And it was entirely against her will that she did so. She did not want to think of him. She tried to convince herself that she hated him, that she was indifferent to him, that he mattered not at all to her. She avoided seeing him. When Algie rode over the day after their walk in order to take her and Celia to the vicarage to visit David, she used the arrival of the guests the following day as an excuse not to go. She had seen him at church, of course. She had kept her eyes on her lap, her psalter, her hymnbook. She had tried not even to listen to him, but there was unexpected power in his voice when he spoke, especially when he delivered his sermon. It would have been impossible not to listen. But she had divorced the sound of the vicar's voice from her knowledge of David Gower.

She blocked him from her life, from her heart, from her conscious thoughts, but he was there nevertheless. And sometimes, all too frequently in fact, he forced his way into her conscious mind, and there was nothing she could do but think of him until something happened to force him below the conscious level again.

It happened when she was getting ready for the grand dinner before the ball. She was ready far too early as a result of being too excited to rest as long as she should have during the afternoon. She had dismissed her maid and sat idly on the stool before her mirror, twirling her ivory fan in her hands, wondering if her silk gown was in too pale a blue after all. It looked almost white. She looked like a girl at the very beginning of her come-out Season again. It had seemed very delicate when she had chosen the fabric. Ice blue. Paler than his eyes.

David. She had made such a dreadful cake of herself at Singleton Hall. She had asked him to marry her. No, begged him to marry her. How could she have become so lost to all sense of propriety as to ask a man to marry her? She did recall half-guiltily that she had also asked Algie to marry her a few days later, but that was entirely different. Algie would have asked her eventually anyway. There had always been an understanding between them.

And David Gower had rejected her. When she had confronted him and told him to give her one reason why they might not marry, he had told her quite bluntly that he was not asking her. And she had continued to argue!

She hated him! No, that was no longer true, Rachel admitted. She had hated him for all of two days, blamed him entirely for her feeling of acute embarrassment and humiliation. She had hated him because only by doing so had she been able to cope with the raw hurt and bewilderment of his rejection.

And it had been far easier to cope during those two days than it was now. Now she had to face up to what had happened, acknowledge her own responsibility for the disaster, and reassess her feelings for David Gower. And she did not want to do so. It was far easier simply to hate.

She had thought she had her infatuation under control. It did not seem fair of fate to have thrown them together under just those circumstances. She had been sitting there quite innocently in the rose garden, pulled beyond herself by the beauty and peace, the very sublimity of the night, and then suddenly David had been there too. She still did not know what he had been doing there and why he had not still been with Vicar Ferney in the library. But he had been there, and somehow he had become all mixed up with her mood and her surroundings, with the unreality of it all.

What chance had she had? She had been in his arms, his mouth on hers, before she had even realized the danger. And once there, then there had been no chance at all to fight. She had been where she wanted to be. Not only that. She had been where she felt she belonged. Truth to tell, she had had no thought of fighting her feelings at that moment. She had only assumed that he must be feeling exactly as she felt, that he too would acknowledge that their love was right and inevitable. She had had no doubt whatsoever that they would marry.

How very naive she was to assume that when a man kissed one in that way he must love her and intend to make her his wife! She always assumed that she knew so much about life, being all of nineteen years old and having spent a whole Season in London. In reality she knew nothing. She was the veriest child. He did not love her, David had said. He had wanted to possess her, that was all. It had never occurred to Rachel that one could want without loving.

And David of all people. She had thought him a man of honor. A man of honor would not kiss a young lady in the way he had kissed her unless he had every intention of offering for her immediately after. He had pressed her body against his. His hands had touched her in places where they had no business to be. He had kissed her with open mouth-a type of kiss she had no known of before. And he had used his tongue! He had treated her as if she were a woman of loose virtue.

She hated him for that. Yes, she still did. She had admired him a great deal even apart from other feelings. And he had destroyed her respect for him. But she hated herself every bit as much. She had thrown herself at him with no pride at all. What if he had asked for more of their lovemaking? What if he had tried to take more than just a very unchaste kiss? Would she have given more? Would she have put up any struggle? She could not answer the question. She wanted to believe that, yes, of course, she would have stopped him if he had tried to take just one more liberty. But she could not honestly, beyond all doubt, say that she would have.

And if he had responded as she had expected, would she now be happily betrothed to him? Would she be planning to live the rest of her life with David Gower in the vicarage in Singleton? A vicar's wife? Was she mad?

What had happened was that she had mistaken a strong dose of physical attraction for love, and for one mad night she had been prepared to abandon everything that made her life recognizable for the sake of that attraction. She could not marry David. What she had felt for him had not really been love.

And so in the final analysis, Rachel thought, giving her fan an extra twirl and pulling a face at herself in the mirror, she was no better than David Gower. She did not love him either, but had merely wanted him for a few mad minutes in the rose garden. And if she were to be charitable and forgive herself, as she must if she were ever going to be able to live with herself again, then she must also forgive David. Perhaps his behavior had been no more calculatedly evil than her own had been.

If only she could just forget him. If only for one whole hour, or even for one whole minute of her day, she could forget him.

If only he were not coming to the dinner and the ball.


***

David Gower was not enjoying himself. He really had rnot wished to come, had felt a moment of sick dread, in fact, when he had first read his invitation. But he had decided long ago that in his vocation he would shirk no duties to his parishioners, no matter how undesirable they might be. At the time, he had had in mind duties like visiting a home where there was typhoid. He had not thought that attending a dinner and ball at the home of an earl would be the most difficult part of his job in more than a week of service. And part of his job it was. He did not attend from any personal inclination.

In the eight days since he had removed from Singleton Hall and gone to live in the vicarage, he had immersed himself in his work. He had visited every member of his parish-except the Earl of Edgeley-and had tried to get to know each as an individual. He had had long talks with elderly people and listened to the memories of bygone years in which they loved to indulge. He had discussed crops and enclosures and the attractions of the wages offered by the factories in the towns with the men. He had helped the women by lifting heavy pots from the fire and chopping firewood and holding babies and bouncing them on his knee. And he had sat in dusty yards talking with the children, examining their humble treasures, letting them play with his watch, telling them stories.

He had prepared his sermon with painstaking care for the previous week and had felt that his first Sunday services at Singleton Church were well-attended and well-received. He had taken comfort to a sick old cottager in the middle of one night and had left the old man peaceful and recovering after an hour of prayer. He had taken a basket of food to a large family when he had found out that the man of the house had gambled his money away at the alehouse. He had also not neglected to berate the man roundly for his irresponsibility. And he had laughed at his housekeeper when she loudly protested his action and assured her that bread and cheese would make him a perfectly adequate dinner. She might have the meat pasty that had escaped his notice when he was filling the basket.

It might have be a thoroughly happy week had not this ball at Edgeley's been looming on the horizon. Already, even after a mere eight days, David felt removed in experience from the sort of occasion of which he was to be a part. The prospect of a lavish banquet and an evening of gay music and chatter held out no allure for him. He would far prefer to sit at home with a book or even merely with his own thoughts. There was a great deal to think about-what to do for the children, for example, or for the elderly people.

Of course, David admitted to himself as he stood inside the ballroom and exchanged greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Price, whom he had visited just the day before, there was the other, far more powerful reason why he had not wanted to attend this ball. And it was the same reason that had been gnawing away at his happiness for the last eight days. The same as had prevented him from feeling total joy on his first Sunday at his new church.