1750

Bath, England

1750

"It's not that Evelina is a bad girl. She has no wickedness in her," Mrs. Johnson said, and worked her lips over her false teeth, testing the firmness of their seating before taking a sip of her chocolate.

"No, of course not," her good friend Mrs. Highcroft replied, trying to disguise a delicate scratch at her scalp as an adjustment of her pristine lace cap. Mrs. Johnson was not fooled. "She has high spiwits and no discipline, is all."

Mrs. Johnson frowned at the implied criticism, and sat straighter in her stays. She could never decide if her friend's speech impediment was real or affected, and at the moment the sound of it annoyed her greatly. "I was as strict as a general. I sent her to that boarding school that promised the severity of a convent. I kept my eye on her every waking hour. I lectured her on morals and propriety. I did everything a mother could! It is not my fault that she behaves with all the breeding of a common country wench."

"I was not faulting you. Never you, my dear! You know I would not, not when I have such a failure of my own, in Chawles."

"And he such a handsome boy," Mrs. Johnson said, and shook her head over the tragedy. She still held her cup of chocolate, and the movement sent a wave of it sloshing onto the skirts of her gown. "I would never have thought he would grow to be so awkward and retiring."

Mrs. Highcroft narrowed her eyes. "He is not awkward when in his element."

"My dear, I meant no offense…"

A tight smile twitched Mrs. Highcroft's lips. "Although even I admit that his element is most often the barnyard."

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Johnson smothered a smile that would have shown her teeth. She shifted, trying to rearrange herself within her dress. A bit of boning was poking her most cruelly under her arm. "Tell me again that this will be the solution to both our problems."

"It will be. It has to be. Our childwen are misfits of society, and it would be too cruel a God who would not let them balance and improve each other, and give us surcease from our worries." Mrs. Highcroft half turned in her seat, her perfectly pressed silk gown rustling, and searched the parlor as if truly expecting to see her son standing like a side chair in the corner. "Now where has my Chawles gone to? He's likely wandered off to your back garden to converse with the chickens."

"And I fear it may be another two hours before Evelina considers herself garbed for visitors." Mrs. Johnson gave up on finding comfort within her stays, and sagged against them. She noticed a fresh spot of chocolate on her skirts, and dabbed at it with a handkerchief. "Neither Evelina nor Charles is going to come easily to this."

Mrs. Highcroft turned back to her and lifted her chin, her tone imperious. "They are our childwen. They will do as we diwect."

Mrs. Johnson murmured a noncommittal sound. She wished she could be so sure.

*****

"A pox on it! Sally, come help me. I can't get the cursed thing off my fingers," Evelina said, her fingertips sticking and coming undone, then sticking again as she transferred a paste-covered scrap of black taffeta from one digit to the next.

"Miss, you've been summoned three times now. Your mother will be cross if you do not descend at once."

"I cannot go down with this great red spot upon my forehead—Mrs. Highcroft has brought her son. He will stare at it." She tried to press the moon-shaped black patch over the blemish, but it wouldn't stick. "It is not fair, I tell you! By the time I grow out of blemishes, I will have wrinkles and gray teeth."

Sally came and peeled the patch off Evelina's paste-smeared fingertip, and with an extra dab of fixative settled the patch into place over the blemish. "There, now. All hidden."

Evelina frowned into the mirror. The center of the forehead was not the most seductive of locations for a crescent moon, but what else was to be done? Mama had taken away all of her ceruse, that mixture of white lead and vinegar that gave a porcelain complexion to those who used it. Mama had said it would destroy her skin.

Pah! Destroy her skin? How could one destroy that which was already riddled with blotches?

But there was no more time to fuss about it. The Highcrofts might leave before she managed to get herself arranged to her satisfaction, and that simply would not do. She wanted to see Charles.

She had met him twice or thrice before, when they were children, but had not seen him for many years. He had been lately at Oxford, and she, of course, had been locked up in that horrid boarding school with teachers who would have been better employed as Newgate prison guards.

She didn't remember much about Charles: he was four years older than she, and it was enough of an age difference that as children they had paid no attention to one another. She doubted she would recognize him.

Old memories were not the reason she was eager to see him, though. He must be twenty-two now. Full-grown. A man. That was reason enough.

Heart thumping in anticipation, she stood and gave one last check of her flowered, cherry red gown. Doubtless Charles would appreciate her French tastes, unlike Mama. He had been out in the world, not mired in the country, and would recognize sophistication when he saw it.

She descended the white stone staircase to the first floor, imagining how he would be dressed. He probably wore only the most expensive imported powders on his wig, and a waistcoat stiff with silver lace. His jacket and breeches would be a peacock blue velvet, he'd carry a cocked beaver hat under one arm, and his stockings would be a spotless, blinding white with a trace of embroidery up the sides. He would smell of the finest perfume, and be wearing shoes with red heels and silver buckles.

Not that any of that really mattered. He was a man—and it had been at least a week since she'd been allowed near a young one. It really was trop mal that Mama had caught her kissing that Kingston boy, and thrown such a fit. And even worse was that the kiss had hardly been worth it—Kingston's lips had been as wet and soft as a raw oyster, and just as cold. She would have to rank that kiss well near the bottom of her list.

If Mama knew just how much she loved men—their smell, their height, their strength, the deepness of their voices, and the hunger in their eyes—Evelina would be shipped back to that dungeon of a boarding school, immédiatement. Girls were not supposed to sow their wild oats and follow where their lusting bodies led them; only boys were allowed such fun.

A pox on that! When the time came, she had every intention of being an honorable, faithful wife, but that meant her only freedom was now. Her only chance to steal kisses was now. Her only opportunity to flirt and cast glances, to allure and seduce, to know men in all their glorious variety, was now—before the chains of matrimony forever locked her away from such entertainments.

And now here was a man in Evelina's own home. Manna from heaven!

"Mama! Mrs. Highcroft. Please forgive my tardiness," Evelina said, prancing with what she hoped was an elegant step into the parlor. "And Mr. Highcroft, what a…pleasure to see you again…" She trailed off, her voice dying and her steps slowing as she took in the sort of man that Charles Highcroft had grown to be.

Oh, dear. Perhaps someone had let a field laborer into the parlor by mistake?

He wore no wig. His dark brown hair was pulled back by a ratty old ribbon and left to hang like a horse's bobbed tail, and there was not so much as a speck of powder upon it. Locks of his heavy hair had come loose around his face, and with his head bent shyly forward they half-concealed his features.

His lashes were dark and lush beneath arched brows, his nose straight, his jaw strong and with a clean, lean line. He might almost be a handsome man, if he had a bit of grace or self-assurance. Her assessing eyes roamed over his body, taking in the broad shoulders and trim waist. His figure was not bad, for all that it was languishing under drab brown garments that were two decades out of date and looked twice as old. The man wore his stockings over the knees of his breeches, for heaven's sake! That mode had gone out during her father's time.

And he wore boots. Boots! She was better off not looking at those, or at the bits of dried muck that clung to them.

She continued to stare at him, and without so much as a bow in her direction or a word of greeting, he turned away, going to stand at the window that overlooked Queen Square. Her lips parted in astonishment at the blatant rudeness.

"Evelina, dearest, we'd about given up hope of you," her mother said, and patted the space beside her. She obeyed the summons and sat, happy to ignore the country clod at the window, and the faint odor of farm that lingered after him. Perhaps she would have to rethink adding Charles to her list of conquests. She had standards, after all.

"What a curiously vibrant color you are weawing," Mrs. Highcroft said in her thin, nasal voice. "I don't know that I've ever seen the like."

She sensed that the comment was not entirely complimentary. The purse-mouthed old hen! But Evelina smiled sweetly when she replied. "Thank you. I have always admired your own sense of style, and like to think that I model my choices after yours."

"Ahh…thank you, my dear."

Ha! There was nothing like a compliment to confuse an enemy. Although Mrs. Highcroft had always been friends with Mama, Evelina had more than once thought that Mrs. Highcroft considered herself superior to the Johnsons, and in a position to cast judgments. Never mind that Mr. Highcroft had made his fortune as a merchant—a peddler of pots and candles, no less—whereas Papa was a gentleman, with lands that had been in the family for five centuries!

A look passed between Mama and Mrs. Highcroft, and Evelina narrowed her eyes, sensing that mischief was afoot. No doubt Mama had been speaking about her in her absence, asking her old friend for advice on how to handle her wayward daughter. She had long suspected that the boarding school had been Mrs. Higheroft's idea. Mama was too softhearted to have come up with such a draconian notion on her own.

Mrs. Highcroft raised her pointy nose and called her son: "Charles, come here. Don't hide behind the curtains like a sulky child."

Evelina peered over her shoulder at him, feeling a twinge of sympathetic embarrassment for the fellow at being ordered about like a five-year-old. With Mrs. Highcroft as his mother, he was probably under tighter rein than even Evelina was, as a female.

With his gaze on the floor he slowly walked back to their little group—he might as well have been approaching his executioner, Evelina thought—and sat next to his mother, perching on the edge of the settee as if afraid of breaking or soiling it. He rested his hands on his knees, one of which began to bounce up and down with nervous agitation.

What a backward sort of creature this was! If a girl ever kissed him, he'd likely fall to the ground dead of the fright. It was cosmic justice that immaculate, socially ambitious Mrs. Highcroft should have a son such as this.

Evelina smiled to herself, and touched her mother's arm in a gesture of solidarity. She and Mama were more than a match for Mrs. Highcroft et fils.

Mama patted her hand and smiled at her. "Dearest, we have a wonderful surprise for you. For both you and Charles."

"Oh?" She was wary of surprises. The boarding school had been a surprise. From the corner of her eye she saw Charles's knee go still. Maybe he had learned to be wary of them, himself.

"Charles is going to be your escort."

"He is? To where?" What manner of evil was this? God in heaven, let it not be to someplace her friends might see her.

"Not to one place, dear. Everywhere, for as long as we are in Bath. Balls, musical evenings, house parties, shopping, rides into the countryside, visits to the baths. Anytime you leave this house, Charles will be at your side."

"I do not think so," the young man suddenly said, his deep voice rumbling into the daintiness of the parlor, startling them all. A pocket of silence formed where his words ended, as they gaped at him. It was as if a horse had spoken, so unexpected were words from that quarter.

"Neither do I," Evelina said into the silence. "What a ridiculous idea. I shouldn't think that either one of us would like such an arrangement."

She briefly met Charles's eyes, seeking confirmation, then blinked. She'd thought his eyes would be brown, but they were blue-green, set off by his thick lashes. Boys should not be allowed to have eyes like that; they were much too pretty. She herself should have eyes like that.

He looked away, his cheeks coloring with what was either embarrassment or anger. She wondered if he often defied his mother, and guessed that he was more the type to avoid confrontations by staying out of her sight.

"What either you or Chawles want is not our concern," Mrs. Highcroft said. "This is what you both need. Chawles, you have spent entirely too long in fields and stables. It is time you pwacticed those social skills I have tried so hard to teach to you. You need to be looking for a wife, and you will never find one if you don't learn how to speak to young ladies."

"And you, Evelina," Mama said. "I'm afraid that you need an escort to keep you out of trouble. After that last incident, I simply cannot trust you out of my sight, not even if you have Sally with you."

"Mama! It was only a kiss!"

Her mother's hands fluttered. "Only! Only, you say! It was far too much, and well you know it. Well-bred young ladies do not exchange kisses with men to whom they are not married."

"Then how am I to know which one is worth wedding? I shouldn't like to go through life enduring clammy, sloppy kisses each morn and night."

"Evelina! You will not speak of such things!"

But the devil was in her, and she would not stop. "Charles would not be scolded so if he did the same. He would be praised, I think."

"Licentiousness is never to be praised!"

She cocked her head and smiled at Charles. "Perhaps I should turn my attentions to him," she threatened. He met her gaze with widened, horrified, beautiful blue-green eyes. His lips looked as though they might be rather fine to kiss.

"You will do no such thing!" Mrs. Highcroft said, puffing up like an angry bird. Then she looked at her son and settled her feathers. "But if you did, I doubt you would have any success. Chawles has yet to show the weactions of a normal man."

Charles abruptly stood, hands clenched at his side, the muscles of his jaw flexing. Evelina's heart skipped a beat at the size of him, towering over them all. He looked so gloriously angry, so poised for action, she forgot for a moment the disgraceful state of his yellowed stockings. He should get angry more often, if this was the transformation it wrought.

"Enough, Mother. I am no longer a child, and will not stay here to be treated with such disrespect in front of your friends." He turned and stalked toward the door.

"Yes, you will!" Mrs. Highcroft shrieked, panicked by the unexpected rebellion. "Or you can bid farewell to your mares and foals!"

Charles stopped and turned back to stare at her, in his eyes a hardness that had not been there before. "They are mine," he said, his voice a cold threat.

Evelina shivered, enjoying the spectacle. What would it be like to have a man be as possessive of her as Charles was of his horses? It really was a pity that his attachments apparently ran more to animals than to women. There appeared to be a certain attractive potential to the man, under the shyness.

Mrs. Highcroft continued screeching. "The line was not started with your money, nor are they fed with it. Your father will give way to me in this. We'll auction evewy one of them, and he'll invest the money wherever he wishes. You know how much he adores any chance to invest money."

Charles's stance was rigid, and he took no further steps toward the door. Evelina guessed he was assessing the truth of his mother's words, and not liking the answer he reached. She waited to see what he would do and, as the moments stretched out, the tension grew. It got to be too much for her, and she had to break it.

"You may be able to force Charles to your bidding, but there is no such hold on me."

"Isn't there?" Mrs. Highcroft asked. Evelina heard her mother sigh beside her. The sound sent a rush of cold anxiety through her.

"If you do not leave the house with Charles," Mama said, "then you do not leave the house. You do not leave your room. You do not receive letters or visits from friends."

Evelina gaped at her mother, who gave her an apologetic smile before continuing. "And there will be no new clothes."

She gasped. "Mama!"

"I am sorry, but you leave me no choice. And truly, dear, would it be so terrible to do as we ask? Left on your own, you would shortly earn yourself a reputation. You will be the better for a bit of restraint, and will thank Mrs. Highcroft and myself for this, in time. It is for your own good."

"Like the boarding school was?"

Mama squirmed at that, but her lips held the stubborn line that indicated she would not budge. Evelina had learned long ago how to read the nuances of her mother's expression, and this was going to be one of the rare times she could not be persuaded out of her decision.

Evelina sank, her shoulders slumping, and looked again at Charles. His eyes met hers, and they exchanged a silent cry of helplessness. Their mamas had won.

Chapter Two

Charles marched down the pavement, barely conscious of the scene around him, having no destination but that he get himself far from the house on Queen Square, where his mother still sat with her coconspirator, Mrs. Johnson.

Damn her! Damn her for knowing how to manipulate him, and damn her for treating him as if he were yet a child, unable to decide what was best for himself.

And damn his own self, for having assumed that what was his, was truly his. A gentleman was not supposed to work—that had been drilled into him by Mother his entire life—and yet that very circumstance left him at the financial mercy of his parents. The fact that Papa had earned most of his fortune through trade was Mother's deepest shame, although she obviously was not above using the fruits of his labor to get what she wished.

Damn, damn, damn. It was the realization of his own powerlessness that made him furious, far more than what was being demanded of him.

Although that alone was bad enough: parties and dances, and the constant company of a gaudy butterfly of a girl. A Spanish inquisitor could have devised nothing worse.

"Charles! God's bodkin, will you slow down?"

The voice startled him out of his self-absorption, and he stopped. Evelina Johnson trotted up beside him, the wide hoops of her skirt bouncing, the ridiculous moon in the middle of her forehead peeling up. Her maid remained several respectful steps behind.

He had forgotten they were with him, and he realized Evelina must have been nearly running to keep up with him. His error came as no surprise; he knew he was hopeless when it came to polite behavior, and especially to behaving with ease among women. He had an innate talent for saying exactly the wrong thing, and over the years his embarrassment over his ineptitude had caused him to avoid more and more the situations where he was likely to humiliate himself.

"My apologies," he said, and then resumed walking at a slower pace.

She made a noise in her throat, and when he looked at her she was bobbing her head around as if trying to convey some sort of message.

He stopped again. "What?"

She sighed and stepped around him so that she was on the side of the pavement nearest the buildings, while he was by the road. A dim memory stirred in his mind that this was how a gentleman and a lady were supposed to walk together.

"My apologies again," he said. He glanced at her, checking to see if there were any other basic rules he was forgetting, and when she gave him a little smile he flushed and resumed walking.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know." The sound of hammers and shouting workmen seemed to follow him wherever he went, pounding at his head; on almost every street there were new houses going up, and walking toward the edge of the city meant walking through a morass of construction, as Bath spread into the surrounding fields.

"If you have no destination, then would you mind if in our wanderings we passed by the Blue Ball, in Stall Street?"

"What is the Blue Ball?"

"A marvelous shop. They have all manner of ointments and perfumes, and excellent hair powders from France. Maybe you would like to buy some?"

He snorted. "Maybe not. I have no wish to turn my head into a powder puff, trailing dust wherever I go."

"It would be better than looking like a medieval serf, Charles."

She used his first name the same way his mother did, as if he were a small boy in need of correction. He should have been Mr. Highcroft to her, and no matter the dullness of his social skills, he recognized her use of his name as an insult rather than a sign of cozy familiarity. "Is that why you bury your own head in talc, Evelina, to avoid being mistaken for a peasant?"

"What a rude boy you are! I knew you would not recognize fine taste when you saw it; I knew it even before I met you!"

"I do not see what is such fine taste about turning your hair the color of my grandmother's."

"I wear my hair as the French do, and you would do well to follow my example. At least I do not look like a common country bumpkin."

"The country girls I've seen look far fresher for wearing their own hair, clean and shining in the sun."

"So you do notice the fairer sex, then? Your mama would be happy to hear it."

He felt his face go hot. "My mother knows little about me."

"She knew well enough how to manipulate you. What are these horses for which you are willing to endure my company?"

"You would not understand." He was in no mood to explain anything to this twittering little hummingbird.

"Dear me, no, I probably wouldn't. I haven't a brain in my head, you know. I have to have dear Sally tell me if it is morning or night when I wake, I am so easily confused."

Despite his bad temper, he felt his lips curl in the hint of a smile. He'd managed to rile her. He glanced at her and suppressed a laugh. She could have no notion of how silly she looked, being cross while that crescent moon fluttered in the breeze, attached now to her forehead by only a single point. He noticed the red blemish she had been trying to conceal, and felt a bit of his usual bashfulness with women fade away. She had her vulnerabilities, just as he did.

"I had the good fortune to gain possession of a granddaughter of the Godolphin Arabian. You've heard of him?" he asked, feeling the familiar stir of excitement that came whenever he thought about the line he was trying to create.

"No. I do not know much about horses."

"Ah, well. Never mind."

She laid her hand on his arm, and her dark eyes looked up at him with amusement. "Sometimes the point of conversation is to impart new information. Some even find the unfamiliar to be interesting. Tell me, what is the Godolphin Arabian?"

He hesitated. She did not look like someone who would care a halfpenny about his breeding ambitions. "I do not wish to bore you."

"That's very gallant of you! Most young men are content to blither on whether their companion shows true interest or not. If you decide to listen to my advice about the hair powder and allow me to do something about those dreadful clothes you're wearing, we'll have you charming the garters off any number of young ladies."

He didn't know if she was joking or serious. And what was wrong with his clothes? Whatever momentary comfort in her company he had gained was gone, replaced by the familiar queasy anxiety.

She was still talking. "But to return to the topic: what is the Godolphin Arabian?"

This, at least, was one subject on which he could converse. If she became bored, he decided, she would have no one but herself to blame. "He is one of the three pure Arabians to appear in England over a quarter century ago. The Earl of Godolphin purchased him from a Quaker who had found the stallion in Paris, pulling a water cart. The horse had originally been a gift to Louis the Fourteenth by the sultan of Morocco."

"How did the Quaker know the stallion was special?"

"The Arabian is a distinctive horse, and the Barb is an extraordinary example of his breed. The story goes that it was the abuse the animal was suffering at the hands of its owner that prompted the Quaker to buy him, and that it was the former slave who had come with the stallion from Morocco who told the Quaker of the horse's history."

"Where was the slave while the horse was pulling the water cart?"

"Lurking nearby, I take it. He had been doing his best to watch over his beloved stallion, and after hearing the slave's tale the Quaker brought him to England along with the horse."

"What a dramatic story! Who would have thought a horse could have led such an interesting life? It's worthy of a romantic novel."

He felt a bit of confidence return. She'd liked the story—she was smiling!

"And your mare? How did you obtain her?"

"She belonged to an acquaintance at Oxford, who got into debt. He was afraid to ask his father for money—it had gone badly for him the last time he had done so and he knew I was enamored of the horse. He sold her to me for a painfully large sum."

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"I was just remembering. His father was more furious that the mare, Desert Rose, had been sold than he likely would have been about the debts. My Oxford friend tried to buy her back, but I will never let her go. Never! She's mine now."

Evelina sighed and gave him a look he did not understand. "I think your mother may be correct, and you are in need of a wife."

He didn't know what had prompted her to change the topic. "There is plenty of time for that. I do not see why I need one now."

Which was, to some degree, a lie. He did not know what he would do with a wife during the day, but he had more than enough thoughts on how they would spend their nights. His friends had often paid for the favors of women, but he had been too embarrassed to do the same. And then, just as frustrated desires had finally been enough to win over native shyness, one of his friends had become infected with syphilis. The thought not only of carrying such a burden, but of possibly passing it on to a future wife was too horrific for him to accept, and he had made the difficult choice of chastity over pleasure, promising himself that once married he would make up for missed opportunities.

Perhaps he did know what he would do with a wife during the days. Why limit himself to nights?

"Of course you need a wife. Every man does," Evelina said with certainty.

He didn't know what to say to that—how could he engage in any argument without treading upon topics unfit for discussion with a young lady?—so he turned the conversation back to her. "I should think that you need a husband more than I need a wife. I don't know why your parents do not marry you off rather than take the trouble to set me as a watchdog upon you."

"I am certain they plan to, once they find a suitable fellow. Since I am their only child, they are cautious in their selection. Papa wants to know that his family's lands will be cared for after he is gone."

"You must be giving them nightmares, worrying you'll end up carrying a fortune hunter's child." The comment slipped out before he had time to think better of it. Charles Highcroft, master of the ill-considered word! He would do better to keep his mouth shut and never speak.

"I have my virtue, sir! I may dance and flirt and steal kisses, but I know my value and do not give myself freely, not to anyone!"

"Why steal the kisses? Why let others think you a strumpet? You make it more difficult for your parents to find a match for you. Or is that your intention?"

"Of course not! I am the one who will have to live with my husband; I should hope he is the best they can find."

"Then you are doing nothing to help. I should not want a wife with such a reputation as your mother claims you are building for yourself."

"And I would not want a husband who wears his stockings over his breeches and gets along better with horses than with people!"

An angry silence descended between them, and though they still walked side by side he felt as if there were a stone wall between them. He had no notion of how to bridge it, or even if he wished to. Got along better with horses than with people, did he?

Well, perhaps so, but she needn't throw it in his face like that. And what was so terrible about how he wore his stockings?

Did he do nothing right?

Their route had taken them to the bridge over the river Avon, where they stopped to take in the prospect, and where he briefly considered the joy that might be had from tossing Evelina over the rail. Likely he would lose his horses for certain, if he did.

From the bridge's span he could see a stoneyard and wharf across the water, and the horse-drawn railcarts that went up the hill to Prior Park, and the quarries. His father was growing even wealthier by investing in the buildings those stones would construct, but all Charles saw when he looked at the stoneyard was noise and disruption.

"The wharf spoils the view," Evelina said. She had her arms crossed and a petulant look on her face. The maid stood silent and watchful, a few feet away.

He knew that he was likely more the target of her mood than the wharf, but he felt an unexpected relief that she had broken the silence. He would try to be agreeable, to make up for his own comment on her apparent strumpethood. "You enjoy the countryside?"

"It has its beauties."

"I always wished I had grown up in the country rather than in London."

"And I wished the opposite. Although I do admit, when I was away at school, I missed our fields and woods terribly."

"Did you?" He leaned one elbow upon the wall of the bridge, regarding her with interest. He had not thought that one so obviously concerned with dress and makeup would be of a temperament to appreciate natural beauty.

"Of course." She gave him a look he could only interpret as wicked. "I was better able to slip away on my own in the woods, and to meet whom I pleased."

He stared at her, aghast, and she started to giggle, her hand coming up to cover her ruby-painted lips.

"Charles, there's no need to look at me so!" she said when she caught her breath, and lowering her hand she pushed him lightly on the arm, as if he were a dull-witted brother. "I was teasing. I was far more likely to meet a crofter's daughter and play house in an old tree trunk than I was to be making mischief with boys. Although there was that one young fellow who was willing to drop his breeches and let us look, if my friend and I would lift our skirts in exchange."

"D-did you?"

"We made him go first, and then ran when it was our turn. We laughed whenever we saw him after that; he was always trailing after us, complaining that we had to pay our debt."

"Poor sod."

"You'd rather I had lifted my skirts?" The smile was still playing around her lips.

"No, I—" He fumbled, flustered. "I imagine the fellow was probably half in love with you, and received poor treatment for it."

"If he was half in love with me, he should have tried picking flowers instead of dropping his breeches. No, I doubt it was love that he had on his mind."

She was altogether too wise for a girl of eighteen. He felt the less worldly of the pair, and realized she probably had more experience of the tender interplay between man and woman than he. If ever she were to steal a kiss from him—not that he wished she would try!—she would likely laugh at his ineptitude, and then go searching for one better able to meet her hunger.

Although, given the chance, he was certain he would learn to please a woman as well as any other man, if not better. Only not with her! He could not even tell the color of her hair, so covered was it in powder, although the warm dark brown of her eyes she could not hide.

He thought she might be a pretty thing, if not buried under all that makeup. She was willful and improper, and far too ready to speak her mind, but she was also plainly not one to hold long to a grudge or a bad humor, and had a ready laugh. Perhaps spending a bit of time with her would not be entirely the tribulation he had assumed.

"Could we go to the Blue Ball now?" she asked. "I think I have had enough of the view of the wharf, and there is a new edition of the Ladies' Guide that I wish to purchase. And while we are in Stall Street we can find you a new black ribbon for your hair. That one you are wearing is a disgrace."

Then again, perhaps spending time with her would be a torment of unforeseen proportions.

Chapter Three

"You needn't gloat, Mama" Evelina was in her room, helping Sally to pack up a basket of entertainments she would be taking with her on her outing with Charles.

"Evelina, my darling, I wouldn't think of it. But I am glad to see that you will be out enjoying the fresh air. It must have been tiresome for you, being indoors all week."

"A drive into the country with Charles Highcroft will be nearly as great a bore, I expect." She had tested Mama's resolution this past week, making several attempts a day to leave the house and pestering her with complaints, in hopes of wearing her down. Mama had answered the assaults with the blank solidity of a castle's curtain wall, and eventually outlasted the siege.

"Mind that you don't alleviate your boredom by trying to kiss the man. I won't have you practicing your flirtations on him."

"I thought the very point of setting him as my watchdog was his indifference to feminine wiles. Are you worried he might behave less than honorably?" Now, there was an interesting thought. It might be entertaining to see if, instead of fainting dead away at an advance, Charles responded with enthusiasm. And then what a state Mama would be in!

"No, of course not," her mama said, sounding very worried indeed. "All the same, you are to behave yourself." She paused, and then shook her head, as if laughing at herself. "But what was I thinking? No one, not even you, would wish to kiss such a loutish, homely sort as Charles."

"He is not loutish in the least. He is shy, and there is a certain backward charm to that." She was prompted to defend him by a perverse sense of loyalty to her fellow sufferer at the hands of manipulative mothers. "And I think he could be handsome, if he would take more care with his appearance."

"Nonsense. He is uncouth. But since you think that he is not devoid of appeal, I find I must absolutely forbid you to kiss him. And perhaps you should limit your outing today to no more than an hour."

"Mama! You must allow me more than that! Please!" She could not bear to stay inside for yet another day. Ten minutes ago she had been bemoaning her fate at being stuck with Charles, but now he was her deliverance from incarceration, and she wished she could be off with him at once.

"It would be safer to keep you at home."

"Please, Mama. I must go out; I simply must."

"Well…as long as you do not think of Charles as anything more than a chaperon. I know that Mrs. Highcroft would be as upset as myself—perhaps more so—to hear of a dalliance between the two of you."

"Would she! The arrogant old cow, she probably thinks I am not a good enough match for her precious son. Well, if he doesn't start to listen to my advice on dress and behavior, you can be sure that all she'll find for him will be the worst sort of fortune-hunting harlot."

"Evelina! You are too frank in your speech."

"But it is true, Mama. The Highcrofts are merchants at heart, and they will buy their son a wife, likely one with a pretension of rank and a money-hungry family. Poor Charles, he has no happiness awaiting him in marriage; that is for certain."

"You should not be calling him by his Christian name." She was saved from a reply by a footman announcing Charles's arrival. Thank God! She had best make her escape before Mama changed her mind yet again. "I must go."

"You will behave yourself—"

"He is waiting; I must go! Sally, my hat!"

Sally came and tied on the straw, flat-crowned bonnet, covering her tiny lace cap and her close-dressed, powdered curls.

She hurried down the stairs, Sally following behind with her wrap and basket. Charles was waiting in the foyer, playing with his hat and sneaking uneasy glances at the impeccably dressed footmen to either side of the front door. He looked up at the sound of her heels on the marble stairs, a nervous smile pulling at his mouth.

"Good day, Mr. Highcroft! What a pleasure to see you again!" she said, with an exaggerated politeness completely at odds with their last meeting. She winked at him.

He blushed. "Miss Johnson." He fidgeted, apparently at a loss for further words, and then suddenly put his hat on, the left side of the brim wavy from the mangling of his hands and drooping down over his eyebrow. And just as suddenly he took it off again, and bowed to her in belated greeting.

There was something adorable about his shyness. It made her want to wrap her arms around him and nuzzle his neck. It also brought out the imp in her, that liked to startle and surprise, and to see his cheeks change color.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and curtsied in return, and then held out her hand, waiting until he lifted his forearm for her to lay her palm lightly upon. A footman opened the door and Charles led her outside, to the carriage that awaited, with the coachman perched high on his seat and a Highcroft footman in blue livery standing by the lowered step.

She smiled at the footman, who grinned back, then went stone-faced when Charles glared at him. Once they were all installed inside, and the carriage had begun to move, Evelina leaned toward Sally. "He was a handsome fellow, don't you think? Such lovely dark eyes."

"I can do better than a footman." Sally sniffed. "I wouldn't settle for less than a head gardener, with his own cottage—or better yet a butler."

"But he was handsome."

"He was that," Sally admitted.

"But not as handsome as you," Evelina said, turning her attention to Charles. "You are by far the finer figure. And you are wearing the ribbon we bought!"

"We had a bargain, after all," he muttered.

"Indeed we did." She had finally persuaded him to buy a new ribbon after promising that, in exchange, their next outing could be to wherever he wished. "And look at your stockings, properly tucked away. Next we will have to go to work upon your hat and waistcoat."

"I like my hat the way it is. It keeps the sun from my eyes."

"As if that were the purpose of a hat! No, we must have your outward appearance match the dashing fellow I know to be hiding inside, and that means a cocked hat and embroidered waistcoat. Come, what would you like in exchange this time? Shall I agree to go riding? Fishing? Or would you perhaps like…a kiss?" The offer was out before she could think better of it, and her heart tripped in a mixture of embarrassment and the hope that he might say yes.

What nonsense! She did not wish to kiss him. It was Mama who had put the idea into her head, with her forbidding it.

"No, certainly not!" he said.

She made a face. "You needn't be so very adamant about it. A young lady might feel insulted."

"I doubt other young ladies trade away their favors."

"God's bodkin, Charles, you are a prudish sort. A simple peck upon the cheek, as a sister would give her brother, that was all I offered." Although he did have lips with the perfect amount of fullness, shaded with just a hint of color. It might be very nice indeed to kiss those lips, and to lay her hand upon the broad chest beneath his drab waistcoat. His legs looked long and strong, making her palms itch to run along the muscled thighs…or even to sit upon them, and wrap her arms around that stiff neck, her hands playing in his dark hair. Her breath grew short with excitement.

"In trade you could promise instead to stop leering at servants," he said.

"You would take away all my fun. What harm is there in a little leering?"

"Or better yet…" He smiled at her, and it was a wicked smile of a sort she had not seen before on his face. She felt a thrill run through her.

"What? What would you have me do?"

"Stop wearing your powders and paints."

She gasped, her excitement turning to horror. "I could not!"

He shrugged. "And I like my clothing as it is."

"That is not the same at all. I am à la mode. You are not. I am trying to help you."

"And I, you. I should think you would find many more men willing to be kissed if you did not have purple cheeks or the dead skin of a corpse. And what are those things above your eyes?"

"Mouse-skin eyebrows," she said softly. His comments went straight to her heart, wounding her. "I look pretty with my powders and paints," she said in a weak show of defiance, but her voice betrayed her with its quaver.

"Pretty as a painted pagoda, perhaps, but not as a lady."

"That's not nice, Charles," she said, and tried not to cry. Hearing the words from him hurt far more than if they had come from Mama, who was constantly on her about her cosmetics. "I don't know that you should be any judge of what is attractive."

"I don't know why I should not be. For all that you and my mother seem to enjoy treating me as a boy, I am a man."

"And I had thought a kind one." A tear slipped down her cheek, her throat tightening.

"Are you crying?" He peered at her across the shaded carriage.

"No!" she said on a hiccough, and searched for a handkerchief. Sally handed her one, and she dabbed at her face, trying not to smear the black that was dripping from her eyelashes.

"You are crying." He sounded appalled. "Ah, damn. I'm sorry, Evelina. I didn't mean to make you cry."

"You've a cruel heart, to tell a girl she is ugly," she said amid her tears.

"Evelina, I'm sorry! That is not what I meant! I'm a lout, with no command of his own tongue. I did not mean to hurt you." He reached across and took the hand without the handkerchief, patting it awkwardly between both of his. "I think you're quite beautiful, under all that paint. I wish I could see you better, is all. You have pretty eyes, and a lovely smile, and your figure is excellent. I'm sure you don't need powders or false colors to be the fairest lady in all of Bath."

She sniffed back her tears, holding the wet kerchief to the end of her nose. "Truly?"

"I may be a clumsy lout, but I am not a liar."

He had stopped his hand-patting, and hers now rested motionless between his warm palms. She gave one of them a gentle squeeze. "You have a smoother tongue than you give yourself credit for." She withdrew her hand and mopped the last of the moisture from her face. The kerchief was covered in black and pink. She almost laughed at the sorry spectacle she was sure she now made.

"Am I forgiven?"

She nodded. She didn't know when she'd gotten as sweet an apology from anyone.

He sat back, still wearing a frown of concern. She slid her foot beside his and nudged him, and when his brows went up in surprise she smiled slightly, to show she was not going to hold it against him.

He nudged her back.

She grinned.

With Sally's help she repaired the worst of the damage to her face, wiping away the black from under her eyes and down her cheeks, and evening out her skin tone with a fresh application of powder. She had no other makeup with her, and felt half-naked with her pale cheeks and lips, and lashes that held only the faintest trace of black. At least her mouse-skin false eyebrows were still in place.

"Where is it, exactly, that we are going?" she asked. She was glad now that they were heading into the countryside, where no one would see her.

"To our country house, Highcastle." He said the name with a grimace, as if the very sound of it was distasteful. "I thought you might like to see Desert Rose."

They were driving all this way to look at his mare? It was a good thing she'd brought her own basket of entertainments. What did she care about a horse? But Charles looked both uncertain and hopeful as he waited for her response, so she smiled. "That will be delightful. I should like to understand what about her has inspired such devotion in you."

"And I thought we might walk in the park afterward. There are several ponds and temples and whatnot. It's supposed to be diverting."

She laughed softly. "'Supposed to be'? You do not find it so?"

He shrugged. "I like the fishing pavilion well enough."

"A place with a purpose."

"Yes."

"I shall have to teach you the joys of idleness, I see. We ladies are fond of lounging, after we are exhausted by our shopping, and we like it even better when there are suitors gazing upon us with adoration, feeding us sweetmeats."

He looked at her with some alarm.

She nudged his foot again, and smiled. "I'm teasing. Still, there is some fun to be had wandering through an unfamiliar park. Were the temples your mother's idea?"

"My father bought the house just three years ago. The park was already in place."

"Ah."

They lapsed into silence, and before long arrived at the estate. There was an overstated grandness to Highcastle, but knowing there was no family history attached left Evelina immune to its intentional impressiveness. Charles seemed embarrassed when they drove by, keeping his face turned half-away from the newly rebuilt facade.

"You don't like the house?"

"It has fine stables," he hedged. "I told the coachman to bring us straight there."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if the house had been his mother's choice, but she decided it would be done with petty motivations. There was no need to embarrass Charles more than he already was about Mrs. Highcroft's snobbish, socially ambitious ways.

A thought fluttered at the back of her mind: it was strange that Mrs. Highcroft should have chosen her as the companion to polish off Charles's rough edges. She showed such superiority toward Mama…Were her true feelings, then, those of inferiority? And did she have ulterior motives to this pairing?

The thought dissipated before it had fully formed, as the carriage pulled to a halt. She told Sally she could wait where she wished, and let Charles lead her into the stables.

And what stables they were!

The ceilings were vaulted, and would not have been out of place in a church. The stalls were of a rich, dark wood; each horse had its own wrought-iron manger; bronze plates mounted above each stall gave their names; high windows were open to let in the spring air; and everywhere was the clean, fresh scent of hay and horse, and enough stable boys to be sure that no horse would have to stand more than a moment near its own manure. "You did not exaggerate. They are fine stables indeed!"

"What they shelter is finer still." He was standing taller, and yet seemed more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, a quiet pride in his eyes. His plain hair and simple clothing no longer looked dated and inappropriate in this setting, and his shy clumsiness had been replaced by a graceful ease.

The handsome man she had guessed lurked within was suddenly right before her, and she felt a warm rush through her loins. Good heavens, but he was beautiful. As she gazed upon him she felt tinglings begin in unmentionable places, and knew a nearly overwhelming urge to press herself against his body and nibble where his jaw met his neck. And to dig her hands into his hair. And to invite his tongue into her mouth, where she could suck on it and—

"This is Winter Wind, who you can see has traces of the Arabian in the slope of her shoulders and the shape of her head, although her ancestry is undocumented…"

He had no idea how utterly delicious he was. She watched his hands as he stroked them down the back of another horse, strong and long-fingered. His mares knew him, whickering at the sight of him, nudging out with their soft noses. He was gentle with them, speaking softly, and yet showing a quiet confidence that made her body melt with desire.

"Am I boring you?" he asked, suddenly breaking off his narrative.

"No, not at all."

"Are you certain? You haven't said a word since we came in."

"Please, go on." She could watch him all day. "Where is Desert Rose?"

"Out in the paddock, with some of the other mares. Come, I'll show you."

He led her to the end of the stables, and as they were passing the doorway to the tack room she glanced inside, then stopped as her eye was caught by a drawing pinned to the wall. "Wait, Charles, if you please," she said, stepping into the room.

"What is it?"

There was not just one drawing, but several scattered around the walls of the room, above the mantel of the fireplace, between racks of dangling harnesses, even on the back of the door. They were done in both charcoal and in ink, and all were of horses: horses running, standing, jumping, tossing their manes, mares with foals, and foals on their own, struggling to rise. Each had the name of the horse written at the bottom, but there was no signature.

"These are wonderful. Did one of the grooms do them? You have an artist in your employ, if so! And one better suited to paintbrushes than horse brushes!"

"Er, no, they weren't done by a groom."

She turned wide eyes on him. "Then who?"

His face colored.

"You?"

"I wouldn't have put them up, but the men say they like them. They're nearly as attached to the horses as I am."

"I like them, too. Very much. Would you do one for me?"

His face, already pink, deepened to scarlet. "You would want one?"

"Oh, yes. There is such emotion in them, one would almost think they were human. Look at this mare with her foal. With a few lines you have managed to convey care and concern, and yet at the same time a sense of her curiosity at this young creature that is hers. I wish I had half your talent."

"Do you draw, then?"

"A little. Mostly I play with watercolors." She felt a bit of blood rise in her own cheeks. "I brought a set with me today, in case there should be an opportunity to use them. Being in the country, you know, with such pretty scenes…" She hoped he would not guess she had expected to be bored. One might as well bring a novel to the dinner table; it was as insulting!

"Then let us make an exchange. I will do a drawing for you, if you will do a watercolor for me."

''You would have the poor end of that bargain."

"Then you should be happy to agree, if you are to be so much the winner."

"I shall be an embarrassed winner."

Her shyness over her artistic abilities seemed to encourage him, and his smile was as bold as any a rake ever gave a naive virgin. His blue-green eyes met hers and held them, until she felt a warm wetness between her legs, and, embarrassed and flustered, had to look away.

Maybe it was for the best that Charles was backward in so many ways; the young ladies would stand no chance against him otherwise. She would stand no chance against him. He would be corrupted by the female riches on offer.

She had the sudden, possessive urge to keep him in his ratty old coat and uncocked hat, so that no other would see the treasure beneath the unassuming clothes and try to steal him from her.

Which was ridiculous. He was not hers, and this morning she would have sworn on her miraculously extant virginity that she would never want him to be hers.

To steal a kiss, though…that might not go too strongly against her former opinion of him. And she couldn't imagine that he would mind. He might not think much of her face paints, but he was still a man, and what man ever minded a kiss?

"Let's go look at Desert Rose," he said, and led her from the tack room, and from the privacy it offered. Her kiss stealing would have to wait.

A half dozen mares were prancing around the paddock, in the center of which was a free-standing stall, almost like a cage with solid wooden walls four feet high. Over the top of the walls could be seen the back and head of a roan horse.

They leaned on the rail of the paddock fence and Charles pointed out Desert Rose. He started describing her attributes, but it was the horse in a box at which Evelina could not stop staring.

"Why," she finally interrupted, "is that horse in a box?"

"That's, ah…the teasing stallion."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He's there to tease the mares."

She laughed. "Well, yes, if I were a mare I might find it amusing to see a stallion in a box, but I assume that there is some aspect to the situation that I fail to grasp."

"I don't know that an explanation would be in the best of taste."

She raised her brows. "Now who is teasing? You do nothing but whet my curiosity with such a statement."

He fidgeted and made an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat. "If you are offended by what I am about to explain, you will have no one to blame but yourself."

"I promise to stop you if I feel in danger of fainting at whatever scandalous information you are about to impart. Come now, no more hesitation. Tell me."

He sighed and then straightened, and his voice when he spoke was as emotionless as that of a schoolteacher, as if he could somehow make the words less shocking that way. "We are trying to determine when the mares are in heat. That is, when they are ready to breed. There are certain signs they display at that time, but only if there is a male, a stallion, nearby."

She burst out laughing. "It is exactly the same with females of the human sort! A group alone will gossip and eat and loll about, but put a male amongst them, and suddenly they are fluttering their fans and casting glances, and taking only the daintiest of bites from their cakes."

"The signs a mare shows are a little different," he said, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. "Although I admit that there is winking involved."

"Mares wink?"

"Not with their eyes, and that is all I will say about that."

She frowned as she tried to puzzle it out, then watched the mares as one by one they approached the box and either pranced away again, or stood and let the stallion touch his nose to her. One mare raised her tail, and even from twenty feet away Evelina could see the flashing of pink as the mare moved an unknown muscle within her exposed sex.

Evelina turned wide eyes to Charles. "Winking?"

"I refuse to answer."

She laughed. "I shouldn't like to imagine the young ladies of Bath winking so. What a frightful sight that would be!"

He mumbled something. "What was that?"

"I said, 'That opinion depends upon who is watching.' "

"Charles! I am appalled!" And then she dissolved into laughter again. "Tell me what they do if they are not ready to breed."

"At worst the mares will kick or bite, but otherwise they will simply ignore him."

"I think it might be the stallion's fault on occasion, if all does not go as he wishes," she said, looking up at her host.

"It is the mare's cycle that determines the mood of the encounter. The stallion has no control over it."

"That is what he tells himself. Perhaps he should try harder," she suggested. "He might find her more receptive than expected."

Their gazes met. "Are we still talking about mares and stallions?" he asked hoarsely.

She winked.

His eyes widened. "Yes! Right, then! Let's walk, shall we?" he said, stumbling away from the rail. "Where has your maid gone? Shall she come with us?"

Evelina laughed and followed him back through the stables.

Chapter Four

Evelina sighed, and he watched the movement of her chest beneath her fichu as the breath left her. "I don't know when I've ever seen such a lovely place, Charles."

Her pleasure was his own. "I was hoping you would like it."

They were walking down a shaded path beside a brook, one with moss-covered stones on its banks and lacy ferns dipping their deep green fronds down toward the clear, cold water. Sally, of course, followed a few steps behind, and if it were not for her presence, he was not sure what he might have tried with Evelina.

Since the day at Highcastle they had seen each other twice: they had spent a day in Bath, going to a public breakfast, to the Pump Room for the atrocious, supposedly healthful mineral water, and to the Abbey to read the inscriptions on the tombs; and he had taken her to the theater one night, and surprised himself by enjoying the performance.

Most surprising of all, he had begun secretly lusting after Evelina with a force that was frightening—and which he constantly feared she would detect.

It had been that conversation about horse breeding that had undone him, and the wink that could have had only one meaning. Since then every moment, both waking and dreaming, was consumed with thoughts of taking her to his bed. He felt like that pathetic stallion trapped in a box, unable to satiate his desires.

When she'd looked up at him with such hunger, and then winked—winked! With the mares in the paddock doing their own winking right behind her!—he had been so startled he had reacted in exactly the opposite way he wished. He had run from her, instead of dragging her back into the stables and tossing up her skirts, having at her like a sex-starved stallion. That was what he would have liked to have done.

Not that he would have, given the chance to do it over again. He hoped he was enough of a gentleman not to despoil a virgin, however willing.

The rest of the day, though, had done nothing to help his state of arousal. They had walked the circuit of the park, taken a picnic in one of the mock temples, and then frittered away the rest of the day with conversation and reading aloud from one of the novels Evelina had brought with her.

He had been like one drugged, listening with half-closed eyes to her soft voice and watching each movement of her hands and face, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He had let his eyes dwell upon the bit of white-clad ankle that showed beneath her hem, and considered what it would be like to let his hand follow that stocking up beneath her skirts to the dark, warm moistness above.

He had looked for an opportunity to steal the kiss she had offered, but Sally was with them then. He could do nothing under her watchful eyes, and Evelina had made no move to dismiss the girl. He had wondered if Evelina might be aware of his frustration, and amused by it, and kept the maid there on purpose.

They were in the country today because Evelina had insisted that it was again time to do something that he wished. What he wished had nothing to do with ambles beneath the trees and gentle conversation, but such would have to do.

A secret, cowardly part of him wondered if, were Sally to wander off for a while, he would have the nerve to take Evelina in his arms. Or was he using the maid's presence as an excuse not to risk being turned away?

They came out of the woods and followed the path up a flower-strewn hill to a lone oak at the top, under which awaited their art supplies and a picnic lunch.

"If I did not know better," Evelina said as she settled herself on the spread rug, "I would say that you are beginning to enjoy spending time with me."

"That is utterly ridiculous," he said, trying for a jocular tone. "I prefer horses to people, as you have said yourself."

"They are not much for conversation, horses."

"Neither am I." When he was with Evelina, though, that was a bit of a lie. She had a way of coaxing him to speak, drawing words from him when he would otherwise remain mute.

She passed his paper and charcoal to him, and set her own paints and brushes and water jar around her. "Do you think you might stand humanity long enough to do a portrait of me? You still owe me a drawing, you know. And I shall do a painting of you."

"Wouldn't you rather paint the landscape?"

She held the end of a brush to her lip, as if considering. "No. You make a much more interesting subject."

"I shan't like being stared at."

"Nonsense. Men love to be the center of attention."

"Not all men."

"Yes, all men. But as you shall be staring at me in return, you will have nothing about which to complain."

An invitation to stare at her: that could not be considered bad. It was a pity he could not ask her to pose in the nude.

They did a number of drawings and paintings of each other and of the scenes around them, complimenting each other's work, and exchanging questions on technique. Evelina had a talent for the use of color that, in his perception, made up for any weaknesses in perspective.

The time passed in languorous pleasure, and he wondered what had filled his thoughts—and what he had done to fill the days—before he met her.

Chapter Five

"You are looking almost pwesentable, Chawles," his mother said. "I had my doubts that that Johnson girl could effect any changes, but I see that she has. Soon you'll be ready to spend time with weal young ladies."

He had stopped by the drawing room to wish her a good night before he left to join Evelina and her parents to attend an assembly. He regretted the courtesy, his mother's words pricking at him and stirring up a defensive anger. Malign Evelina, would she? "Are you implying that Miss Johnson is not a lady?"

"Heavens, no, I would not say such a thing, however warranted the words might be! I simply meant that you will be able to do much better than her, now that you are gaining a bit of polish. After all, she has little to wecommend her as a wife. As a social playmate, yes, but I cannot see that she would be good for much more. You could manage a peer's daughter, with a bit of effort."

The anger boiled up, forcing him to speak when usually he would remain silent. "Miss Johnson has much to recommend her, if a man is seeking a cheerful warmhearted companion. And I assure you, Mother, many more men seek that in a wife than care about whether her father was a peer."

"Nonsense." She sniffed, as if dismissing the idea as unworthy. "And even if that were twue, it still stands that a man wants a wife who will not embarrass him with outlandish modes of dress and impwoper behavior."

"Evelina Johnson is an embarrassment to no one." He was so angry, his mother's words in need of such a range of refutations, he almost did not know where or how to begin. "You speak of her flirtations, yet I warrant that her public follies have far more innocence to them than the hidden indiscretions of others whose reputations are spotless, and most certainly they have none of the cruelty to be found in the wicked whisperings of bitter women."

"Chawles! Do not use that tone with me!"

"I will use whatever tone I damn well please, if you are going to say evil things about a girl who has never done you the least bit of harm, and whose only fault lies in an excess of enthusiasm. A fault which, I daresay, many more of us could stand to have a trace of ourselves." He marched to the door and turned to look at his mother, who was gaping at him. "Good night, Mother. Do sleep well."

He decided to walk from the town house to the Johnsons', instead of riding. He needed to clean away the residue of anger with exercise, and let the breezy night air cool his temper.

After a few blocks his thoughts had cleared enough that he could almost laugh at the argument, and at his own altered condition. Three weeks ago he would not have believed that he would soon be defending a young lady to his mother, or looking forward to attending an assembly at her side.

He, looking forward to an assembly. Who would have imagined?

But of course it was not the assembly about which he cared; it was Evelina.

It wasn't just that Evelina had prettiness hidden under her paints; it wasn't completely that she seemed open to whatever advance he might soon gather the nerve to try. It was also that she talked to him…and seemed interested in what he had to say. She actually seemed to like him, despite his bumblings and missteps.

A carriage rumbling by startled him from his thoughts, and looking around he realized he had passed the Johnsons' door three houses back. He retraced his steps and, once in the house, was shown into a parlor where Mr. Johnson sat, sipping a whiskey and staring at the fire in the grate. They made their greetings, and then Mr. Johnson waved him to a chair.

''You may as well sit. They are going to be a while—some crisis with Evelina's hair, I take it."

"How unfortunate." He had no better response, being unable to imagine what form, exactly, a crisis of the hair might take, or how serious the condition might be.

"Whiskey?" Evelina's father offered. "I always need one to endure these evenings. Frightful bores, they are, except for the occasional card game."

"Thank you, sir." He accepted out of politeness and to have something to do with his hands.

"Hear you have some fine horses in your stables," Mr. Johnson said, and soon after that comment all formality disappeared between them. Mr. Johnson was knowledgeable and interested, being a farmer at heart, and had as well an Englishman's love of racing. Two men who loved horses could not but find themselves in sympathy.

For the next hour they discussed the merits and flaws of various breeds, equine ailments, and experimental techniques for extending the natural breeding season, and by the time Evelina and her mother appeared—Evelina wearing hoops that pushed her skirts out two feet to either side—Charles had almost forgotten why he was there.

They both stood and greeted the women, Mr. Johnson doing so with a gruff, exasperated sort of affection. "All the best food will be gone by the time we get there," he complained.

"One would think you didn't get enough to eat at home, the way you carry on," Mrs. Johnson chided. "I can have Cook pack a supper for you, so you needn't eat from a picked-over buffet."

"You have entirely too smart a mouth, my dear," Mr. Johnson said with obvious fondness, holding out his arm for her to take. She did so, giggling with a hand over her mouth like a young girl.

Charles watched in fascination, his own parents having never teased each other in front of him. He wondered if, despite initial appearances, Mrs. Johnson was more like Evelina than she would like to admit—and perhaps that was why she worried at the trouble her daughter might get into.

"Charles, you look almost dashing!" Evelina said, coming up to him.

"Just 'almost'?" He had gone so far as to wear a black silk bag to hold his hair at the base of his neck; his shirt was new and had a trace of lace at the cuffs; and he was wearing proper shoes with silver buckles, not muck-encrusted boots.

"You remain distressingly short on hair powder and embroidery."

"All the better for you to shine beside me."

She made a face. "I could have wished for less attention tonight." Her hand went up to lightly touch her hair, which was sporting an extra heavy coating of powder and a quantity of silk flowers and ribbons. She also, for some reason beyond his ken, had painted faint blue veins onto her temples. "Tell me, do you see anything amiss?"

He examined her coiffure, trying to make out in the candlelight what the hair crisis had concerned. It did seem that even with the powder there was the faintest hint of green to her hair…"No, nothing at all."

She sighed in relief and smiled. "Thank heavens. That was the last time I will ever trust the Ladies' Guide for a recipe for a darkening hair rinse; I promise you that."

He realized he still did not know what color her hair naturally was, but asking now would go too close to the issue of suspected greenness. She was wearing less rouge and lip color than usual tonight, and there was no sign of the mouse-skin eyebrows. Was that because of him, just as his clean shoes and black bag were because of her?

He offered her his arm, then had to extend it farther, as her side hoops hit his thighs.

"They are fashionable, but rather inconvenient, I confess," Evelina said, laying her hand on his, their distance from each other making it look as though they were engaged in a formal dance. "I had wanted hoops that were three and half feet—think of all those yards of lovely silk hanging from them, and how tiny one's waist would appear!—but Mama refused."

"I don't know that my arm could have withstood three and a half feet. It is getting tired already," he said as they followed her parents downstairs and out into the night. The assembly was being held at Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby's large house across Queen Square, and like several other guests they would be walking the short distance instead of taking a carriage.

"Nonsense. Men are marvelously strong, and not to be undone by a hoop."

"We are undone by hoops and silks and pretty faces at every turn."

She looked up at him, a smile curling her lips. "Charles! You are becoming much too charming. There will be annoying young misses swarming around you like flies."

"And that would be a tragedy?"

"Of course. They are mercenary creatures, expert at appearing to be other than they truly are in hopes of snaring a husband."

"Oh?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Do not look at me that way. I am not speaking of makeup or bum rolls. I am speaking of hearts."

"Are you wearing a bum roll?" He pretended to peer around at her backside.

She made a face of grave offense.

"I'm teasing," he said, enjoying himself. He felt more lighthearted than he could ever remember. Evelina's devil-may-care attitude drew out his own hidden playful side, and he was surprised at how good it felt.

She bumped his leg with her hoop. "I knew that."

The street lamps left much of the square in darkness, but the pockets of warm light illuminated the occasional guest heading to or from the Wetherby house. The windows were lit, the sounds of music and voices audible down on the street. They caught up with Evelina's parents, and with them went inside and paid their respects to the host and hostess.

"Now I can find something to eat," Mr. Johnson said, when they were finished with the greetings. "You'll stay with Evelina, keep her amused?" he said to Charles.

"Of course."

He was doubly glad he had been assigned to stay by Evelina's side; with her, he would not have to do any of that embarrassing milling about, trying to look as if he were talking to people to whom he could find nothing to say. When he'd been forced to attend such occasions in the past, he'd usually ended up hiding with other men in a smoky room, or hunkered around a card table, sneaking the occasional longing glance at women who seemed forever out of reach. He had thought them almost frightening in their loveliness, so different were they from men.

"What are you thinking?" Evelina asked, as they wended their way among the other guests. The assembly was being held on both the ground and the first floors, with several rooms opened up to accommodate both the large number of people and the various activities provided for their entertainment. "You look amused."

"I was thinking of men and women, and how sometimes their coming together is as surprising as would be the pairing of a massive draft horse with a spirited Arabian."

They passed a couple coming down the stairs as they were going up, the man over six feet tall, the woman well under five. "Or a draft horse with a pony," Evelina said.

He laughed. "Perhaps the offspring will take the best traits of each parent."

"One would hope so, as the alternative is not pleasant to consider." They drifted into a room where people sat in small groups around tables, playing cards while others watched.

"Of course, it is before the wedding that such considerations should be made," she said. "Now who here would make a good pairing, likely to produce excellent offspring? There are obvious choices," she said, nodding toward a couple who were of like build and coloring, and looked to be in good health. "But we want more of a challenge than that. We are looking to improve the breed, are we not?"

He joined in the joke. "So the gluttonous," he said, slightly inclining his head toward a portly man, "should be matched with the overly thin." He directed his gaze to a young lady whose collarbones protruded and who had hollowed cheeks.

"Yes! Together, they would make children of a perfect thickness. And likewise the talkative with the silent," she said, as they passed a table where two such players sat across from one another.

They continued trading quiet suggestions as they moved through the room, then went out one door and back through another to a different room, where dancing and music filled the space. They paired the pale with the florid, the intellectual with the sentimental, the timid with the bold.

"And what manner of wife would you choose for yourself?" she asked, as they watched dancers gaily turning to music provided by a trio of musicians.

"To answer that, I would have to admit to my flaws that need balancing."

"Would you want someone who balanced you? Our pairing game has been entertaining, but no one truly chooses their mate with such things in mind."

"Horses wouldn't bother with such considerations, either," he said. "A stallion takes whomever is ready, and the mare doesn't care who sires her foal. That's why there are breeders who choose for them."

She laughed. "One might say that mamas and papas are our breeders, then, only their concerns are lands and rank, money and family ties, rather than leg length and shoulder shape."

"I'll make my own decisions when it comes time for marriage. I will not be mated by Mama to some creature of her choosing."

"Will you be allowed such a choice?" she asked, sounding concerned. "What of your horses? She will still hold them over your head."

"Marriage is for life" He thought of the affection between Evelina's parents, compared to the cold politeness of his own. He had always thought his parents well suited in their ambitious natures, but he saw now that those strivings for wealth and position had left them devoid of warmth, even with each other. They were more like partners in a business venture than companions of the heart. "I would like the chance to love my wife, and that seems likely only if I choose her on my own."

"They say that two people can grow to love one another, if there is respect and kindness. My mama and papa had an arranged marriage."

"Truly?" He would never have guessed it.

"Truly. Perhaps we are not so wise as to know who we will love, given time."

He gazed down at her, meeting her brown eyes with their cheerful, laughing warmth, and suddenly realized that he was falling in love with her. Despite the paints, despite her criticisms of his clothes, despite what he knew would be the outrage of his mother, he could imagine no one else he would want by his side, day by day. His life was brighter with Evelina in it.

He opened his mouth to speak, the power of this burgeoning emotion requiring something of him, some sign to show her what she was coming to mean to him. It was a glowing, spreading warmth he felt, apart from and yet linked to his yearning for her body.

"Charles? What is it?"

And then the moment was interrupted as a pair of young women came bouncing up, chattering at Evelina, who chattered happily in response and then introduced them to him as friends of hers.

The warm emotion drew back into his heart, hiding there in safety from these strangers. He felt his ability to converse go dead, scared into silence by the unfamiliar audience. Evelina gave him a puzzled look as his lips shut and stayed that way, and then his rescue arrived.

"Highcroft! You could have knocked me over with a feather when I first saw you come in," Edmund Beauchamp said, coming up to him. Edmund had been in his circle of friends at Oxford. They hadn't been close, but Charles had amusing—if somewhat hair-raising—memories of the escapades Beauchamp had instigated, from turning a friend's room into a one-night brothel to stealing all of a don's wigs in the dead of night.

Charles started to make the appropriate introductions, but Beauchamp said he already knew Miss Johnson, and then Charles couldn't remember the names of her friends, and Evelina had to introduce them herself.

"Splendid, splendid!" Beauchamp said. ''Now if you will be so kind as to excuse us, I need Highcroft here to settle a bet."

"Certainly," Evelina said, but she looked disappointed to see him go. "I'll stay here so that you can find me upon your return."

With an apologetic look back, Charles let himself be dragged away. Maybe by the time he returned those two friends of hers would be dancing, or chattering at someone else.

Beauchamp took him to a smallish room crowded with young men who were drinking whiskey and brandy and smoking long-stemmed pipes. A game of chess was going on at a table before the fire, observed by a few, but most were lounging around to no purpose, engaged in desultory conversations.

Charles wondered how many of them were there out of a terror of female company similar to his own, rather than from any true love of drink or tobacco. While there were some men who were naturally at ease with women, he rather suspected that most were simply better at putting a brave face on their discomfort than he was.

"I found him!" Beauchamp announced, and presented him like a fresh foxtail still bloody from the kill.

Charles recognized several of the faces, both from his time in Bath and from Oxford. "What is this bet you sorry lot need me to settle?"

"He's itching to get back!" someone said. "I'd say that points to yes!"

"It could as easily point to no," someone argued.

"Yes or no what?" he asked, smiling, wondering what this bet was that seemed to be amusing them so.

Beauchamp slapped him on the back. "Why, whether or not Miss Johnson has kissed you yet. Most think she's had enough time, and must surely have managed it with you by now. She kissed old Kingston there on the night they were first introduced. Took me two meetings to get my kiss. I was being coy." He grinned.

Charles could barely believe what he was hearing. He was stunned, taken completely off guard. He looked around at the eager, laughing faces, and felt he did not know a single one of them. He had the dizzying sense that he was separate from his body, was but a stranger looking through borrowed eyes, listening with borrowed ears as Beauchamp went on with his unreal words.

"I know you better than they do though. I remember what you were like at Oxford, and I laid my money on her not having managed it. If even a whore couldn't persuade you to touch her, I'll have to wish Miss Johnson luck."

Then all at once he was back to himself, the red fog of anger bringing him there. "How dare you speak of Miss Johnson in the same breath as a whore," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "How dare you lay bets on her. How dare you even say her name amongst yourselves." He was speaking as only a man angry enough to kill spoke, and Beauchamp knew it.

"Highcroft, hold on there! Settle down, now; we didn't mean any harm by it!"

"You hide back here, spreading lies about—"

"Wait, I say! No one here lied about anything. At least half of us here in this room have been kissed by Evelina Johnson"

A chorus of "ayes" went through the room. The volume of it shook Charles, opening a small crack of doubt in his anger. "Half of you?"

One by one they said how long they had known Evelina before she had kissed them, and unanimously stated that once she'd had her kiss, she'd flitted off to find new prey.

"Surely you knew of her reputation?" Beauchamp asked.

"I knew, but…" He trailed off, his world spinning around him.

"But you didn't believe it? I can't blame you there. Who wants to believe that a pretty girl does not find you as charming as she pretends? Or that another will do in your place just as well?"

He realized that he hadn't believed much that he'd heard about her, or at least had not taken it seriously. Yes, she'd made comments about the handsome footman, and yes, she'd admitted to having kissed someone, but he had had no idea it went as far as this. Half the men in the room. Half!

Even Beauchamp had enjoyed a kiss from her. How could Charles look at Evelina now and not see as well the faces of all these men?

They were all laughing at him for being duped by Miss Johnson.

Most galling of everything was that Beauchamp had laid his finger exactly upon Charles's feelings: he'd believed Evelina liked him and found him attractive. Him specifically. Not him and half the men in the room.

His felt his face go hard and tried to hide the fact that his heart was breaking.

*****

Her friends had invited her to go with them down to the supper room, but she had declined, wanting Charles to have no difficulty finding her upon his return.

She fidgeted alone, watching the dancers and examining details of other women's dresses. Then a young man came and asked her to be his partner in the next dance, and there seemed no reason to refuse. It might do Charles a bit of good to see that other men found her desirable, assuming he should come back before the dance ended.

He did. She caught a glimpse of him, and when the dance ended she turned her attention to the man whose arm she held, giggling at some inane comment he made. If she could make Charles jealous, perhaps he would finally gather the nerve to kiss her.

There had been many times she knew that she could have kissed him, and would not have been rebuffed. Sally's presence would not have stopped her, just as it never had in the past. With Charles, though, unlike with all the others, she needed to be the one who was kissed. She needed to be the one receiving, not the active partner.

She didn't know why there was a difference with him, but she felt it deep inside: he must come to her.

Only, he was taking a bloody long time about it. God's bodkin, but she was overwhelmed by desire for him! All her thoughts were consumed with Charles, and when the two of them were not together she was having imaginary conversations with him in her head, or daydreaming of holding him naked in her arms, as they twined their bodies together beneath the bedcovers.

She tapped her partner on the arm with her folded fan in a teasing gesture, thanked him, and departed. She returned to Charles, and saw that he was indeed distraught over her display. Perhaps more distraught than she had intended.

"Charles, whatever is the matter?" she asked as she rejoined him, pretending innocence.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room without explanation, then hurried her up the stairs to the next floor, the family quarters, where all was quiet. They stopped at the landing, and he swung her around to face him. She felt a nervous thrumming in her blood. He was passionate, but she did not think it was a kiss she was going to get.

"Tell me why you do it."

"Do what? Charles, what has happened? Why are you so upset?"

"The flirting. The kisses with half the men here tonight. Tell me why you do it."

She felt a sick sinking in her stomach as she began to suspect what he had heard while with Edmund Beauchamp. "What did Beauchamp tell you?"

"That you've kissed eight men—that he knows of!"

"Oh. Yes, well…I have." She tried to play it off as inconsequential, hoping that lightness would defuse the argument. "They were none of them very good at it, either. Or maybe they were, and kisses are simply not the thrill that I expected."

From the look on his face, she was not making things better.

"Why?" he asked again.

She shrugged, and felt herself squirming under his gaze. "I like men. I won't be able to kiss whomever I please after I am married."

"That is the whole of your reasoning? I like women, too, but I do not kiss them whenever the urge takes me."

"If they are willing, I do not know why not."

"Because it is not so simple as that, and you know it. Nor can I believe that you do this just because you like men. You denied once that you are trying to damage your parents' ability to choose a husband for you."

"And I deny it still."

"Then why?"

"I don't know why there needs to be more of a reason!"

She felt like a student who could not give the right answer, and struggled to find one that would satisfy him. "Although if there was another reason, it might be because it makes me feel pretty."

"Pretty?" His voice was as incredulous as his expression.

"When a man wants me to kiss him, I know he thinks I'm pretty. And I certainly think he's attractive at the time, so where is the harm in it? I know not to expect more than a kiss."

"You squander your reputation for the sake of vanity?"

"That was only an additional reason." She bit her lip, considering, as a question came to her. "But you knew about all that nonsense before. It was why you were assigned as my watchdog. Why are you so upset about it now?"

He looked away and did not answer. In his silence she found the only conclusion possible, one that she had barely even dared to hope for: he had started to care about her. She felt a flush run through her, a combination of her own growing feelings for him and the anxiety that she might be on the verge of losing him, just before something wonderful truly had the chance to begin.

"Charles," she said softly, and laid her hand on his arm.

He shook it off.

She felt tears come to her eyes. She reached out and again laid her hand on his arm.

He moved away and turned cold eyes back to her. "I am not going to be yet another man in your collection. If I had less respect for you I'd take what you seem so eager to offer. And if I had less respect for myself, I'd let you use me as a sop to your vanity. Wipe off your powders and take a true look at yourself, Evelina."

Hurt fired anger in her own heart. "Look at your own self, Charles. Dressing like a common laborer so that no one will pay attention to you, because you're too afraid of what they might see if they did! I did pay attention, and I liked what I saw, but I don't like it much right now. I cannot believe I ever thought I had feelings for you."

"Then as we apparently find so little pleasure in each other's company, perhaps it is best if we part ways."

"What a marvelous suggestion," she said. "The best you've ever had." She turned and went down the stairs before he could see the tears that were spilling down her cheeks.

Chapter Six

Evelina lay on her bed in her dressing robe, her hair loose and unpowdered, her face bare. She stared up at the canopy as she had stared up at it for the past week, alternating between bouts of self-loathing, anger, and self-pitying tears.

Mama's repeated warnings about flirting and wild behavior had meant nothing to her. The occasional hesitations she herself had felt had served only to add the spice of fear to her exploits. When a friend had told her, in an excited, semiapologetic whisper, that she was gaining a reputation for recklessness, she had been secretly flattered that people were taking note of her.

Since the time she was small she'd had an instinctive understanding that breaking rules did not matter overmuch in the long run. Most of the time the rules were there for someone else's convenience and being a good girl meant doing what she was told instead of what she wished. Never had she realized that breaking the rules might hurt another in a way more deeply felt than the scolding disappointment of a parent.

She had hurt Charles, and lost him. And now here she lay all alone, with no one to blame but her own vain and thoughtless self.

The thought of dressing in her colorful silks revolted her. Her pots and bottles of makeup and perfume made her want to cry. The Ladies' Guide had been burned in the grate, and her green-tinted hair lay tangled and unwashed over her pillows.

The only thing she would look at, besides the canopy of her bed, was the drawing Charles had done of her while they were sitting on the hill. She had been painting a watercolor of him at the same time, so that they each had a picture of the one doing a portrait of the other, like two mirrors reflecting back.

He had liked her then. She knew he had. He had liked her for more than the hopes of a kiss, and she had laughed and talked with him as if he were a friend of the heart.

And then she'd gone and spoiled it all by flirting with that boy at the assembly, trying to make Charles jealous when he had just been listening to that awful Beauchamp—why had she ever kissed him?—relate every detail of her past. He had no reason to believe that he meant more to her than any other man ever had.

There was a soft knock on her door. She ignored it, assuming it to be Sally. A moment later the door opened, and footsteps came across the room. She glanced to the side and saw her mama staring down at her with a worried frown.

"Are you certain you do not need me to send for the doctor?"

"I am fine, Mama."

"Won't you tell me what is wrong?"

"There is nothing wrong." She felt the pull to pour out her heart, but she remembered how Mama had warned her against an involvement with Charles. She would not find sympathy here, and was afraid Mama would tell her that she had gotten what she deserved for her flirting.

Mama sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking down toward her. She picked up Evelina's hand. "Then why have you not been out? Why have we not seen Charles? Why do you do nothing but lie here day after day?"

"I cannot go out with green hair. I am waiting for it to fade."

"It will not fade without washing." Mama kept looking at her, as if waiting for a deeper confession, but when none came she sighed. "I do wish you would consider going out, green hair or no. I have been speaking with Mrs. Highcroft, and apparently Charles has slipped back into his old ways in your absence, only worse. He will not leave the stables at Highcastle, and Mrs. Highcroft says she has never seen him so morose. She says that if she did not know better, she would think the boy had fallen in love. You wouldn't happen to know whom he might have lost his heart to, would you? Surely it is one of your friends, one to whom you introduced him?"

"Charles is melancholy?" She perked up a bit at the news. If he no longer cared for her, surely he would be content without her and not moping around the stables like a forlorn lover.

"Dreadfully so. Mrs. Highcroft is worried for his health."

"She thinks he is in love?"

"With a passionate desperation. You know how some men can get. They set their heart upon a girl, and then cannot eat nor sleep until they have her. They are not capable of moderation. One would think they could die of a broken heart. Perhaps if you were to see him, he would tell you what is troubling him. He will not say a word to Mrs. Highcroft."

"He may refuse to see me," Evelina said, her doubts catching up with her. "I mean, if he is so very unhappy, the promise of my company may not be enough to bring him out."

"Mrs. Highcroft is going to see if she cannot force him to attend the Atherton ball on Friday. Can I tell her that you will be there, and will try to talk to Charles?"

Evelina nodded, fragile hope beating in her chest.

Mama picked up a lock of her hair, rubbing it between her fingers. "We'll try lemon juice and sitting in a sunny window. Three days of that, and there should be not a hint of green left."

Evelina managed a smile. "Thank you, Mama."

*****

Charles brushed Desert Rose and told himself he was not going to take Evelina's watercolor out of his jacket pocket again. He was not going to stand there mooning over it for half an hour, trying to match the happiness she had painted into his eyes with the emptiness he knew was there now. He was going to throw the damn thing away. He was.

He set down the brush and took the folded picture out of his pocket. He had better look at it once more before burning it.

A twinge of pain went through his heart. Who but Miss Johnson would ever have made him look so colorful? So alive?

With the pain came the doubts that had been hounding him since the Wetherby assembly, and since he had confronted Evelina.

There was no question that she had kissed more than half a dozen men, with apparently little feeling for them personally. Was it possible, though, that with him she had cared? He could not forget one of her parting comments, about how she had thought she had feelings for him.

The laughter of his friends had been too fresh in his ears, though, for him to listen, as had been the sight of her dancing and flirting with another.

But what was a single dance and the tap of a fan? In truth, it was of no consequence. And what should it matter if others laughed at him for his choice of mate, so long as he was happy?

Evelina had been right when she had made those comments about his clothing. He hid by wearing them. He had been a coward, in that and with her, and he deserved every bit of misery he felt. He had spoiled his one chance at a future with a cheerful, warmhearted woman who might have been as fond of him as he was of her, and he had hurt her in the process. She probably hated him now.

A wave of utter sadness washed over him for what he had lost. He was alone now, and the company of horses could not fill the emptiness.

"Chawles? Are you in here?" his mother called from down the center aisle of the stables.

He stuffed the picture back into his pocket and picked up the horse brush. "Here."

His mother approached in her characteristic stance, her back stiff as steel stays, her nose held high as if she were above her surroundings. He imagined she would be horrified if she knew he had fallen in love with Evelina.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked. "Why have you not been spending time with Miss Johnson? I want an answer this time."

"She has not expressed any wish to go out."

"Since when does a man wait on a woman's invitation? Really, Chawles, I had thought you had come further along than that."

He said nothing.

"Regardless. Evelina is in need of your steadying pwesence. Mrs. Johnson tells me that she has been lolling about like a woebegone puppy, and she fears the girl may have had the bad sense to fall in love with someone inappropriate. You know how girls can get. They know no modewation, and one begins to fear they will make themselves ill with their emotions."

"Evelina is in love with someone?"

"That is what Mrs. Johnson fears. Would you happen to know who? You have been by her side, and surely must have seen who it was who caught her fancy."

He shrugged, trying to hide his hope that all might not be lost.

"Mrs. Johnson is going to persuade her to go to the Atherton ball, and asks that you try to speak with her. Mrs. Johnson feels Evelina may listen to your good sense, whereas she wejects it from her mother. Would you consider going?"

"Of course." A second chance! Evelina might hate him, but maybe…just maybe it was the opposite she felt.

His mother blinked at him in surprise. "You would?"

"I can surely bear a ball for the sake of helping a friend."

"Ah. Well. Mrs. Johnson will be glad to hear it." She was still looking at him as if she could not quite believe he was her son.

He almost enjoyed her shock, and decided to befuddle her completely. "I'm not certain I have anything fine enough to wear. Might I borrow something of Papa's, and a wig?"

She made a little noise in the back of her throat, her mouth an O of astonishment.

"Thank you, Mother."

Chapter Seven

Evelina rose on tiptoe, searching the crowded ballroom for a head of dark hair and a mud-brown coat. She saw no sign of Charles amidst the sea of white male heads and colorful clothing, and rested back on her heels with a sigh of frustration. Perhaps he had not come after all.

She was caught between relief and disappointment, her stomach churning with a mix of anxiety and hopeful expectation. Over the past three days she had tried—and failed—to think of what she could say to clean up the mess between them. In the end she had chosen to speak without words, and to hope that when he saw her he would understand what she was saying.

She wore only the barest hint of makeup, invisible to an inexpert eye: a faint touch of color on her lips, a slight darkening on her lashes from the lead comb, the tiniest bit of powder on her nose to dull the shine. Her hair was its natural hue of golden brown, made somewhat more golden by the days in front of the window with lemon juice; a small bunch of fresh flowers was nestled in the arrangement, and their perfume was the only one she wore.

Her gown was of soft pink and cream with silver lace, her hoops the smallest pair she owned. Her brocade shoes did have paste-diamond buckles over the instep, but as they were down on her feet and almost hidden by her skirts, she didn't think they would count against her. They were the only buckles that matched the shoes and gown, and a girl had to have the right footwear if she was to maintain her confidence.

A tall man in turquoise velvet stopped a few feet from her, and scanned the crowd much as she had done, his posture denoting his frustration. He was wearing a white wig with a roll over either ear and a long tail down the back wrapped in black ribbon. She had the feeling she might have met him before, but for the life of her she could not place where.

Then, as if sensing her eyes upon him, he turned and locked gazes with her. The blue-green eyes that stared into hers could belong to only one person: Charles.

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

He blinked at her, and then his eyes widened in startled recognition, his gaze going from hair to face to dress, and back up again.

For a moment she thought that maybe he was dressed this way for someone else, that his supposed melancholy had nothing to do with her, that, indeed, he had dressed how she had always suggested in order to spite her, now that he was lost to her.

"Evelina?" he asked softly. The cautious hope in his voice encouraged her.

"Charles?"

A new dance was called, and Charles lifted his gloved hand in invitation.

"You can dance?" she asked. She knew there was much she needed to say, and much she needed to know about his feelings, but the dance floor was waiting and he was looking both handsome and unknown in his finery and wig.

"I was forced to learn, and I learned quickly—the more quickly to escape the lessons."

She laid her hand on his and let him lead her out onto the floor and into position with the others. The music started, and he went flawlessly through the moves as they changed partners, touched hands, circled, and turned.

Colors and changing faces, notes of music, scents of bodies and perfumes, and the light of chandeliers swirled around her. At their center was always Charles' face, with the intense blue-green eyes that held hers with a promise of touches more intimate than kisses.

She felt drunk, although she'd had nothing to drink. She was floating and dizzy, and it all seemed a dream. She was afraid to trust that she might have a second chance, and he looked too different from the Charles to whom she was accustomed to believe it was him, and that she was awake and this was real.

When the dance ended he looked around, then led her off to one end of the floor and through the pillared archways of a gallery, where a thinner press of guests milled, observing the dancing. He pulled her to one end, where a pillar and the wall afforded a modicum of privacy.

"Charles, is it truly you?" She reached up and traced her fingertips lightly over his face. He grasped her hand and kissed her palm.

"As much as it is you I see before me. Golden brown hair. I never knew!"

"Do you forgive me, then? I am so sorry for the things I said, and for flirting with that boy."

"Shhh, you are not the one who needs to beg forgiveness." He kissed the backs of her fingers. "I was the one who behaved unfairly. I was the coward that you accused me of being, and hurt you in my foolishness. Do you forgive me?"

"How could I not? It would be wounding my own heart not to do so."

His grip on her hand tightened. "Then you do care for me?"

She nodded, her throat too tight with emotion to speak. "Enough that you will come away with me, now, tonight, so that we may be married?"

"Elope?" Her heart thundered in her chest.

"I will not wait on the consent of parents. Let us present them with a fait accompli, and they may do with it what they will. I want you to be my wife, and to be by my side through all my days. I cannot imagine any happiness to be had without you."

"In a thousand years I could find no man I would rather have as my husband," she said, against the tears tight in her throat.

He released her hand and lightly laid his palms against either side of her head, tilting up her face. His chest and shoulders blocked out sight of all but him, and then he bent down his head, and her eyes dosed against the nearness of his image, a delicious shiver running through her as she felt the warmth of the air between them, and the soft moistness of his breath against her skin. She felt weak, and clung to his coat, her fingers digging into the velvet.

And then he kissed her.

Liquid heat poured through her and pooled in her loins at the first touch of his lips against her own. He pressed more firmly, and her legs lost their strength" forcing him to wrap one arm around her waist and pull her up against him. She felt his thigh against the mound of her sex, and a moan started deep in her throat, beyond her control.

It had never been like this with any of the others. Her desires for them had been as small and quickly dying as a spark from a fire. Never had there been this soul-consuming yearning that made her want to become part of another, blending their bodies into one.

His lips parted, and she felt his tongue trace over the joining of her own lips. She let them open, and his tongue slipped inside, rubbing lightly against her own. She felt an echoing hunger between her legs, for an entry greater than this, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, sucking his tongue deeper into her mouth and trying to take more of him than their clothing would permit.

Clapping and a whistle of appreciation broke them out of their web of desire. "Bravo, Highcroft! Marvelous performance! I wouldn't have thought you had it in you!"

They both turned to see Beauchamp standing in the shadows nearby, a smirk on his face. Evelina felt something turn sour in her stomach.

"Took what was owed you, you did!" Beauchamp leered. "And Miss Johnson, you are looking particularly lovely tonight. I don't suppose you'd care to put me back on your list of men to—"

Charles's fist knocked the rest of the words from his mouth. As Beauchamp's hands went up to his face, Charles punched him in his unprotected gut. Beauchamp doubled over, and a double-fisted thump on the back of his shoulders sent him face-first to the floor.

An excited murmur went through the nearby guests, who had turned to watch. Evelina stared in shock from Beauchamp to Charles.

"Whaaa?" Beauchamp groaned from the floor, a smear of blood beneath him.

"So help me God, if I ever hear Miss Johnson's name on your lips again, I will geld you like a horse and stuff your treasures down your throat."

Charles grabbed her hand and tugged her away from the scene, pushing his way through the gathering crowd and dragging her after him. "I have a carriage waiting. Let's be away before any think to stop us." And then, as if as an afterthought, he added, "Pardon my language back there."

"It is quite all right," she said, bemused, her shock being replaced now by glee. "But you know, the fashionable way to settle a disagreement over a lady's honor is a duel, not fisticuffs."

He turned and gave her a look.

She grinned, joy rising up inside her. "But I find I am growing quite fond of the unfashionable. Quite fond indeed."

Chapter Eight

Mrs. Johnson folded the letter she had just read aloud, set it beside her cup of chocolate, and smiled at Mrs. Highcroft. "They sound as if they are enjoying Scotland. I should think this is a lovely time of year to visit."

"I do not suppose they will be spending much time outside of their wooms," Mrs. Highcroft said, with such a bland expression that it took Mrs. Johnson several moments to realize that her friend had indeed just made a lewd remark.

"Dear me, no. What newlyweds do?" She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as her false teeth shifted. "And perhaps they will enjoy those rooms for some time yet, as I believe they are half-afraid to return home."

Mrs. Highcroft's lips twitched in a contained smile. "We could have made a living on the stage, you and I. There were times I thought Chawles fairly hated me. It was hard to say some of the things I had to."

"For me, as well…Although sometimes my greatest challenge was simply not to confess all. I do not know if Evelina would forgive me if she knew she had been so neatly herded to her chosen husband."

"Nor Chawles." Mrs. Highcroft sighed. "I expect I shall have to play the slowly softening mama, wather than welcome them with open arms."

Mrs. Johnson sipped her chocolate, spilled a bit on her gown, and did not mind. She was feeling altogether too pleased with herself, with her cleverness, and with the fortune Charles Highcroft would inherit from his merchant father.

She looked over the rim of her cup at Mrs. Highcroft, wondering if her friend knew how very much in need of those funds the Johnsons were. Her friend would faint if she knew she had been outfoxed!

"They shall live at Highcastle, of course," Mrs. Highcroft said.

Mrs. Johnson lowered her cup. "I beg your pardon? Evelina will inherit the Johnson lands and manor. Charles will need to live there to learn how to manage the estate."

"As you wish, my dear." And then, almost idly, "One day I suppose it will be known as the Highcroft estate, when Chawles's childwen inherit in turn." Mrs. Highcroft's expression was one of quiet victory. "And no one will say they are the social-climbing offspring of a merchant."

Mrs. Johnson sipped her chocolate, contemplated her new in-law, and sighed within the confines of her stays.