“You are an extremely pleasant surprise,” the countess said.

Lauren looked inquiringly at her.

“We have heard very little that is good about Kit since his return to England last year,” his mother said. “We were quite dismayed when he came home two weeks ago and told us about you. We expected the worst, I must admit. It is an enormous relief to discover that he has chosen a perfectly charming lady.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Lauren flushed with pleasure. “But were you very disappointed? About Lady Freyja Bedwyn, I mean?”

“Redfield and the Duke of Bewcastle—both this man and his father before him—have always dreamed of an alliance between our two houses since our lands adjoin,” the countess explained. “Our eldest son died before he could marry Lady Freyja. Redfield thought a match with her would suit Kit. We both did. We were taken entirely by surprise when he came home with news of his betrothal to someone else. I cannot say I am entirely disappointed, especially after meeting you. I think you will do very well for my son. Perhaps you will be able to persuade him to settle down at last.” She sighed. “And to be happy again.”

There was no time for any further conversation together. Soon they were in the barouche and Aunt Clara was exclaiming over the beauty of Mrs. Heath’s garden.

Lauren was left to deal silently with her guilt. How were Kit’s parents going to feel when she broke off the engagement at the end of the summer? They were real people. They were not the heartless tyrants she had imagined when Kit had told his story in Vauxhall, but parents who wanted the best for their son. They wanted his happiness.

How could she have agreed to this deception? No—how could she have suggested it?

The need to confide in someone was suddenly almost overwhelming. She met Gwen’s eyes across the barouche. Gwen was smiling at her and looking happy—happy for her. She had been terribly hurt for Lauren’s sake by the events of last year. She felt disloyal, Lauren knew, for loving Lily and for feeling happy about her brother’s happiness. She thought now that Lauren had found her happily-ever-after.

But a bargain was a bargain, Lauren decided. She could not tell anyone the truth until this was all over.


Less than two hours later Lauren was sitting beside Kit in his curricle. It was a perfect summer afternoon, but Lauren, shielding her complexion beneath the shade of a parasol, was in no mood to enjoy it. She was uncomfortable for two particular reasons. She kept remembering the early morning with considerable embarrassment, and she was more nervous about the coming visit than she cared to admit.

Kit seemed disinclined to talk as he drove along the country lane at a pace that seemed far too recklessly fast to Lauren. But she would not reprove him. She just wished he would talk about the weather or some other safe topic. Had she actually been in the lake with him this morning in her shift while he had worn nothing at all above the waist? Could it possibly have been merely a dream? But no, her dreams had never been that bizarre. She twirled her parasol.

“I have realized,” he said without turning his head, “that it is a sign of emotion even when you are looking perfectly composed.”

“What is?” She looked blankly at him.

“You send your parasol for a spin,” he said, “and fan my cheek with the breeze it whips up. It is a sign of emotion. It betrays you.”

“How utterly foolish,” she said, holding her parasol quite still.

“Are you nervous?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then you should be,” he said.

An ancient wagon top-heavy with a load of hay was lumbering toward them. Kit deftly drew his curricle to the side of the road so that the hedgerow brushed alarmingly against the wheels, and grinned in acknowledgment of the farmer, who was bobbing his head and pulling respectfully at his forelock while his wrinkled face was wreathed in smiles. The horses did not reduce speed. Lauren slowly released her death grip on the handle of her parasol as they drew clear and had the narrow road to themselves again.

“There are six Bedwyns,” Kit continued just as if between two sentences he had not put both their lives at risk, “none or most of whom you may be about to meet. And not a one of them will be feeling kindly disposed to either of us. They are, in order of birth, Bewcastle himself, who succeeded his father to the title when he was just seventeen, Aidan, Rannulf, Freyja, Alleyne, and Morgan. Their mother was apparently a voracious reader of the history and literature of old Briton—hence their outlandish names. Bewcastle is Wulfric, though not many people outside his own family have ever called him that. We were all friends and playmates during our growing years except for Bewcastle, who was too superior, and Morgan, who was too young. Aidan is doing his bit in the Peninsula. The others are all at home this summer, I believe. They are all hellions, Lauren, regardless of gender. It has occurred to me since this morning that in agreeing to your offer to accompany me here I have perhaps agreed to feed the lamb to the wolves.”

It all sounded dreadfully alarming. But she had been taught that civility and gentility were the answer to all of life’s ills, that the outer demeanor was all-important, any inner uncertainties being something to be kept strictly to oneself.

“I am not afraid,” she said. “I came to Alvesley to help you establish yourself here on your own terms. It was part of our bargain. The attempt to mend the breach between your two families is necessary.”

They had turned off the narrow country road they had been following for several miles and were proceeding up a wide, straight avenue lined with elm trees toward an imposing stone mansion, which appeared to be a blend of so many architectural styles that it was impossible to label it with one word. Yet it was magnificent. It was Lindsey Hall, Lauren supposed. She ruthlessly ignored the queasiness in her stomach.

“It occurs to me,” Kit said, “that you are fulfilling your side of our bargain with single-minded devotion, Lauren. I am going to have to apply myself more diligently to mine. I will owe you some exhilarating adventure after this afternoon. And some grand passion.”

“I am not going swimming again today,” she said hastily. “Or kissing you again—ever.”

He chuckled. “Actually,” he said, “I had tree climbing in mind.”

Her mind exploded with alarm, but there was no time to pursue the matter. The avenue divided into two branches close to the house and circled about a large and magnificent flower garden with a marble fountain at its center. Water spouted thirty feet into the air, creating the impression of a million diamonds and an array of rainbows against the summer sunshine. Kit helped Lauren down before the front doors and relinquished his horses and curricle to the care of a groom, who had come running from the stables.

“The house is a hodgepodge of various architectural styles,” Kit explained as he rapped the knocker against the door. “All courtesy of generations of dukes and earls before them who extended and improved without pulling anything down. The great hall, as you will see, is pure Middle Ages.”

He was quite right, Lauren saw as soon as they stepped inside. The ceiling was oak-beamed, the plain walls hung with weapons and coats of arms and faded old banners. One huge fireplace dominated the wall opposite the door, and a massive oak table took up most of the central floor space.

“I will see if his grace is at home, m’lord,” the elderly butler said as he admitted them.

If the duke was at home, he certainly kept them waiting a long time. Of course, he might well refuse to see them even if he was here. But Lauren refused to feel apprehension. They had made this necessary courtesy call, and that was what mattered. Kit was silent. He stood inside the outer doors, his booted feet slightly apart, his hands clasped at his back, looking rather grim.

There was a minstrel gallery at one end of the hall, with an intricately carved oak screen reaching from beneath the protruding balustrade of the balcony to the floor below. Lauren wandered closer so that she could more easily examine the details of the carving. And then a voice spoke from directly above her.

“Well,” it said—a deep man’s voice, pleasant enough and yet with some indefinable edge of unpleasantness too, “Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Ravensberg in person.”

Kit looked sharply upward while Lauren stayed where she was beneath the overhang of the gallery. “Ralf?” He nodded curtly.

It was Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, then? He spoke again. “A social call, Kit? Not the wisest thing you have ever done, old chap. Do yourself a favor and take yourself off back to your Friday-faced bride. You should suit each other. An alliance of the jilted, I understand.”

Lauren felt acutely uncomfortable and quite undecided whether to show herself or not.

“Pardon me,” Kit said, just as pleasantly as the invisible man, “but I have not been informed that you are master of Lindsey Hall or have any authority to give the orders here, Ralf. My business is with Bewcastle. I have come to present my betrothed to him since it appears we will be neighbors in the future.”

Lord Rannulf laughed softly. “Is the prospective bride cowering beneath my feet?” he asked. “I have lived at Lindsey Hall most of my life and have been embarrassed in just this way so many times one would think I would have learned by now to search beneath the gallery before unbuttoning my lips. Accept my apologies, ma’am. My quarrel is with Kit, not you.”

Lauren stepped away from the screen and looked upward. He was leaning nonchalantly on the balustrade, a great giant of a man with thick, unruly fair hair and strong, handsome features. He put her powerfully in mind of Viking warriors she had read about in her history books.