This was such a moment, and Margaret knew it with agonized clarity as she closed her fan. She could get to her feet now and go with Crispin, or she could stay and tell Crispin the truth, or she could stay and do what the earl had suggested – and deal with the consequences tomorrow.

Margaret was /never/ rash, even when forced to act upon the spur of the moment. But this was a different type of moment altogether. "Thank you, Crispin," she said. "I will be delighted to dance with you later. For now, though, I will remain with Lord Sheringford. The Marquess of Allingham will be along soon, I daresay, to claim me for the next set." And then a deep breath and the rest of the decision was made. "Lord Sheringford is my betrothed." The ballroom suddenly seemed unnaturally hot and airless. But she doubted she had enough control over her hands to open her fan again.

Crispin looked from her to the earl, poker-faced, and it seemed to Margaret that he knew the man or at least knew /of/ him, and did not like what he knew. He had offered to escort her back to her /family/, with emphasis upon the one word. "Your /betrothed/, Meg?" he said. "But Nessie and the Duke of Moreland do not know anything of it." He had just been talking with them. They had all seen her with the Earl of Sheringford. Perhaps Crispin had volunteered to come and wrest her away from him and escort her to safety. What did they all know of the earl that she did not? It must be something quite unsavory. "I told you yesterday, Crispin, that the betrothal has not yet been made public," she said. "It will be very soon, however," the earl said, squeezing her shoulder. "We have decided to wed within the next fortnight. When one has discovered the partner with whom one wishes to spend the rest of one's life, why wait, after all? Many a prospective match comes to grief because the couple – or one member of it – waits too long." It occurred to Margaret that he really might be serious.

But how could he /possibly/ be? They had just met.

He could /surely/ not intend to marry her within two weeks.

She did not even know who the Earl of Sheringford /was/. Apart from being heir to the Marquess of Claverbrook, that was.

She felt one of the earl's knuckles brushing against her cheek and turned her head to look at him. His eyes, she could see now, were a very dark brown. Was it the color, almost indistinguishable from black, that gave the extraordinary impression that he could look inside her and see her very soul? "I must offer my felicitations, then," Crispin said, executing another bow. "I will seek you out for a dance later, Meg." "I shall look forward to it," she said.

He turned without another glance at the earl and strode away with stiff military bearing. "He is not pleased," the earl said. "Is the Spanish wife still alive?" "No," Margaret said. "He is a widower." "He was hoping, then," he said, "to rekindle an old flame with you. You have had a fortunate escape, however. He looks very dashing in his uniform, I daresay, but he has a weak chin." "He does not!" Margaret protested. "He does," the earl insisted. "If you are still in love with him, Maggie, you had better be careful not to allow yourself to be lured back to him. You would be wasting your sensibilities upon a weak man." "I do /not/ still love him," she said firmly. "His actions persuaded me long ago of the weakness of his character. And I do not recall granting you permission to use my given name, my lord. Especially a shortened form that no one has ever used before." "A new name for a new life," he said. "To me you will always be Maggie.

Who is the man to whom you expected to be betrothed tonight?" "The Marquess of Allingham," she said, and frowned. That information, at least, she might have withheld. "Allingham?" He raised his eyebrows. "Your next dancing partner? That is interesting. But you have had another fortunate escape. If he is as I remember him, he is a dull dog." "He is /not/," she protested. "He is charming and amiable and a polished conversationalist." "My point exactly," he said. "A dull dog. You will be far better off with me." She looked steadily at him, and he looked as steadily back.

Oh, dear God, she thought, he really /was/ serious.

The edges of her vision darkened again. But this was not the moment to faint. She picked up her fan and somehow found her hand steady enough to open it and waft it before her face once more. She drew in lungfuls of warm, heavily fragrant air. "Why?" she asked him. "Even if you can meet a complete stranger and be convinced after one glance that she is the one lady above all others whom you wish to marry, /why/ must you marry her within two weeks?" For the first time there was a slight curve to his lips that might almost be described as a smile. "If I am not wed within the next fourteen days," he told her, "I am going to be utterly penniless until my grand-father shuffles off this mortal coil, which may well not be for another twenty or thirty years.

Apart from some rheumatism, he appears to be in excellent health. He will be eighty in two weeks' time, and yesterday he summoned me into his presence and issued an ultimatum – marry before his birthday or be cut off from the rents and profits of the home where I grew up and from which the heirs traditionally draw their income. I was raised as a gentleman with expectations of wealth and therefore never expected to have to seek employment. I do believe I would make an abysmally inept coal miner even if I felt inclined to try my hand at it. I must marry, you see. And in almost indecent haste. My grandfather, I feel compelled to add, believes it will be impossible. He plans to turn Woodbine Park over to my cousin, his next heir after me, on his birthday unless I am respectably married before then." Margaret stared at him, speechless. He /was/ serious. "What have you done," she asked him, "to incur such wrath? The punishment seems unusually cruel if it is just that you have procrastinated in choosing a bride." "I chose a bride five years ago," he told her. "I was happy with my choice. I was head over ears in love with her. But the night before our wedding I eloped with her brother's wife and lived in sin with her – since the husband would not divorce her – until her death four months ago." Margaret stared at him, transfixed. Yes. Oh, yes, /that/ was it. Five years ago. It had happened just before she came to London for the first time with Stephen and her sisters, all of them new to Stephen's title and their life in the heart of the /ton/. The scandal was still being talked of. She had thought that the Earl of Sheringford must be the devil himself.

This was /him/?

His eyes were fixed on hers. His dark, angular face was filled with mockery. "My grandfather doubtless wishes," he said, "that he could simply make my cousin his heir and cut me out of everything that is his. It cannot be done, of course, but he /can/ make me very uncomfortable and very miserable indeed for the rest of his life." "Are you not /ashamed/?" she asked him, and then felt the color flood her face. It was an impertinent question. What had happened was none of her business. Except that he wanted /her/ to marry him in fourteen days or fewer just so that he could keep his income. "Not at all," he said. "Things happen, Maggie. One adjusts one's life accordingly." She could think of nothing to say in response. She could ask a thousand questions, but she had no wish whatsoever to hear the answers. But why had he done it? How could he /not/ be ashamed?

She was saved from the necessity of saying anything at all. "Your newly betrothed swain is approaching to claim his dance," the earl said, looking beyond her again. "It is as well, Maggie, is it not? I have shocked you to the core. I shall take the liberty of calling upon you tomorrow and hope I will not find the door barred against me. I have so very little time in which to find someone else, you see." She had not even noticed the one set of dances ending and the next beginning to form. But when she turned her head, she could see that indeed the Marquess of Allingham was approaching. "This is my set, I believe, Miss Huxtable," he said, smiling genially at her and acknowledging the Earl of Sheringford with the merest nod of the head. "Oh, yes, indeed." The Earl of Sheringford stood up when she did. He took her right hand in his even as the marquess was extending one arm, and raised it briefly to his lips. "I shall see you tomorrow, then, my love," he murmured before nodding to the marquess and walking away – and out through the ballroom doors. /My love/?

The marquess raised his eyebrows as she set her hand on his sleeve.

Margaret smiled at him. There was no point in trying to explain, was there? She owed him no explanation, anyway.

But really… /My love/.

He had eloped with a married lady the night before his planned wedding to her sister-in-law.

Could any gentleman be further beyond the pale of respectability? /And he wanted her to marry him/.

He would indeed find the door barred against him if he should have the effrontery to come calling tomorrow.

Could any day – any evening – be stranger than this one?

5

MARGARET felt very embarrassed as she danced with the Marquess of Allingham. She would have felt self-conscious anyway under the circumstances – though fortunately he had no way of knowing what her expectations had been when she set out for the ball this evening.

But he had heard the Earl of Sheringford calling her /my love/, and though she had told herself that it was none of his business what anyone else called her, nevertheless the words seemed to hover in the air about them as they danced. It did not help that they danced in silence for the first ten minutes or so.