There was one thing about Freyja—she had never been slow of understanding. And it was quite against her nature to grovel, to beg, to weep, to make any sort of scene. She stared up at him, all cold haughtiness, and then she moved to jerk to her feet.

“No, don’t.” He grasped her shoulder. “Don’t hurry back without me. It might be noted and commented upon. Take my arm and we will return together. Perhaps we can smile?”

“You, Kit,” she said, getting to her feet more slowly and linking her arm through his, “may go to hell. I hope you burn there. Better yet, I hope you live well into your nineties with your lady bride. I cannot imagine a more hellish sentence for a man of your nature.”

She lifted a smiling face to his. Freyja had always been mistress of the feline smile.

He did not respond. There was no point. Besides, he was reminded that if he did live into his nineties, sixty or so of those years were going to have to be lived without Lauren. Unless even yet he could get her to change her mind. Surely he could. Once this day was over he would be able to concentrate all his efforts upon coaxing her to love him.

We must not snare each other now. . . .

He would not remember that she viewed marriage with him as a sort of imprisonment, as a loss of all her newly won freedom.

He would teach her that there was more than one kind of freedom.


Kit was nowhere in sight when the dance with the Duke of Bewcastle was over. But Gwen was approaching on Lord Rannulf’s arm. Lauren smiled at them both. She would suggest to Gwen that they slip away for a few minutes to find a cool drink. It was a warm night. But Lord Rannulf gave her no opportunity to make the suggestion. He bowed to Lauren and asked for her hand in the next set.

He was one of the few gentlemen of her acquaintance, she thought after she had accepted, who could make her feel almost diminutive. He really was a giant of a man.

“You are looking becomingly flushed, Miss Edgeworth,” he said with that look in his eyes that she had never been able quite to interpret. Was it mockery or simply amusement? “But one would hate to force you into further exertions too soon. Do come and stroll with me outside.”

She had absolutely no wish to walk outside with him even though she knew there were several other guests out there to make all proper. But it was not a request he had made, she realized. He had drawn her arm through his and was moving purposefully out of the ballroom and toward the outer doors. Well, she decided, a little fresh air would feel good.

He could be an amusing companion. He pointed out several of the neighbors and told her brief anecdotes about them. He was a keen observer of human nature, it seemed, and yet none of his observations were quite malicious. Lauren found herself feeling well entertained. They were strolling above the parterres, in the direction of the rose arbor.

“Ah,” he said softly when they were close, “foiled! There is someone there before us—two persons actually. We must walk into the flower gardens instead.” And he turned her into the parterres.

He must have known even before coming out here, she realized, even before asking her for this set of dances, who was in the rose arbor. He had wanted her to know, to see for herself. Probably Lady Freyja wanted it too.

She was sitting on one of the seats. Kit, in a characteristic pose, stood close to her, one foot on the seat, one arm draped over his leg. The other hand was on her shoulder, bringing his head very close to hers.

Lord Rannulf was recounting some other anecdote, to which Lauren was not listening. He stopped, obviously without finishing.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I would not for worlds have had you see that.”

“Would you not?” she asked. Ladies did not call gentlemen liars.

“It is not what you think,” he said. “They have been friends all their lives, you know. They are still friends. You have seen for yourself how much they have in common, how they love to challenge each other and compete against each other, how much they come alive in each other’s company. But there is no more to it than friendship, I do assure you.”

“Lord Rannulf,” she said, “you were in the middle of a story. Please finish it. You need not concern yourself with what I think. My thoughts are private. You could not begin to guess their contents.”

Despite herself she had been wavering in her resolve. She did not even realize it until now when her determination to leave in the morning was strengthened, when staying even one more day was finally no option at all. It was a good thing this had happened, she thought as Lord Rannulf at her side, far from completing the story he had begun earlier, fell silent.

She had known that it would happen, of course, that it was inevitable. But now she had seen for herself and could entertain no niggling doubts. No faint hopes.

She would not let it upset her. It would be vastly unfair—to both Kit and herself. She had had her adventure and now it had come to an end. It was understandable that her spirits were rather flat after such a splendid adventure. But she would soon cheer up once she was back at Newbury. There would be her mother’s letters to read, Elizabeth and the baby to fuss over, Lily to rejoice with—oh, yes, finally, finally, she would be able to rejoice with Lily—and her future to plan. There would be her new freedom to enjoy. How many women had the freedom she now had?

“I am sorry,” Lord Rannulf said softly, and for the first time it seemed to Lauren he spoke with sincerity. “I am truly sorry, Miss Edgeworth. You have not deserved this.”

“Deserved what, Lord Rannulf?” she asked him. “Trickery? But life is full of tricks and lies and masks. One would be foolish not to be armed against them.”

Especially when she herself was the biggest perpetrator of deception.

He took her to where Aunt Clara was talking with the Countess of Redfield in the ballroom, bowed over her hand before raising it to his lips, and walked away without speaking another word to her.


Lady Freyja was back in the rose arbor when Lord Rannulf found her. She was sitting on the same seat she had occupied a few minutes before.

“Go away,” she said ungraciously when she saw him coming.

The Bedwyns rarely did as they were bidden. He moved closer and sat beside her.

“Well?” he asked.

“Bloody hell and a thousand damnations,” she said, quiet venom in her voice. “No, make it a million.”

He clucked his tongue but attempted no other admonition. Years ago none of a long string of governesses had ever been able to impress upon their headstrong pupil the reality of the fact that she was a lady and must learn to conduct herself accordingly. Her brothers had never made much effort to reinforce what the governesses had tried to teach.

“I want to go home,” she said. “I want to raid Wulf’s wine cellar. I want to get foxed. Blind drunk. With you. You can drink with me.”

“That is very generous of you, Free,” he said. “It is very tempting too after what you have just put me through—I like the woman, damn it. But Wulf and Alleyne would not appreciate being stranded here without the carriage. And it would offend my sensibilities to haul up the best liquor with the sole purpose of drinking ourselves three sheets to the wind with it. Inferior liquor would serve the same purpose but Wulf does not keep any.”

“Wulf be damned,” she said.

Her brother raised his eyebrows. “Drinking like a fish is no cure for what ails you, you know,” he said. “All you will get out of it is a crashing headache and a fervent wish that you were dead.”

“When I need your advice,” she said with woeful lack of originality, “I will ask for it.”

“Quite so.” He shrugged. “It was foolish to fall in love three years ago and never fall out again, you know.”

He saw it coming despite the darkness. But he thought it might do her more good than drinking herself under the nearest table. She clenched her right hand into a tight fist, drew back her arm, and punched him hard on the chin. His head snapped back, but he was not swayed from his comfortable posture on the seat.

“Ouch!” he said quietly after a few moments. “If you really insist upon getting foxed, Free, we will steal two horses from the stables here and be on our way. Or we could go back inside and dance. You could show everyone what you are made of. Show that you don’t care a fig for Kit or any other mortal so far beneath the notice of Lady Freyja Bedwyn.”

“I don’t care for him,” she said, getting to her feet. “I hate him if you want to know the truth, Ralf. And as for that mealymouthed lady he has brought home with him, well—I would have to say he richly deserves her. And that is all I have to say. Are you coming or are you not?”

“I’m coming.” He got to his feet and grinned down at her. “That’s the girl, Free. Up with the chin. The Bedwyn nose can be a priceless asset on occasions like this, can it not?”

Freyja looked at him along the length of hers as if he were a worm beneath her dancing slipper.


Country balls, even when they were of the elaborate nature of the one at Alvesley, did not continue until dawn as the most memorable of London balls did. Supper was served at eleven and was followed by the first and only waltz of the evening for the relatively few couples bold and skilled enough to dance it. After that the dancing continued, but the guests began gradually to drift away. And the Dowager Countess of Redfield retired to bed.

Kit and Lauren took her up to her room. They had just waltzed together, and Kit had been powerfully reminded of their first waltz, when he had been struck by her beauty, daunted by her apparently cold dignity, and challenged to try to shock her out of her complacency.