementi himself announced her. Amid the applause of her friends she rose and joined the orchestra. She played as she never had before, conquering her doubts and fears as Beethoven had conquered the turmoil of the times and the stress to his poor ears as the cannons of the French army assaulted Vienna while he was composing his Emperor concerto.
    She poured her life and soul into the solo passages and held her audience captive. From the three orchestral chords in the introduction to the brilliant finale, not a whisper or cough dispelled the magic woven by the sweeping grandeur of the concerto, but all inhibitions were cast aside when the last note had died away. As one, the audience came to their feet to smother the musicians in deafening applause. There were shouts for Miss Cherry and an encore, but she shook her head and returned to her seat, stopping only briefly to speak with the Prince Regent, who had beckoned imperiously. His Royal Highness was visibly moved. With tears in his eyes he thanked her and congratulated her on her exquisite performance.
    As if in a dream, Cherry let the rest of the concert wash over her head, only vaguely aware of Marcus’s arm held sustainingly about her waist. Music by Mozart, Cherubini, even Mrs. Salmon’s great scena "Ah compir" did nothing to arouse her from her trancelike state. She was elated—she felt depressed—and up again her spirits soared.
    It was a grand night, but by the time they returned to Bolwood House, Cherry felt exhausted and drained. It required no play-acting on her part to plead fatigue and ask Marcus to postpone their morning ride by a few hours. She would have refused to sample the celebration champagne with her friends had Harry not asked shyly if he was still in disgrace, and for a half-hour she forced herself to be polite.
    Then Sara led her from the drawing room and helped her up the flight of stairs to her room, where Cherry crawled into her bed to curl up and hide from all disturbing stimuli with the covers pulled over her head. She was alarmed by the wide range of her emotions when she’d expected to feel only relief and perhaps pride at the conclusion of the concert. But soon the comforting warmth relaxed her body and sleep claimed her with gentle insistence.

    THE new black riding habit and accessories were dutifully delivered while Cherry was still blissfully asleep. At ten o’clock Sara ventured into her sister’s room and flung open the drapes. Bright rays of sunshine danced across the bed and teased Cherry awake.
    "What time is it? Did Mrs. Littlejohn send my riding habit?"
    With a flourish Sara pulled it from the box and held it against her own person. "It’s beautiful, Cherry. Hurry up! If I know Marcus, he’ll be here before the appointed time."

    WHEN he arrived at a quarter to eleven, she was ready. The black-and-gold Hussar cap sat at a rakish angle on her curls; the trim black habit with dainty white lace showing at her throat and wrists emphasized her slender figure.
    Marcus stopped in his tracks, drinking in the picture of charm and elegance confronting him. "Just as I’ve imagined my future duchess to look," he murmured, advancing purposefully to kiss the hand she had extended in welcome. "And as of today it is quite official. No more prevarication, or you’ll be considered a flirt, m’dear." He pulled a newspaper from the capacious pocket of his coat and presented it to her. "There it is, black on white, that you’ve promised to become my wife."
    Cherry read the announcement and smiled up at him. "I have no wish to renege on my promise, " she told him softly.
    The paper fell unheeded to the floor as Marcus embraced her and kissed her tenderly with the promise of happiness to come.
    "Last night you were too exhausted to pay much heed to our congratulations, love, but I want you to know that I’m extremely proud of you." He delved again into the pocket of his mustard-colored riding coat and retrieved a tiny jewelry box. "A token of my love and pride in you."
    "Thank you, Marcus. Ohh..." She stared in wonder at a gold brooch, a miniature replica of a pianoforte. "It’s exquisite! I shall treasure it always." She hugged him with enthusiasm.
    "You haven’t seen all." He laughed and pulled out a magnifying glass. "See the engraving? Cherry Sinclair, Philharmonic Society, 1819. Now, why the deuce are you crying?"
    "I’m so happy,"she sobbed. "I’m afraid it’s all just too much for me."
    "Come along then, my beloved watering pot. Let’s go riding. That will restore your emotional equilibrium. Is Sara ready?"
    "Yes, she is," announced that young lady, peeking around the door with an impish smile on her lips. "But I didn’t want to disrupt your tête-à-tête."
    "In that case, you might have joined Phillip outside. By now he must be cursing his impulse to volunteer as groom."
    Sara chuckled and obediently disappeared to give them a few moments of privacy. Now that the announcement was out, they would have precious little opportunity to be private, with the hostesses of the ton vying with one another to show off this remarkable pair.
    It was a happy little group that wended its way toward the park. The lovely spring day had lured a great number of fashionables to take an airing before luncheon, and the drives were crowded with carriages and riders.
    Maria and Dexter were but the first of an interminable stream of friends and acquaintances—and even strangers—to hail them and heap praise and congratulations on Cherry’s head until she felt dizzy with joy. Her spirits soared to the heavens as she basked in the compliments. Forgotten was her exhaustion of the previous night and the depression she’d had to battle after the concert. London had, indeed, accepted her as a pianist.
    Maria edged her mare closer to Cherry’s. "And you believed you needed my support. Ha! It wouldn’t surprise me if you failed to recognize me now, so famous as you’ve become. Oh, Cherry, I’m so proud of you, I could cry!"
    "Don’t you dare, Maria! You’ll have everyone believing I snubbed you, and they’ll drop me as fast as they’ve taken me up. I know very well how capricious society can be, and besides, you’re a dignified married lady now; you can’t cry in public."
    They exchanged smiling looks, then Cherry’s attention was claimed by Lady Cowper, who demanded that she dismount and join her in the barouche for a few moments.
    Finally Sara suggested they return home so that they might lend a hand with some of the many last-minute details in preparation for the ball. Cherry waved and blew kisses to her friends and admirers, then turned Firebrand to ride beside Marcus, while Sara and Phillip pulled ahead. Her conscience pricked her, for she had not given much thought to her companions while she was being showered with congratulations.
    Marcus intercepted her covert glance and grinned. "I’m glad to see you’re not too top-lofty after all that adulation to be consorting with mere mortals."
    "If I were, ‘twould be no more than you deserve, you tease. But...Marcus? I did fear, for just an instant, that you might be..."
    "Jealous?" he supplied. "Nay, dear. You need never fret that I’ll be jealous of your success. And if the gentlemen adore you, it’s no more than your due. It makes me the proudest man alive, for I know you are mine!"
    Her heart beat rapidly, and her love for him sent the blood rushing through her veins in instant response to his caressing looks. Her happiness was complete.
    Phillip turned around. "Let’s hurry up a bit, shall we? I see Harry and Alvanleigh ahead, and I want to ask them about that curricle race at Barnet. I’ve half a mind to go but couldn’t get the particulars last night."
    "Would you take me, please, Phillip?" Sara blushed at her own temerity, but as mad as Cherry was about riding, so was she about driving and, particularly, carriage races.
    Phillip chuckled. "Very well, if it’s aboveboard and fit for a lady’s eyes—from all I’ve heard, Merton and Stokely will drive the race, sitting backwards on their racing curricles. Halloo there, Alvanleigh!" he shouted.
    Harry and Lord Alvanleigh turned around, but while Harry urged his stallion toward them, Lord Alvanleigh merely raised his tall beaver hat and wheeled his horse in the opposite direction, leaving them to stare after him in astonishment.
    "Must have recalled an urgent commission," Harry mumbled and tugged at his immaculate cravat.
    Marcus shot him a keen glance and suggested calmly, "Why don’t you ride ahead with Phillip and tell him about Merton’s race. I’ll undertake to keep Sara and Cherry reasonably entertained."
    "Don’t suppose you’d care to reverse our roles, my friend?" Harry asked with dancing eyes, his misgivings about Alvanleigh’s inexplicable behavior set aside for the sport of getting a rise out of Marcus.
    He remained quite unruffled, however. "You suppose correctly. If you must needs bore the ladies, you’d best bespeak a dance tonight. Pray lead on."
    They had almost reached the park gate when rapid hoofbeats and the churning of carriage wheels heralded the fast approach of a vehicle from behind. Hastily they pressed their horses toward the turf to make more room on the drive.
    Cherry, who was on the near side, felt the powerful suction of air as an emerald-and-white curricle flashed past. She caught a glimpse of fiery hair framing a face taut with anger, and glittering green eyes, then her attention and all her strength were demanded by Firebrand, who screamed and reared in terror. It was no easy feat to remain in the sidesaddle under these circumstances. She thought she might have to give Firebrand her head and let her run until she’d calmed down, but Marcus’s had shot out and clutched the mare’s bridle. Between them, they soothed the terrified animal.
    "It’s all right, it’s all right," she cooed, stroking Firebrand’s neck.
    Cherry was paler than usual, due more to her suspicion that this had been a deliberate act on Sylvia’s part than to fear that she might have come to harm. As long as the carriage had not actually struck her or her horse, she’d been in no real danger; she was too experienced a horsewoman to be thrown easily. But it was very frightening to encounter Sylvia’s implacable hatred again and again.
    She stole a glance at Marcus. His jaw was set in rigid lines, and his eyes blazed with fury, but he said nothing.
    It was Sara who voiced her dismay and anger without inhibition. "That woman is a menace. She should never drive without a groom to handle the ribbons for her. Never in my life have I seen such cow-handed driving!"
    "Fustian!" Marcus ground through clenched teeth. "Sylvia’s never been cow-handed in her life. She drives to an inch."
    "Dammit, Marcus!" Phillip exclaimed. "Even Lady Aberlaine wouldn’t set out to inflict bodily injury on Cherry. She could have killed her had Firebrand edged a fraction closer to the curricle!"
    Cherry shook her head. "No, of course she wouldn’t deliberately hurt me—not in that way—and I don’t believe she had taken the possibility into account. She was certain of her own driving skills and had planned my taking a tumble in the dust. It did not occur to her that Firebrand might have sidled—or that I would remain in the saddle."
    "You’re taking it mighty cool." Phillip looked at her doubtfully, as though expecting at least a minor outbreak of hysteria.
    "Sylvia’s gone. Unless I want to raise a hue and cry and start another scandal, there’s nothing I can do," she replied calmly.
    "Well, I can do something," Marcus flared. "I shall pay Sylvia a visit in the morning—today, unfortunately, I cannot trust myself."
    "Then let me go," Harry begged. "I don’t want her to believe, even for a moment, that she can get away with it!"
    "Thank you, Harry, but tomorrow will be quite as effective. Sylvia will find London is not large enough to hold both her and Cherry; she’ll find it expedient to remove to the country for a while."
    When the girls had returned to Bolwood House, Sara followed Cherry to her room. She flung herself onto the bed and watched for a while in silence as Cherry paced restlessly before the fireplace.
    "You are not taking it lightly," she commented.
    Cherry swung around. "How can I? I have made enemies, Sara, and I don’t know if I can bear the tension much longer. There’s Sylvia, who lays it at my door that Marcus broke of their affaire; Mrs. Wilmott blames me for Maria’s elopement; and Lady Dexter dislikes me because she once feared I had my cap set at her son—and then she’s never forgiven me for saying that I had higher aspirations than marrying him."
    "You are funning, Cherry. Did you really?"
    "Yes, I did. She’d made me very angry, you see. But that’s neither here nor there. I just feel...guilty and smothered by shame for having made enemies. It is very uncomfortable, and, as Papa would be the first to point out, much of the blame lies with me."
    "I daresay," Sara answered. "But I’ve met the three ladies, and I feel certain that you need not blame yourself for anything that happened. They’ve brought it upon themselves."
    Cherry sighed deeply and perched herself on the edge of the bed. "I can cope with Mrs. Wilmott and Lady Dexter, if not for my sake then for Maria’s and Dexter’s. I can be civil and converse decorously with them—if they don’t cut me dead. But when I see Sylvia, I feel apprehensive, I shrivel up inside, and it takes all my willpower to give her the time of day."
    "You’re afraid of her. Well, I can’t say I blame you after the mischief she’s done you, but that’s all over now. You’ve succeeded despite her scandalmongering, and she’s vented her spleen on you for the last time. Marcus will see to that! "
    A soft glow lit up Cherry’s eyes. "Yes, Marcus will be at my side now." With restored energy she leaped up and pulled Sara to her feet. "Come, let’s make certain Simpson has finished sewing the new trim on my ball gown."
    Light-blue tulle edged with delicate silver trim swirled around Cherry’s ankles as she danced the supper waltz with Marcus. She smiled and nestled closer into the arms she’d come to regard as her personal haven of warmth and security. Her loving glance caressed the strong face above her, so beautiful with the harsh planes smoothed out by tenderness as he looked down at her.
    He’d been a rock of strength, standing beside her and the Bolwoods in the receiving line as hundreds of guests filed past them. She’d dropped innumerable curtsies, smiled incessantly, and murmured words of welcome. If a few of the ladies had looked askance and pulled their sons and daughters away from her rather abruptly, Marcus had been there to charm even the starchiest of them into a better frame of mind. And the overwhelming majority of the guests had appeared delighted to clasp her to their bosoms.
    The scent of crimson roses and white lilacs decorating the ballroom mingled teasingly, encouraging Cherry to dwell in a glorious daydream of an idyllic place where only she and Marcus existed. She floated in this dreamworld filled with music in three-quarter time and heavenly fragrances until the hearty clapping of her guests recalled her to the present.
    Lord Bolwood had planned a toast to the Duke of Belcourt and his fiancée before supper, and the footmen were even now serving the chilled champagne. They joined Lord and Lady Bolwood on the dais, which had been hastily vacated by the musicians. An expectant hush fell over the assembled company as the earl raised his glass and cleared his throat.
    "You know me well enough not to expect a lengthy speech, and I shan’t disappoint you. We all know why we’re here—to drink to the success of this talented, beautiful young lady and to wish her and her husband-to-be happiness and a long life. Congratulations, my boy," he said gruffly and pumped the duke’s hand, then enveloped Cherry in a bear hug.
    "To Cherry and Marcus!" shouted Charlotte Wilmott, encouraged by her first taste of champagne and the absence of her formidable mama. The toast was immediately taken up by Sara, Phillip, and Harry, and even Lord Dexter found himself unprepared to censure Charlotte for her undignified outburst. Instead, he and Maria joined in the chorus.
    The first ones to notice the arrival of new guests were the four people on the dais. Lady Bolwood blanched a little, although she’d prayed and hoped for this moment since the start of the ball. And now she was trapped at the opposite end of the long room, unable to receive His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.
    But Prinny had his own methods of gaining attention. A word whispered into an ear here, a hand laid on a shoulder there, soon cleared a path for him and his entourage.
    Marcus leaped off the dais and unceremoniously lifted Cherry down, just in time to sink into a deep curtsy before the Prince Regent, while Lord and Lady Bolwood made decorous use of the steps at the rear of the dais.
    "Congratulations, Belcourt," The Prince wheezed genially. "And about time, I’d say. Expected the announcement long before this." Then he beamed at Cherry. "I entertain no doubts whatsoever about your ability to keep this rake you chose for a husband in line, my dear. He’s a demmed lucky dog! If I were but a few years younger, I swear I’d give him a run for his money"
    A footman had carried a chair to the Prince’s side and gratefully he eased his bulk into it, sparing her the necessity of replying to his unanswerable comments. He nodded graciously to Lady Bolwood. "Carry on, ma’am. I’ve not come to curtail the fun."
    Flustered, since her program called for supper at this point, and it did not seem right to ask her royal guest to get up just after he’d made himself comfortable in the chair, she directed the footmen to serve more champagne and sent for the musicians to play another waltz.
    Marcus smiled at Cherry. "May I have the honor? Now that we are betrothed, it is quite proper to dance as many waltzes as we care to."
    "Yes, but we don’t want to give the impression we live in each other’s pocket," she murmured wickedly. "Let’s not overdo it."
    "Minx!"
    He was sweeping her into the first turn when she saw Sylvia. Icy green eyes met gray ones in a silent message. Cherry’s heart skipped a beat, then Sylvia turned away and whispered to her companions.
    Startled looks were darted at Cherry, eyebrows rose and drew together in disdainful frowns, then the whispering continued, but in quadrupled force as Sylvia’s friends turned to others beside them. Sylvia, meanwhile, made her way purposefully toward the Ladies Jersey and Cowper, who were standing near the Prince Regent.
    "Marcus! How did Sylvia get here?"
    "She came with Prinny. Didn’t you notice?" was his unconcerned reply. "Allow her this last fling—tomorrow she’ll be retiring to Bath. Come, the dance is ending. Let’s give Lady Bolwood a helping hand and invite Prinny into the supper room."
    Cherry nodded.
    When the music ended, a hush fell over the ballroom, broken abruptly by titters and chuckles. Uneasy, Cherry looked about her. Everyone appeared to be staring at her mockingly or accusingly or avoiding her eyes in embarrassment. Then a shrill voice rose above the whispers and titters.
    "The affront! One of Madame Fellini’s girls, you say?"
    The hateful name hit Cherry like a blow. Her head jerked in the direction of the speaker, just in time to watch Lady Jersey laugh loudly and Lady Cowper collapse in a swoon.
    The room swam before her eyes, and a roar in her ears drowned every other sound. Madame Fellini...Madame Fellini...her numb mind echoed over and over. Her knees buckled, but Marcus’s arm was suddenly a vise of steel, bearing her closer to the Prince’s chair. Prinny smiled at them and was about to say something when Colonel Mellish leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear.
    Cherry heard the hiss of Marcus’s sharply indrawn breath before she saw the reaction on the Prince Regent’s face. The smile had disappeared as though wiped off, his eyes were cold, glinting furiously, and his lips were compressed in a tight line. Laboriously he got off the chair and walked stiffly toward the door. His icy look went straight through her as he stopped briefly and addressed Marcus.
    "That, Belcourt, was a slap in the face we won’t tolerate, not even when it involves Wroxham’s granddaughter."
    And then he was past them, collecting his entourage in his wake. Looking neither right nor left, they filed through the willingly parting crowd. Only one of them hung back, insisting on catching Cherry’s eye—Sylvia Aberlaine, in triumphant victory, smiled most graciously at her.
    A scream rose in Cherry’s throat, but she forced it back. Wildly she looked about her at the sea of blank stares; at the bewildered Lady Bolwood; at Sara standing in the protective circle of Phillip’s arm, her face screwed up in agony and compassion; and at Marcus. The stricken look in his eyes pierced her to the heart. With a sob she tore herself free from his tight grip about her waist and fled—past the Prince Regent, away from all contact with the human species.

Chapter 17

    She flew past gawking footmen, up the stairs and into the sanctuary of her chamber, driven to stumbling haste by the sound of pursuing feet behind her. With shaking fingers she turned the key and collapsed against the door, only to be galvanized into action yet again when some distant, alert part of her brain flashed a warning about the unlocked door leading into the powder room. The key turned smoothly, and she breathed a sigh of relief as though the action had guaranteed her safekeeping.
    Hurried footsteps and vociferous voices approached her chamber, with Marcus’s voice above all others, loud and demanding. "Cherry! Open up, we must talk!" His fists hammered against the solid oak panel of the door.
    She felt the painful impact of each blow in her own tightly clenched fists and took a hesitant step toward him. The knob on the connecting door rattled and Sara called, "Let me in, Cherry. Please let me in!"
    Cherry halted, eyes darting from one door to the other. She felt trapped. Go away! Her lips moved, but no sound issued from her dry throat. Slowly she backed away from the sound of Marcus’s pounding fists until, suddenly, her heel hit the sturdy, carved leg of the four-poster. With a whimper of pain she huddled on the covers and pressed her hands to her ears to keep out the voices urging her, demanding action of her. But to no avail—she could still hear.
    "Cherry, only answer me!" Sara implored, while several pairs of fists renewed the attack on the hall door, each blow resounding like thunder in her aching head.
    "Go away!" she screamed and sat up like a bolt, because this time her voice had functioned, horrifying in its uncontrolled shrillness.
    The commotion outside her room ceased. She heard an occasional whisper, then slowly receding footsteps told her she’d finally been left alone.
    The silence was oppressive in stark contrast to the pandemonium just moments earlier, bringing with it an awareness of desolate loneliness.
    Where was Sara when she had a need of her? And Marcus? Oh, my God, Marcus! She threw herself face down on the bed to muffle the hard, racking sobs she could no longer control.
    Marcus had gone—she’d sent him away, and he had left without demur.
    How it hurt! Wave after wave of pain assaulted her body, tearing her apart. I did not mean it, Marcus—I did not mean to send you away! Come back, I need you!
    But even as she was agonizing over his absence, realization dawned that he could not, must not come back, that telling him to go had been the only honorable way out of this dilemma. Deep down inside she had known it even while she’d been too distraught to think rationally, and her subconsicous had dictated her actions. It had prevented her from opening the door to him, from admitting him into the quagmire of her life.
    She’d been such a fool to believe that she, a nobody from Cornwall, who’d caused more scandal than Lady Caroline Lamb, could marry the Duke of Belcourt. For one glorious day she’d had everything her heart desired—success, fame, and delirious happiness born of the knowledge of being loved.
    It was too much, of course, to expect this happy state to last. She had been tempting fate by wanting too much all at once, and she’d had to pay dearly.
    After a while, perhaps, she could approach Muzio Clementi again and resume her profession. He might not mind a smudged reputation. After all, he’d advised her to be less sensitive. "You must acquire a thick skin, as all artists must," he’d told her.
    Too late came the knowledge that her success as a pianist could not bring happiness without Marcus to share her life. But Marcus must be set free, his name remain unsullied by a connection with hers.
    But you’ve never been one of Madame Fellini’s girls! No, but she’d spent the better part of a night in Madame’s dinky garret room. That alone was sufficient to ruin even the most respectable lady. No one would believe in her innocence. Sylvia had finally succeeded in shredding her reputation beyond repair.
    Cherry got up and paced restlessly about the room. Anger at Sylvia and anger at herself for her gullibility had dried her tears and effectively stifled her sobs. She must be packed and ready to leave at dawn. She must write letters....
    Tears flooded her eyes again and rolled down her cheeks.
    She brushed them away impatiently, only to find them replaced by a fresh supply. They dropped onto her hands as she spread out paper on the Queen Anne desk and picked up a pen, and occasionally they fell onto the letter itself, blurring a word here and there, but she was beyond caring about appearances. She owed an explanation to Lord and Lady Bolwood and must beg their forgiveness.
    It was not as difficult as she’d feared. The three-page epistle was soon written, sealed, and placed conspicuously against the pigeonholes of the desk.
    Now for the letter to Marcus.
    I don’t want to give him up! Must I? Yes, if she did not want to destroy him as well, she must release him from his promise. This latest scandal was not one she could brazen out or live down. She would carry the stigma all her life and pass it on to any children she might have.
    Resolutely she set pen to paper. With each written word a vital part of her fell victim to the cruel knife of separation until only a shell remained—a stiff, numb shell incapable of feelings or emotions.
    
    Your Grace,
    
    After due consideration I have concluded that
    we would not suit after all. I have asked Lord
    Bolwood to insert a notice to that effect in the
    Gazette immediately.
    
    Please don’t believe for a moment that I am not
    grateful for all you have done for me, but I feel
    that to end our engagement at this point will
    spare both you and me a painful parting later on.
    
    With fond Regards,
    
    Cherry Sinclair
    
    Slowly she pulled the sapphire and diamond ring off her finger and placed it on the sealed note. For a long time she stood motionless, staring at the ring, then jerked herself away and scrambled into her traveling clothes. A bag containing a few necessities was soon packed—the bulk of her belongings would have to be sent by carrier.
    Cherry tiptoed to the door and cautiously turned the key.
    A peek along the corridor confirmed that it was deserted, but she believed she could hear faint noises from the nether regions of the house. The staff must still be up, clearing away the debris of the ball. It seemed like an eternity ago that she’d danced that last waltz with Marcus, but only an hour or two could have lapsed. She resigned herself to a long wait.
    Huddled in a chair by the cold fireplace, she lived through each one of those agonizing few minutes that had terminated her ball so disastrously. She felt again the impact of the voice shrilling "Madame Fellini’s girl!" and the mocking eyes upon her; she was burned again by Sylvia’s triumphant look and smile; and she felt the chill of the Prince Regent’s disdain as he walked past her without recognition.
    Oh, pray I have done you no irreparable harm, Marcus!
    Finally the small ormolu clock chimed the half-hour past four. Cherry rose stiffly, hoisted up her bag, and ventured cautiously into the corridor. Not one stair creaked in this well-run home, the bolt on the great front door slid back silently, and then the door clicked shut behind her. Night engulfed her with frightening memories of another flight through dark streets. She shivered and reached back, clinging to the security of the doorknob.
    Don’t be chicken-hearted, she admonished herself. What needs be must be done. The marble felt cold to her feet even through the kid leather of her half-boots as she trod down the steps. She turned to her right and noted with dull surprise a hackney coach waiting two doors down, the driver huddled on the box as if asleep, the horses drooping their heads dejectedly. She hurried, afraid the jarvey would wake up and drive off before she could hail him—and she did not dare call out. Poking him gently so as not to startle him, she whispered, "To the Gloucester Coffeehouse, please. I’m in a hurry."
    He nodded disinterestedly and picked up the reins, leaving her to climb in unassisted. Barely had she shut the door behind her when the carriage started with a jerk. She tumbled onto the seat, against the soft shape of a second passenger. Her heart leaped into her throat, making breathing nigh impossible.
    "About time, Cherry." Sara’s voice was matter-of-fact. "I thought you’d never come."
    Cherry could only gasp and stare at her sister.
    "Did you really think I’d let you run off alone?" She sounded so surprised that Cherry thought she could see her raised brows, although it was pitch dark in the musty vehicle.
    "Foolish, sweet Sara." She could say no more, but swallowed hard and blinked away the tears she’d believed spent after her earlier bout of crying. To have Sara’s soothing presence when she’d imagined herself to be totally alone was almost more than she could bear.
    Without a word Sara pressed a handkerchief into her trembling fingers and pulled her into a comforting embrace. After a while she asked, "Will running away help, do you think?"
    "I don’t know," she replied tonelessly. "But what else is there to be done?"
    "By running away you’re all but admitting that those vile accusations are true. Please stay and fight to clear your name, Cherry."
    "I can’t. There’s too much involved. I’d do more harm than good."
    "Marcus?"
    Cherry nodded.
    Sara sighed wearily. "I hope you thought to bring a pack of cards, or we’ll have a horridly tedious wait."
    "I beg your pardon?" she choked out.
    "You forget, the Devonport Mail doesn’t leave until eight o’clock tonight, dear."

    "DAMMIT, Phillip!" Marcus’s fists crashed heavily against the carved mantle above the hearth in his study. Aromatic pinewood crackled merrily, but for good measure he kicked the bottom log, sending sparks flying dangerously. He wanted to destroy something—someone; and since Sylvia Aberlaine was not available, his evening shoes would have to do. "I’m not certain any longer that it was such a good notion to leave Cherry alone. She’s so sensitive that there’s no telling what she might do. I should be with her now."
    "Sara’s there. She’ll see to it that Cherry doesn’t do anything corkbrained. You need to figure out what to do about this imbroglio."
    "I know what to do," Marcus said curtly. "Should have done it a long time ago but didn’t for fear of scandal. Gad, what a fool I’ve been! What a pompous, damned fool!" He studied his young brother. "Will you help, Phillip?"
    "Just say what you want done."
    "Go to Sylvia and get her to sign a confession that she made up her vicious tale about Cherry."
    Phillip swallowed. "That’s a tall order, Marcus. Would not a visit from you be more effective?"
    Marcus gave a crack of laughter. "Infinitely so, but not as helpful, I’m afraid. I’d strangle her if I were to confront her now, and dead ladies can’t write. No, it’ll have to be you."
    "But how, short of wringing her neck myself, will I persuade her to do as we bid?"
    Deep in thought, Marcus paced the floor as though action, even of this restricted nature, would help him to find a solution. "Of course!" He stopped in his tracks, slamming a fist into the palm of his hand. "By George, that’s it!" Then he stood staring off into space with glittering eyes.
    "Go on! What’s it?"
    "Come, let me fill you in—"
    They stood by the hearth, dark heads bent close together in whispered consultation, Phillip with one foot propped up on the marble slab before the fireplace, his hands inelegantly stuffed into the pockets of his evening coat, and Marcus with one elbow resting against the mantle.
    Phillip grinned appreciatively. "You devil!"
    He clapped Marcus on the back and marched off. At the door he hesitated and looked over his shoulder. "I’m glad to be home, Marcus, and I’m proud that you’ve asked for my help. Finally you’re not treating me as if I were just cutting my milk teeth."
    A brief smile lit up Marcus’s drawn features. "I’m grateful to have you at my side, bantling."
    When the sound of Phillip’s jaunty footsteps had been cut off by the slam of the front door, Marcus poured himself a generous measure of brandy and carried it to his suite to keep him company while he exchanged his evening dress for breeches and top boots. In his present mood he would be better occupied driving himself rather than sitting in his coach cursing poor old Henry or one of the grooms for driving too slowly.
    It did not take him long to rouse Jemmy, ever on the alert for any sudden whim his master might take into his head.
    "Where’s we off to, Yer Grace?" the intrepid tiger inquired sociably as he hitched the stomping grays to the phaeton.
    "Bow Street."
    The terse reply and steely look advised Jemmy more emphatically than a direct order to keep his mummer shut. There’ll be trouble for som’un, he thought sagely.

    AT Bow Street it looked at first as if the visit there would be in vain. None of the magistrates was present; only a very young and green novice of a runner sat perched behind a scratched, beat-up desk, spelling laboriously on an inkstained sheet of paper. Annoyed, Marcus left his card with the stammering young man and was about to depart when Sir Nathaniel Conant, the chief magistrate, entered the premises with two disreputable-looking individuals. These turned out to be his top runners, who’d just returned from an exploratory mission into Seven Dials.
    Marcus introduced himself, and after a slight hesitation Sir Nathaniel invited him into his private office. "You can write your reports and go home," he told the runners. "Moggs, you’d best check ‘with me before you leave, though."
    There was nought but a desk, a huge cabinet, and two straight-backed chairs in Sir Nathaniel’s dingy office. Marcus’s raised brows betrayed his astonishment at the barren appearance of this feared official’s quarters, and Sir Nathaniel chuckled.
    "We’re always short of funds, Your Grace. Everyone clamors to have the thieving and murdering population of our city brought under control, but the Crown is very tightfisted with its purse. Now, how can I help you?"
    Marcus gave a brief account of what had happened to Cherry when she’d responded to the advertisement in the Gazette and explained why he hadn’t laid information against Baroness Schonbeck, alias Madame Fellini, until now.
    "Ah yes, the unfortunate tale of the talented Miss Sinclair has already reached my ears. Nothing travels faster than gossip. However, without Miss Sinclair here to file charges, I do not see what I can do."
    "No! I don’t want her drawn into this affair any more than is absolutely necessary."
    "I quite understand your hesitation, Your Grace. Let’s face it, even if Miss Sinclair were willing to testify in court, there’s no guarantee that Madame Fellini will be put out of business. We’ve had our eyes on her for some time, but she’s a very wily lady, and I’ve no doubt she’d find a way to discredit Miss Sinclair’s testimony."
    A sharp knock sounded on the flimsy door. "Enter!" he called impatiently. "Oh, it’s you, Moggs. Finished the report?"
    The heavyset runner had removed his slouch hat and replaced his rank-smelling, tattered coat with one of chocolate-brown broadcloth. Only his stained breeches gave evidence of his former disguise. He laid two sheets of paper covered closely with bold writing before the chief magistrate. "If’n that be all, I’ll be off to see the missus, guvnor," he muttered in a belly-deep, gruff voice.
    Sir Nathaniel eyed him speculatively. "I wonder...could you spare a few more minutes, Moggs?"
    "Aye, sir. Dinner’ll be burned anyhow. What’s another hour more or less?"
    Sir Nathaniel grinned at the correct interpretation of "a few more minutes." He said, "I may have hit upon a notion to rid ourselves of Madame Fellini." He made sure he had the runner’s full attention and briefly filled him in on the details. "Mind you," he concluded, "we’ve nothing official against her, and if you accompany His Grace to Greek Street you’ll have no authority to take her or Blake into custody. But you are well known in that district, and your presence might frighten them enough to leave the country if His Grace plays his cards right. And once the Fellini has flown the coop, some of the other abbesses might think twice before tricking young girls."
    "No matter what the outcome, I’ll make it worth your while," Marcus promised.
    Mr. Moggs scratched his ear and sniffed, but apparently the scheme appealed to him, for he strutted from the room and reappeared only seconds later with a top hat perched rakishly on his sandy hair and armed with a solid ebony cane. "Whatcha waitin’ fer, Yer Grace? Let’s be off," he invited.

    GREEK Street, leading off Soho Square, still boasted a row of impressive buildings, though most of them showed signs of decay and neglect. Number 5 was easily the best-looking of the lot, and Marcus pulled up without hesitation. The baroness had a reputation of a certain fastidiousness.
    He handed the reins to Jemmy. "I daresay there won’t be any trouble, and we’ll be out again within thirty minutes, but to be on the safe side, you may want to drive around the corner and check near the foundry if any of our friends are about tonight." Directing an apologetic look at the runner, he added, "No offense intended, Mr. Moggs. Much as I trust my pugilistic abilities and your prowess with the cane, a few more willing fists might come in handy."
    "No offense taken, Yer Grace. A wily cove never refuses ‘elp."
    "I’ll be back with the men in a pig’s whisper," Jemmy promised, then flicked the reins and went off at a fast trot. Since the duke had been the major moving force in establishing a school for the foundry workers’ children, his was no idle boast.
    The duke and Mr. Moggs approached the door of Number 5. In answer to an imperious rap with the cane it was opened by a black-haired, scowling giant who, as soon as he set eyes on them, would have slammed the door shut again, but for two sets of booted feet and an ebony cane thrust in the entryway.
    "Blake, you’ve recovered too fast for my liking from our last bout of fisticuffs. That’s bad for my reputation," Marcus said pleasantly and connected his fist firmly with Blake’s jaw.
    "Ahh," Moggs sighed, "I’d give me eyeteeth could I’ve been the one to plant ‘im a facer, but it does me ‘eart good to see ‘im so comfortable-like stretched out. Well done, Yer Grace."
    Blake was showing signs of coming to, and Marcus quickened the process by grabbing his shirt front and pulling him upright against the gold-and-crimson-papered wall of Madame’s elegant entrance hall.
    "And now that we’ve become reacquainted, you’ll take us to the baroness."
    Blake glared at him through bloodshot eyes. Without a word he stalked toward the rear of the building, past two salons whence the sound of music and laughter rolled in frolicking waves through half open doors. Breaking glass and shrill female voices gave evidence of spectacular entertainments. Blake approached the last of three firmly closed doors and knocked briefly before opening it.
    "What is it, Blake?" Irritated, the woman at the Louis XIV desk looked up, pen poised over a column in the thick ledger before her. With a shriek of outrage she jumped up and tried to shield the piles of banknotes and gold coins on her desk from the eyes of the two strangers, and with the voluminous folds of her brocaded silk gown she hid the open strongbox on the plush Axminster rug at her feet.
    "Get them out of here!" she hissed. "You know I can’t be bothered now."
    Obviously intimidated, Blake prudently remained silent and edged slowly from the room.
    "Remain here, you idiot!" Frantically she fumbled inside one of the pigeonholes of the desk behind her back, her hair gleaming jet-black in the light of two blazing candleabra. as she bent hurriedly to grab the object of her search.
    A small, jewel-encrusted pistol was leveled at Marcus’s chest. "And now," she commanded, "get out!"
    Not a muscle moved in the dukes inscrutable face. He merely bowed. "I’m Belcourt, baroness," he said quietly.

    "BERTRAM, has Lord Phillip returned yet?" Marcus asked and gratefully extended his long legs to his valet to have his boots pulled off.
    "Yes, Your Grace. Lord Phillip came in an hour ago and retired to his chamber. He left this for you."
    He snatched the paper from his valet’s hand and carried it over to the dresser to peruse its contents in the glow of two tall candles. A smile spread over his face, erasing some of the taut lines around his eyes and mouth.
    "That will be all, Bertram. Better catch a few winks now. I expect you to rouse me at nine o’clock."
    Satisfied, the valet nodded. He’d been of half a mind not to show the note to His Grace until after he’d had some rest. Fair puckered out he’d looked, but whatever Lord Phillip’s message was, it certainly had acted like a tonic. Now, mayhap if he’d let His Grace sleep until ten o’clock....

    MARCUS sat down to breakfast at noon.
    "If you don’t watch your step, you’ll have acquired all the fashionable habits of a dandy before long," Phillip said with a grin and pushed a small, oilcloth-wrapped package closer to Marcus. "One of Lord Bolwood’s servants delivered this at the crack of dawn."
    Marcus frowned at the innocuous-looking item next to his coffee cup. "Now, why do I have the feeling I shan’t want breakfast if I open it? I had best eat first. Pray pass some of those muffins you’ve hoarded."
    When he had assuaged his hunger, he removed the string and unwrapped the oilcloth. The Belcourt betrothal ring gleamed at him provocatively atop a sealed note. "My hunch has proven correct, but I can’t say I’m in alt about it."
    Gingerly he removed the seal and glanced at the note. "The little fool!" He stashed note and ring into his coat pocket and stalked toward the door.
    "Marcus! Where are you going?"
    "To see Cherry, of course. ‘We don’t suit after all,’ she says—as if I wouldn’t realize what she’s doing. The adorable, honorable little fool! Why must Bertram choose today of all days to let me oversleep! Didn’t come to wake me up until past ten. I only hope Lord Bolwood kept his head!"
    Phillip caught up with him just as the curricle left the mews. Panting, he climbed up and demanded clarification and an account of Marcus’s exploits during the night. When they reached Bolwood House, he had a pretty good notion that they’d find a heroic Cherry who would refuse to see Marcus and would insist on dissolving their engagement even if Marcus went down on his knes before her; that after all their herculean efforts to scotch any scandal, she would prefer to be called a jilt.
    Without ceremony they brushed past Benson after ascertaining Lord and Lady Bolwood were in the library. Marcus flung open the door and demanded, "Have you sent the notice to the Gazette yet, sir?"
    The earl shook his head and seemed to shrink behind his desk. Lady Bolwood fairly flew off her chair and took up a belligerent stance before the duke. Tears had ravaged her face, but there was a martial glint in her red-rimmed eyes.
    "You can’t mean that!" she shrilled. "You can’t accept the poor, distraught girl’s decision! It would break her heart—and mine, too."
    Smiling, Marcus took her hands and settled her back in her chair. "Pray calm yourself, ma’am. I’ve no intention but to box Cherry’s ears. Will you have her called, please?"
    She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. "Cherry and Sara have gone...left in the dead of night!" she sobbed. "She wrote us a letter, a long explanation. Oh, if only the child had talked to me about her troubles!"
    "Left—" he said tonelessly. A muscle twitched in his cheek and he swallowed hard.
    "She’s with Sara," Phillip comforted. "They’ll have gone to Cornwall."
    "Yes, of course." His voice sounded hollow, even to himself. Then he straightened. "To Cornwall...on the Devonport Mail. But it doesn’t leave until eight o’clock tonight!" he shouted triumphantly. "Have you sent someone to the Gloucester Coffeehouse?"
    "No," Lord Bolwood admitted. "It had completely slipped my mind that the ‘Quicksilver’ is one of the night mails. So sorry, Belcourt. I’ll send the coach right away."
    "Wait." Marcus ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. "Let’s do this right. Don’t you have some brandy or port, Bolwood?"
    "Forgive me, I’m distraught, else I should have offered you refreshments."
    Marcus waved away the apology and paced restlessly before the desk while Lord Bolwood poured brandy into four crystal glasses. He accepted the proffered drink and tossed it off.
    "I shall go to the Gloucester Coffeehouse myself, but," he said, eyes glinting dangerously, "my little Cherry must wait awhile longer. In fact, I may let her cool her heels all afternoon and then swoop down on her shortly before the mail is due to depart. I have a hunch that the longer she’s left to her own reflections, the more amenable she’ll be when I catch up with her."

Chapter 18

    Cherry sat wedged between Sara and a stout farmer’s wife who rolled heavily against her with every lurch of the mail coach. The rasping snores of the couple in the forward seat, and the constant whining of their unprepossessing offspring between them, were beginning to set her teeth on edge. It was a little after midnight—even Sara appeared to be dozing—and they were crossing Salisbury Plain. Not that she could see any landmarks on this moonless night, but that’s what the timetable had boasted, and the grinning guard had confirmed it when she and Sara had boarded the Devonport Mail at Basingstoke.
    She didn’t want to remember Basingstoke and the tedium and Sara’s ominous silence at the dreary posting inn, but her feverish mind found no distraction in the sulky, sniffling nine-year-old boy or her sleeping companions. She peeked at Sara, but her eyes were still obstinately closed. Cherry gave a little sniff of annoyance. After all the heartbreak of the disastrous conclusion of her ball, she’d topped it all by quarreling fiercely with her favorite sister.
    Sara had wanted to remain at the Gloucester Coffeehouse and wait for the mail, obviously in hopes that they would be found by Lord Bolwood or Marcus and Phillip. But Cherry had stomped off angrily and conferred with the proprietor about some other means of transportation—not a post chaise, which would be far too costly for their slender purses. He’d advised her to remove to the Bull and Mouth, also in Piccadilly, take the Southampton coach as far as Basingstoke, and there await the arrival of the "Quicksilver Mail."
    Sara had come grudgingly, recognizing her sister’s determination to proceed on her own if necessary. After a long, wearisome day in Basingstoke with nothing to do but reflect upon the wisdom of her decision to release Marcus, Cherry was in no better frame of mind than she’d been in London.
    Had she indeed been foolish, as Sara had accused her over and over again? No matter how desperately she’d cast about for another solution, she could find none. If she married Marcus, he too would be dragged into the mire of gossip and scandal. And that I shan’t permit, she vowed.
    Wearily she slid down farther in the seat and rested her head on Sara’s shoulder. Oh, would that she could stop her thoughts from churning and get a little rest. Even a highwayman would be a welcome distraction.
    Barely had the thought entered her head when thunderous hoofbeats approached the mail coach from behind. With a jolt and guilty looks at her fellow travelers she sat up and listened intently. Impossible that she should have conjured up a highwayman with her musings! In any case, robbers didn’t ride in carriages, and now she distinctly heard the rumble of wheels as well. Relieved, she relaxed again.
    Moments later not only Cherry but all of the coach passengers were startled by shouts and a shot from the guard’s blunderbuss. More shouts were heard, and then the mail coach drew to an abrupt halt, knocking the passengers together like spineless puppets.
    While the farmer’s wife moaned and the woman and her whining son on the forward seat indulged in a fit of hysteria, Cherry squeezed through the tangled arms and legs and opened the window.
    The guard had abandoned his firearm in favor of a lantern and was haranguing two gentlemen who had pulled their curricle across the road, effectively blocking the mail’s passage.
    "It’s a most serious offense to halt the progress of the Royal Mail, I’ll have ye know! And if ye don’t hang fer it, me name’s not Josiah Simpson. Out of the way with ye now!"
    "Must be properly shot in the neck," supplied the coachman on his high perch. "Else even the nobs wouldn’t dare stop the mail."
    "My good man—" The Duke of Belcourt held up an authoritative hand.
    Cherry gasped at the sound of the voice and pushed her head out farther to prevent the now-clamoring boy from dislodging her from her vantage point.
    "If you would but look at this writ you’d realize that I’ve stopped the mail on the Crown’s own business."
    Reluctantly the guard took the paper from Marcus’s hand and studied the seal. He hunched his shoulders under his crimson coat and turned to the coachman. "It’s from the Prince Regent!" he called, incredulous.
    "Well, open it, man," suggested Lord Phillip, on the box beside Marcus. "You are wasting the Crown’s time!"
    A giggle close to her head informed Cherry that Sara had succeeded in supplanting the pesky boy at her back. She moved slightly, and immediately Sara’s head popped out the window beside hers.
    "Beg pardon, Yer Grace." The guard had read the missive and waved to Marcus and Phillip. "Ye’d best come along then. How’s a cove to know you was on genuine business?" he grumbled.
    They approached the "Quicksilver Mail." In her hasty retreat to the far comer of the coach, Cherry stumbled over the boy and collapsed on top of him. When the door was opened, shrieks and screams and the sight of flying petticoats greeted the three men.
    "Order!" the guard roared. A hush fell, and even the hysterical mother stifled her sobs. "Which one of ye be Cherry Sinclair?"
    "I am." She picked herself up and dusted her skirts as best she could in the narrow space.
    "I’ve orders to take ye off the coach, miss, to go with His Grace here. Please to alight."
    "What? There must be some mistake. I’ve paid my fare to Devonport, and to Devonport I’ll go—in this coach!" She sat down, crossed her arms, and dared the men with a ferocious frown.
    "Miss, ye may go quietlike or be carried out by me. But out ye go. I’ve me orders."
    "But my sister! I can’t leave her to travel alone!"
    "Not to worry, Cherry." Phillip climbed into the coach and nudged her to the door. "I’ll take your place and look after Sara. Go with Marcus, there’s a good girl."
    Before she could blink, she was outside, held captive by Marcus’s strong hand on her upper arm, and the door was shut in her face. Inexorably she was marched toward the curricle and lifted onto the seat.
    "My...bag," she whispered.
    "You won’t be needing it where we’re going."
    Never letting go of her arm, he climbed up beside her and picked up the reins with one hand. He jerked his head toward the floorboards. "Use that rug," he ordered curtly. "I intend to travel fast, and I don’t want you chilled to the bone."
    Without a word she obeyed, but when he started the difficult task of backing the curricle, she said hastily, "Pray make use of both your hands. I promise I shan’t jump off."
    She sensed his lopsided smile and felt him relax as he released his grip on her arm. When he’d negotiated the turn, he murmured, "Indeed. I never feared so for a moment. Where would you have gone? The guard would certainly not have allowed you aboard the mail again." He flicked the reins and off they went at lightning speed.
    "And where do you intend to take me? I perceive we’re still proceeding westbound. It would have been simpler to let me stay with Sara."
    "Alas, the mails do not yet stop at Morning Glory."
    She flung her head around and studied him with wide eyes but could not make out his features in the darkness. "Why? What is it that you wish to achieve? Could you not leave me in peace and allow me to come to terms with myself?"
    "No. And I would have caught you sooner had I not stupidly believed you and Sara to be at the Gloucester Coffeehouse awaiting the mail. As it was, I kicked my heels for hours at Carlton House, and then had to hassle to pick up your trail. Now you’ll just have to resign yourself to spend the next night with me at Morning Glory, and then I shall carry you to your father to be wed."
    "A pox on you, Marcus," she said softly. "You are undoing all my efforts to save you from scandal. This is worse than anything that’s gone before."
    "But then you neglected to ask if I wished to be ‘saved.’ My sweet pea-goose, there won’t be any scandal. Don’t you trust me to take care of you?" he asked reproachfully.
    Cherry was speechless. Of course she trusted him to take care of her, but what could he do? Shaken, she sat beside him not daring to ask—for there could be no answer to her questions.
    His arm, strong and secure, stole around her and pulled her against his shoulder. "Sylvia’s been taken care of," he murmured into her hair. "An apology and explanation from her was printed in The Times today. I have it with me, and you may peruse it as soon as the sun comes up," he said comfortingly when she stiffened. "It is really quite satisfactory."
    She mulled this over for a long time. If she were to credit his words, it all had been so very simple. Carefully choosing her words, she said, "I trust you implicitly, Marcus, and more than anything else I want to believe you, but how could you possibly have persuaded Sylvia to retract her statement?"
    "Blackmail."
    "What?" She gasped, then laughed uproariously. "I should have known you’d fight fire with fire. I almost wish to hear the details, but I’ve heard enough from and about Sylvia to last me a lifetime, and I’ve no curiosity at all regarding her fate, as long as I need not set eyes on her again"
    "It’s just as well, since I devised only the rough outline of her vanquishment. Phillip saw to the details of the execution."
    "I shall be ever grateful to Phillip. But, if he dealt with Sylvia, what then did you do?" With a sidelong glance at him she added, "For, you know, ‘twould be completely out of character for you to sit at home and await the outcome of a venture."
    "How well you know me, love. We shall deal admirably together." A smile played about his lips as he remembered his own mission. It would be a pleasure to tell Cherry about it and set her mind at ease.
    "I went to see Baroness Schonbeck, or Madame Fellini, what will you."
    "Oh, Marcus—" She reached out to touch his arm. " How glad I am now that I didn’t learn of your deeds until after they were accomplished. I’d have been so frightened! I shudder to think what danger you must have faced."
    "It wasn’t so bad, love. I didn’t go alone, you know, but took with me Mr. Moggs, a very capable Bow Street runner, and Jemmy was nearby with handy reinforcement."
    "Bow Street?" she asked doubtfully, then was struck by another thought. "Was Blake there?"
    "Oh yes," he replied cheerfully. "And it required very little persuasion on my part to secure his cooperation." His hand flexed as though he could still feel the impact of the blow he’d been privileged to deliver.
    "Marcus, don’t torture me!" Cherry’s reproachful voice disrupted his musings. "Tell me what you did and said, and how the baroness received you."
    He grinned, remembering the baroness’s shrieks of outrage as they’d walked into her private apartment, and her frantic hunt for the small pistol. "I said, ‘I’m Belcourt, baroness..."

    BARONESS Schonbeck’s eyes had widened, the pupils swallowing all but a narrow band of gray iris as apprehension raced through her. Yet the deadly weapon in her hand did not waver. "Should your name convey some meaning, sir?" she bluffed.
    "I know you read the papers." His glance strayed to a small table by the windows laden with The Times, the Gazette, and several foreign newspapers. "I’m also confident that your clients relate the juiciest items of gossip to you even before they’ve circulated amongst the ladies of the ton. Let us be done with prevarication. I’ve come here with an officer from Bow Street on behalf of my fiancée, Miss Cherry Sinclair."
    The baroness’s face turned sallow, and the pistol dangled uselessly from her limp hand. Two quick strides brought him to her side, the pistol disappeared into his pocket, and he pushed her none too gently onto a chair.
    "Do something, Blake!" she screeched. "Guard the money! Tackle the runner! Do something—anything!"
    "Ain’t no good trying to tackle the runner. That’s Mr. Moggs. There’s those as call him ‘the mantrap.’ I’ve no hankering for Newgate."
    "Ma’am, it appears we have you at point non-plus. You’d best send the gentlemen on the premises back to their own homes and accompany us to Bow Street. Sir Nathaniel Conant is awaiting your pleasure."
    "No!" She flew to the desk, scooped up the ledgers and the money, and dropped them into the strongbox. She turned the key and plunged it into the décolletage of her gown, then faced Marcus with a defiantly heaving bosom.
    For the first time in a good many hours his lopsided smile made a brief appearance, his eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. "The wardens at Newgate know just where to look for any treasures their ‘lady guests’ might have stashed away, and you won’t have more than thirty seconds before the other inmates have ripped that gown off your back. Are your girls honest?" He changed his tactics abruptly. "That lock on your strongbox looks none too sturdy. They’ll probably be able to pick it with a hairpin."
    Mr. Moggs tapped Marcus on the shoulder and motioned him to silence. A dull hammering on the front door, then a rumble of gruff male voices above which Jemmy’s strident tones, "Let me through, I say, or you’ll find your ear shaved off!" heralded the arrival of capable supporters. Jemmy burst into the baroness’s room wielding a wicked-looking club and followed by a dozen or so burly, sweat-stained foundry workers.
    "Quick work, Jemmy. I knew I could rely on you. However, my business here should be completed in a few minutes. Wait outside and make certain our friends will not be out of pocket for leaving the foundry." He tossed a fat purse to Jemmy, nodded a smiling dismissal, and watched them file out. Mr. Moggs shut the door softly behind them.
    The baroness was close to tears, but the willpower that had pulled her out of the gutter when—as a sixteen-year-old virgin from a small town in Austria she’d been lured to London and discarded by her seducer after only two weeks—and had forged her into the powerful madam of London’s most exclusive bagnio, now helped her over such missish emotion.
    "I shan’t go to Bow Street, or to Newgate, or anywhere else with you," she determined. "I’ll pack my clothes, my jewelry, and my strongbox and go to Vienna."
    His eyes narrowed to slits. "I could force you, you know, but mayhap I’ll let you go. If I do, however, I must have your account in writing of how you lured, tricked, and detained Miss Sinclair here against her will, and that she escaped with her virtue intact. And, above all, I want the names of your gentlemen friends who assisted you at the Clarendon."
    "My life wouldn’t be worth tuppence! They are very influential men."
    "What is your life worth at Newgate?" He towered a head and a half above her, seeming to will her to ponder her fate during a protracted stay at that most feared of all prisons.
    "Oh, very well." Capitulating, the baroness had taken her seat at the desk. "I should be safely on the packet to France when the storm breaks here..."

    "AND that was that," said Marcus, loking smug and satisfied as he flicked the reins, urging the horses to a faster clip.
    Cherry let out her breath slowly. "Then she’s really gone, and Blake with her?" she marveled. "I feel so light and free—I’m certain I could fly if I but tried. I am very grateful that you’ve lifted that burden off me," she said softly. "Had they stayed in London, completely unpunished, a shadow of fear must always have remained with me."
    He could feel her tremble under his arm and tightened his grip. "Don’t think about it ever again!" he demanded sternly. "It is finished."
    "Yes, thanks to you."
    For a while they drove silently, lost in thought, then Cherry gave a little start.
    "But what about the Prince Regent, Marcus? He was so miffed, it wouldn’t have been at all wonderful had he never spoken to you again. Yet, you obtained his assistance in stopping the coach—or was that writ counterfeit?" she questioned suspiciously.
    Marcus’s chuckle was low and appreciative. "You do have a high opinion of me, my sweeting, but rest assured I’ve done with all double-dealings. It cost me three precious hours of parlaying with Colonel Mellish to be granted an audience with His Royal Highness, but once I had Prinny’s attention, he was soon persuaded to help. In fact, he thought my quest highly romantic!"
    "Then I don’t understand. If there’s not going to be a scandal, and if you’re reconciled with the Prince Regent, why are you carrying me off unchaperoned to Morning Glory? That’ll surely land us in the suds."
    The curricle drew to an abrupt halt. "Do you mean to tell me you won’t try to talk me out of marrying you? No more raising of objections or obstacles? I don’t need to compromise you or encourage you in any way?" His eyes, startlingly clear even in the dark, gazed at her in bafflement.
    "No." She smiled complacently. "You may take me straight to Papa."
    He gave a shout of laughter and crushed her to his chest. Then his mouth captured hers, questing, demanding, and promising. Her arms locked around his neck, and she felt again the sweetness of surrender, her whole being in tune with his as the night lit up in their love and her body melted against his.
    In the distance the sound of a horn demanded attention, but they were lost to the world as his mouth teased her earlobes, trailed warm paths along her temples and cheeks, and clung again hungrily to her lips. Only when the earsplitting blast of the yard of tin warned of the arrival of the mail coach at the last bend in the road, and their own team stirred restlessly, did they draw apart. Hastily he gathered the reins and sped the horses on their way.
    "It wouldn’t do for Phillip and Sara to arrive before we do," he said, grinning. "He’s bound to hire a carriage at Exeter and go hell for leather to beat me to our destination."

    IT was a harrowing journey to make in an open carriage, with brief halts only to change the horses and snatch a cup of tea and an occasional sandwich. Although the curricle was extremely well sprung and appeared to be flying over the ground, Cherry was sore and felt every bone rattle in her weary body when they finally crossed the Tamar into Cornwall.
    During the afternoon she’d tried to sleep with her head resting against Marcus’s shoulder, but she had soon been jolted awake by an exceptionally bad stretch of road. Now the shadows were lengthening, and an evening chill penetrated through her cloak and the rug Marcus had secured about her waist and legs. A sudden gust of wind, pregnant with the threat of rain, followed them up the drive to the timber-framed vicarage.
    Marcus barely had time to draw the horses to a halt before the door burst open and Simon, Robin, and Melly spilled out, followed only a fraction more sedately by the Reverend Sinclair and his wife. Cherry was lifted down and enveloped in a fierce hug by her papa, then passed along for hugs and kisses from her mother and siblings.
    Tears stung her eyes and she sought refuge anew in her mother’s arms. "Oh, Mama, I’m so happy!" she sobbed.
    The Reverend Sinclair patted her on the back . "Well now, my dear, if that’s so, you might want to turn off the waterspout, else you’ll have us believe you’re being abducted instead of attending your own nuptials."
    "But how comes it that you are prepared for an event which was unknown even to me until the wee hours of the morning?"
    "You’ll hear about it in good time. Now you’d best go with your mama."
    "Come, love, I have my wedding gown and your grandmama’s veil laid out for you." Mrs. Sinclair took her daughter’s arm and was steering her toward the vicarage when the crunch of wheels and the splatter of hooves on the graveled drive heralded the arrival of another carriage. They turned to see Phillip jump off and lift Sara to the ground.
    "Well done, bantling! Couldn’t have made better time myself," Marcus greeted his brother.
    Phillip grinned. "I see you were able to persuade Cherry to visit Morning Glory on your honeymoon instead of now. Is everything set up for this unusual society wedding?"
    Before Cherry could voice a question, Lord and Lady Bolwood and Lady Cowper strolled from the house. "I want to know," Lady Cowper demanded, waving a newspaper like a banner over her head, "how on earth you induced Sylvia Aberlaine to make a public apology to Cherry!"
    A young man, following close on her heels, pricked up his ears and moistened the stub of a pencil in readiness to report proceedings in a black leather-bound pocketbook filled with writing tablets. On the pocketbook, bold silver stenciling proclaimed the owner’s affiliation: The Times.
    While Marcus approached the eagle-eyed journalist and thanked him for traveling such a long distance on such short notice to write an account of the ducal wedding, Phillip drew the bristling Lady Cowper aside.
    "Ma’am, this is for your ears only," he whispered.
    She laid a finger across her lips to indicate her absolute silence on the matter, and winked at Alicia Bolwood and Sara, who’d crept up behind his back.
    "Marcus told me that Sylvia had plans to wed George Mortimer."
    "The Wizard of ‘Change’?"
    Phillip nodded. "If you know of him, then you’ll also know that honor and honesty are his middle names. Well, I paid him a visit and explained Cherry’s plight to him, and that she was refusing to marry Marcus for fear of besmirching his name.
    "And he put the thumbscrews on Sylvia," Lady Cowper guessed.
    "I think he is genuinely in love with her; he almost cried when he heard what she’d done, but he came with me unhesitatingly. Gently but firmly he bade her choose, either confess and apologize and marry him, or refuse and kiss his fortune good-bye."
    "Sylvia may just have met her match—"
    Spatters of rain drove them all into the vicarage, but before Mrs. Sinclair could separate Cherry from Marcus long enough to change into her wedding gown, another carriage was heard to pull up before the house. Moments later Maria dashed in, followed by a very wet Dexter.
    "We’re not too late, are we?" Maria cried anxiously.
    Sparkling slate-gray eyes met twinkling ice-blue ones. "So much conniving," Cherry murmured admiringly. "Is there anything you’ve left undone?"
    "Mayhap I did too much," Marcus grumbled. "With all these delays, when will we be wed?"
    And then she was in his arms again, savoring the warmth and loving security of his embrace and his lips.
    

The End