Guilt? Yes, he admitted that he had no right to make her into a figure of fun, even in his imagination. He certainly did not love her, he did not even find her attractive, but she had won his grudging respect in the short duration of their marriage.

He had lengthened their stay at Brampton Court from one week to two, finding himself oddly contented in the country. He had not spent much time with his wife, but more than he had planned. He had discovered to his surprise that she could ride and had mounted her on a quiet mare from his stables. She had not told him that riding was one of her favorite pastimes, that at home in Leicestershire she had often taken out her father's horse, riding him demurely except on those occasions when she could get away without an attendant; then she would wait until she was out of sight of the house, hitch her skirts inelegantly, swing one leg over the saddle so that she was riding astride, and gallop until her cheeks and eyes glowed.

Brampton had patiently reduced the speed of his own mount to suit the sedate pace of hers and had ridden with her all over the estate. He remembered one afternoon in particular. He had taken her to visit some of his tenants, poor cottagers who were wide-eyed and agog at meeting the new countess.

They were sitting inside one of the cottages while the woman of the house, flustered, pressed cider and cakes on them. A small toddler, newly come inside from a game of building mud pies, waddled up to Margaret and put a dirty hand on her skirt. Margaret smiled down at the child.

"Tommy, come away," hissed his almost frantic mother, making a dive for him.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Hope, don't mind him," Margaret had smiled. "He is a darling." And she had touched the child's soft blond curls.

"Oh, my lady, he'll soil your lovely habit," Mrs. Hope had protested.

"I have other clothes," Margaret had replied, "and this will wash. I so rarely have the chance to cuddle a child." And she had lifted Tommy to her lap and laughed as he reached for and pulled the earrings that dangled within his reach.

"Ouch!" she had protested, and she imprisoned his fingers in hers and eased them away from the earring. And she had glanced across at her husband, a laugh in her eyes. It was only then that Brampton had realized that he had been staring, mesmerized.

He had discovered during the rest of that two-week honeymoon that his earlier opinion that she was dull was not correct. She was quiet. She seemed to have little sense of humor. And she made no attempt to use her femininity. But she had good sense and a bright mind. Her conversation was never silly or tedious. If she had nothing to say, she simply said nothing.

And for some very curious reason that he could not fathom, Brampton had come to look forward to the few minutes he spent in her bed each night. He had missed the ritual when, a few days before their return to London, she had had to inform him, blushing painfully (almost the only open sign of emotion he had ever seen in her) that he should not visit her room for the following five nights. She had even forgotten herself enough on that occasion to call him 'my lord" again. He had not drawn her attention to the lapse.

Lisa had turned her head into his shoulder and was muzzling his neck, biting the skin lightly with her small teeth. She purred like a cat.

"Richard, my love, I swear you are a wild animal today," she sighed contentedly. "I shall be covered with bruises tomorrow."

"My apologies," Brampton replied coldly. He pulled his arm from beneath her body and rolled off the bed. He stood up and began to dress, wrinkling his nose distastefully at the smell of her perfume on his skin.

"I shall not be visiting here again, Lisa," he heard himself saying. He had certainly not planned to say any such thing.

"What!" she exclaimed from the bed behind him.

"I am a married man," he said. "I owe my wife better than this. The house is yours, of course, and all its furnishings. I shall arrange with my man of business to make a settlement on you. I am sure you will find it satisfactory."

He dressed quickly and left the house while she was still crying and pleading. He did not feel very proud of himself.

Charlotte sat down beside Margaret on the drawing-room sofa. She stretched her legs out straight ahead of her and rested her head against a soft cushion.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed, "this is so exciting and so tiring, is it not?"

"Are you pleased, love?" her sister replied, smiling gently and glancing up from her embroidery. "You certainly seem to have made an impression. All the young men were clamoring to dance with you last night. I do believe Richard was almost disappointed. He was fully prepared to lead you out himself if there was any danger of your being a wallflower."

"And three calls from admirers this afternoon!" Charlotte exclaimed with an artless lack of modesty. "And all these flowers, Meg." She looked around at the posies and bouquets that had been delivered that morning, all from young men she had met the night before.

Margaret smiled again. "I am so happy for you, Lottie. I can remember how exciting my own first Season was."

Charlotte must have detected the wistful note in her sister's voice. She immediately sat up straight and regarded her sister intently.

"Meg, I wish you would not sit there so calmly at your needlework and wearing that oh-so-stupid cap, just like a-a-"

"Matron?"

"Yes, like a matron. You are a bride, Meg," her sister cried passionately. "What is the matter? You and Lord Brampton behave as if you have been wed for years. And I was sure that you would suit admirably. You aren't happy, are you, Meg?"

Margaret winced. Her sister had all the bluntness of extreme youth. "Of course I am happy," she said soothingly. "Why ever would I not be?"

"No, you aren't. You do not even try to make yourself pleasing to my brother-in-law," Charlotte accused. "I mean, really pleasing. Has he ever seen you without your hair braided? Has he ever seen you laugh? Oh, Meg, I love you dearly, but why must you hide your real self? I know you are the loveliest, sweetest, warmest person in the world." And she impulsively moved along the sofa and hugged her sister.

"It is no good, Lottie," Margaret said mildly. "You cannot turn this marriage into the grand romance. It is a marriage like most of the other marriages of people of our kind-no worse."

"Ah, but, Meg, you did love once, did you not?" Charlotte asked.

"Yes, once-when I was very young and very foolish."

"I do not believe you were ever foolish, Meg," her sister said, gazing at Margaret loyally. She hesitated a moment, then asked, "Do you love him still, Meg?"

Margaret's fingers paused over her work. "Yes," she said.

"Who was he, Meg?"

There was a longer pause. "Richard," Margaret said.

"What?"

Margaret resumed her sewing. "It was Richard I fell in love with six years ago," she said.

"But I do not understand," Charlotte said. "Did he not love you? But why has he married you now?"

"He did not know who I was," Margaret said with a sigh. "It was really all very foolish. And I do not know why I am telling you all this after so long." She proceeded to give Charlotte an edited version of what had happened that night at the Hetheringtons' masquerade ball.

"I think it was a great foolishness not to take off your mask when he begged you to," Charlotte commented. "Then he would have known you and he would have called on you as he said he would, and you would have been married years ago and it would have been a lovely marriage, full of love and romance."

"Perhaps," Margaret smiled sadly.

"But this is all foolishness," Charlotte exclaimed, leaping to her feet and pacing restlessly around the room. "You must tell him the truth."

Margaret laughed. "Do you suggest, my love, that I say to him at the breakfast table, 'Oh, by the by, Richard, do you remember the little girl dressed as Marie Antoinette at a masquerade party six years ago? The one you kissed in the garden and called your angel? That was me!' He would think I had taken leave of my senses, Lottie. He would not even recollect the incident."

"Phooey! I do see your point about not being able to broach the topic, though, Meg." Charlotte's brow puckered with concentration. "I am going to return to my room and think. We need a plan! I think it might be necessary to resurrect Marie Antoinette." And she skipped lightly from the room, closing the door behind her.

Margaret let her hands relax in her lap, her embroidery forgotten. Why had she told Charlotte? She was not sure. Some compulsion, perhaps, to share her pain. Or was it that Charlotte's come-out had reminded her so strongly of her own?

Despite what Charlotte had said, Margaret was not actively unhappy. After that first traumatic night of her honeymoon, she had gradually picked up the pieces of her dignity and retreated behind her usual facade of quiet serenity. Her husband was neither cruel not neglectful. For the two weeks of their honeymoon, she had spent much time alone or with the housekeeper. But she had also spent more time with her husband than she had expected. He had taken pains to show her his estate and to introduce her to all his tenants, as well as to his neighbors, the Northcotts.

Margaret had drawn a secret pleasure from the fact that he always introduced her not just as the countess, but as "my wife, the Countess of Brampton."

She found it very hard to adjust to her bitter disappointment over their sexual relations. Each night was an exact repetition of the first, except that there was never again the pain and that he never again made the almost tender gesture of touching her cheek. He never kissed her, never talked to her, never caressed any part of her, never lingered longer than one minute after his business had been completed.