Briefly she wished that after all she had worn a white dress and decked herself out with diamonds and been the person who lived safely behind the facade of the Duchess of Dunbarton. But no, she did not really wish it. For these four days she had chosen to be herself without the safety of any cocoon. It had become strangely important to her to impress Constantine’s relatives. Not as the Duchess of Dunbarton, but as Hannah. As herself.

It was hard to admit that she had been hurt by their initial refusal of her invitation, because she had decided long ago that she would never again allow herself to be hurt by the behavior and opinions—or rejection—of others. But perhaps she had been a little bit hurt this time. She did not know quite why.

They had changed their minds and come. Had it been because of her visit to Claverbrook House? She supposed it must have been. Had her offer to have the children here as well as the adults made the difference? Had the marquess said something after she left? Had Constantine said something? Surely not, though. The reason they disliked her, Hannah suspected, was that they wanted better for him than someone of her notoriety.

However it was, she had been given her second chance, and she wanted to impress them. To show them that she was … human. To show them that she was not the arrogant, ruthless, heartless upstart she knew she was rumored to be. To show them that she could be a warm and welcoming hostess.

And within moments of his arrival the Earl of Merton had let her hold his baby.

And Lord Sheringford’s little girl had picked her a bunch of daisies from the unscythed grass down by the lake and shoved them into her hand as she dashed past toward the greater allure of her baby cousin as though Hannah was not anyone so very special.

It felt good indeed to be someone who was not so very special.

Someone of whom a child need not stand in awe.

She would put the daisies in a glass and place it on the table beside her bed. They seemed more precious than roses—or diamonds.

“I will have you taken up to your rooms,” she told the earl and countess and Constantine. “And we will all meet on the west terrace for tea. The weather is warm enough, and the children can eat with us and then play on the grass if they wish instead of being cooped up in the nursery.”

She took Constantine’s offered arm, and they led the way up the steps to the house. Why had she never thought of having children at any of her other house parties or country entertainments? Not only had she remained childless to the age of thirty, but she had also remained without any connection to children.

She had not even realized until this very moment how much she must have yearned for children all these years without ever admitting it to herself. What would have been the point of admitting it, though? She had been married to an old man who had had only one lover all his life—and that another man.

“I hope,” she said to Constantine, “you had a pleasant journey down from London.”

“Very pleasant, thank you, Duchess,” he said.

As though they were polite strangers.

What was it going to be like meeting him next year? But she would think of that when next year came. For now it was this year.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said.

***

THE DUCHESS LOOKED, Constantine thought, as if she had shed ten years in the three days since he had last seen her.

And at least ten layers of armor and masks.

There was the sunshine yellow of her dress. And the sunshine of her smiles. And the rural setting, in which she looked, quite unexpectedly, far more at home than she looked in London.

She could not possibly be looking more beautiful. And yet she was.

They had all assembled on the terrace outside the drawing room for tea, where she sparkled as a hostess, and then, when they had eaten and drunk their fill, Margaret’s Toby and Thomas Finch, the middle son of Hugh Finch and his wife, demanded a game of ball. There was a ball apparently—it had come with Margaret and Duncan.

There were several children of the party, ranging in age from Stephen and Cassandra’s newborn to the twelve-year-old twins of the Newcombes. But it was not good enough for the children to play with one another, of course. Not when there was a largish gathering of idle, perfectly able-bodied adults sitting outdoors just yearning for some vigorous amusement. The fathers at least must come and play.

And since the fathers did not see why they should be victimized just because they had sired children a number of years ago when they knew no better, they demanded that the other men too come and enjoy some exercise—Constantine, Sir Bradley Bentley, and Lawrence Astley. After all, they had all been cooped up inside carriages for most of the day, and here they were idling around in chairs again as if there were nothing better to do.

And then a few of the mothers were offended that they were considered incapable of throwing a ball about without making utter cakes of themselves, and Miss Julianna Bentley, Sir Bradley’s sister, pointed out to everyone that she had been sitting in a carriage today just as long as any of the men. Astley’s sister, Miss Marianne Astley, murmured an agreement. Miss Leavensworth reminded the duchess of all the games of cricket they had played on the village green when they were growing up and remembered that she had always been put all the way out on the road when it was her team’s turn to field because she could catch a ball and had a good throwing arm. And the duchess remembered that she had always had a pretty good arm too because all those odious boys had actually allowed her to bowl the occasional over.

“Yes,” Miss Leavensworth agreed, “you had that wicked wobble ball that no one could ever hit, Hannah. All of us found ourselves sawing at the air with the bat, thinking it a sure six because the ball was moving so slowly, and then it would wobble past and shatter the wickets.”

“Come, then,” the duchess said, getting to her feet, “let us go and play ball.”

The Duchess of Dunbarton?

Playing ball?

Constantine caught Katherine and Sherry both looking at her in some surprise, and then looking at him.

They all walked down the sloping lawn beyond the terrace until they were on ground flat enough for a game. Toby and Thomas, who had gone to fetch the ball, came dashing after them, and with the exception of a few people who insisted that no game could have any legitimacy if it did not have some spectators, they all formed a large circle about an empty center that Toby soon occupied because it was after all his ball. They hurled the ball across the circle to one another, trying to hit Toby’s lower legs in the process. The one to succeed took Toby’s place in the center and the game resumed.

It was probably, Constantine decided, one of the most pointless games ever invented. However, it occasioned a great deal of shouting and jeering and laughing—and a little crying too when Sarah somehow found herself in the middle and was hit with the very first ball. She wailed until Hannah dashed in there with her and scooped her up in her arms.

“That was a foul,” she cried in a very unduchesslike voice. “It hit Sarah on the knee instead of below the knee. Now try.”

And she proved remarkably nimble despite the fact that Sarah was shrieking and had taken a death grip about her neck, and despite the fact that she herself was laughing so hard that it was a wonder she could catch her breath. She jumped and dodged until Lawrence Astley clipped her on the ankle with the ball.

Constantine would have lost his wager. One curl had come free of its pins, and one untidy blond ringlet bounced against the duchess’s shoulder as she set Sarah down on the outer edge of the circle and Astley pranced about in the middle. She pushed the curl up under some of the others, but it was down again within moments.

Her face was flushed.

So were all their faces, actually, except for those of the spectators.

The game came to a natural end when Sir Bradley Bentley, who had just been hit, stretched out on the grass in the center of the circle and declared that if anyone so much as whispered the word exercise for the rest of the day, he was going to take to his bed and not leave it until the day after tomorrow. At the earliest.

Young Hal, Monty’s son, jumped on him. Five-year-old Valerie Finch followed suit, and soon Bentley was lost beneath a writhing, shrieking mass of children.

“I think,” the duchess said, “more tea in the drawing room is called for. Or something stronger. Definitely something stronger, in fact. Babs, will you see to it for me, if you please? I am going to have to make some repairs to my hair.”

They all made their way up the slope to the house—except for the duchess, who stood where she was, fiddling ineffectually with her hair and watching them go.

And except for Constantine, who stood where he was, watching her.

She turned her head to look at him.

“I am a mess,” she said.

“You are,” he agreed.

She smiled. “That was not very gallant.”

“It was a compliment,” he told her.

“Oh.” She lowered her hands and tipped her head to one side. “That was very gallant, then. I do not think I am very much needed in the drawing room. Babs will see to it that everyone has something to drink, and then everyone will want to retire to rest for a while before changing for dinner. Let me show you the lake.”