He already /did/ have a son there, of course, but that was not what the old gentleman had meant. Margaret smiled and kissed his cheek and the footman opened the door. "We will come to see you before we leave London tomorrow, Grandfather," she said, "to wish you a happy birthday." "Hmmph," he said. "Today's toast was not enough?" "It was not," Duncan said. "We will be there, sir." And then they returned to the ballroom and the rest of their guests and moved from one group to another, talking until Margaret was feeling almost hoarse but marvelously happy, even when she finally drew a deep breath and approached Crispin. It was not an easy thing to do. She supposed there would always be a corner of her heart that held some residual tenderness for him. He had been her first love – and her first lover. But if she had half expected to feel some panic at the knowledge that she had now set a permanent barrier between herself and him, she was pleased to find that it did not happen.

Crispin /was/ weak, and he /was/ undependable, and though she no longer hated him for those qualities, she certainly did not want them in the man she married.

Duncan, she believed, was both strong and dependable. And he never made excuses. Quite the contrary.

Crispin bowed over her hand, smiled ruefully as he wished her well, and soon made the excuse that someone was beckoning him from across the room.

Gradually the guests took their leave until by the middle of the evening only her own family was left and her mother-in-law and Sir Graham. They were all in the drawing room, eating cakes and drinking tea.

And gaps began to stretch into the conversation. "Well," Jasper said at last, getting to his feet. "I do not know about anyone else, but I have had a busy day and am ready to return home and tumble into bed. Katherine?" "Oh, absolutely," she said. "I can scarcely keep my eyes open." "Graham, my love," Lady Carling said, "tomorrow is the day you suggested taking me to buy that pearl-inlaid locket we were admiring last week.

You will be cross if I am not ready to go before noon, but you know how impossible that will be if I am not in bed before midnight. Shall we go?" "I am, as always, at your command, Ethel," he said.

Elliott got to his feet without a word, but he was smiling at Margaret. "It is time for us to go home too," Vanessa said. "Are you coming with us, Stephen?" "An earlyish night may be a good idea for me too," he said. "Nessie has warned me that I may be woken in the morning by a couple of children jumping on my bed." "Having an uncle in the house overnight," Elliott said, "especially here in London, is an irresistible novelty to them, Stephen. You can always jam a chair beneath the doorknob of your room, of course. I would advise it, in fact. Our two are /not/ late risers." Another fifteen minutes passed before everyone had left. There were handshakes and hugs and kisses and tears and a lengthy speech from Lady Carling, which began with an assurance that she would not say much.

It seemed strange to Margaret to wave Stephen on his way from his own house and to find herself alone with the Earl of Sheringford.

A stranger.

Her husband.

Duncan. "Let's return to the drawing room," he said, offering his arm.

It was a relief. Foolishly, she was not ready yet to go to bed. It seemed that they had had scarcely a moment to exchange a word with each other. And indeed there had been no private moments except in the barouche, which had turned heads all the way home on account of the ribbons and boots.

He crossed to the liquor cabinet when they were back in the drawing room, poured two glasses of wine, and carried them to the love seat. "Come and sit down," he said, and she realized that she had been standing just inside the door – as if she were suddenly a stranger in her own home.

He sat beside her on the love seat and handed her one of the glasses. "Did the day continue wonderful?" he asked her.

She searched his face, but it gave nothing away. There was no smile in his eyes, which looked very black in the candlelight. Perhaps a day that had brought her surprising happiness had been nothing to him but a means of keeping his home so that his son could grow up there.

He was indeed still a stranger. "Did it for you?" she asked, rather than answer his question and be left feeling foolish if he said nothing in return to match it. She would take her cue from him. "All of it was … wonderful," he said, raising his glass. "Down to the last drop." She noticed the pause, as if he had found it difficult to say the one word. Had he said it only to reassure her? Would he have volunteered the information if she had not asked?

But such anxieties were pointless now. They had married each other for reasons of their own, none of them to do with any tender feelings for each other. And the deed was done. They were married.

Until death did them part.

He sipped his wine, and she did likewise. "But you did not answer /my/ question," he said. "I suppose," she said, "I have been like every other woman on her wedding day. There is something very special about being a bride, about attracting attention for all the right reasons – for a change. I shamelessly enjoyed every moment of it. I wanted the whole world to look at me and rejoice with me." Oh, dear. She wished she could eliminate that final sentence. But it had been spoken, and to emphasize the fact, there was a short silence following it.

She looked rather jerkily down into her glass and took another sip. "I am not in love with you, of course," she said firmly. "But I /am/ glad I married you. For some time I have wanted to be a married lady, to have a home of my own, perhaps to have – " She took a sip of wine that actually turned into a gulp. "I believe I was twenty," he said, "when I promised my grandfather that I would be married by the time I was thirty and would have a son in the nursery by the time I was thirty-one. I was still young enough then that it seemed safe to promise something for ten years in the future. It was an eternity away. What twenty-year-old can imagine that he will ever be thirty? Or forty? Or eighty? However it was, I have been a little late on the first promise, but there is still time to keep the second. Not that I can guarantee a son, of course. Or any child at all for that matter. But I can try." Margaret took another gulp from her glass. "Wine," he said, "makes some people sleepy. I hope that is not true of you, Maggie." He reached out and took the glass from her hand as she turned her head to look at him. Had he actually just made a /joke/?

And /sleepy/? She had never felt farther from sleep in her life. "Or of you," she said.

He half smiled as he set down both their glasses beside him, and it struck her as it had once before that a smile transformed him. Had he smiled a great deal in the past – /before/? Lady Carling's description of him as a carefree, somewhat wild young man suggested that he had. Would he smile more in the future? "I am going to see to it," she said, "that you learn to smile again." His smile first froze and then faded. "Are you?" he said. "Have I forgotten how?" "I think you have," she said, "except on the rare occasion when one takes you by surprise. You are very handsome when you smile." "And ugly when I do not," he said. "You have your own interests at heart, then, do you, Maggie? You would prefer to look at a handsome husband than an ugly one?" "I would prefer to look at a happy husband than a brooding one," she said. "/Am/ I unhappy?" he asked her. "Or /brooding/?" She nodded and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I think," she said, "you have been unhappy for a long time. I am going to change that." Bold, rash words. He did not love her. She was not even sure he liked her. But she was not talking about love. She was talking about affection and companionship and compassion and … well, /love/. But not romantic love. She was going to love him. For her own sake she was going to do it. She had never been able to contemplate living with someone she did not love.

He set his hand over the top of hers and she swallowed. "Are you?" he said.

She nodded.

Somehow his head had moved closer to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. "How?" He was almost whispering. It was hardly surprising. Half the air had suddenly disappeared from the room.

He, /of course/, being a man, had immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was talking about the marriage bed. "Oh," she said, her voice breathless, "I do not know if I can make you happy in /that/ way, Duncan. You may believe I am experienced because of what I told you about my past, but really I am not. It was a long, long time ago, and even then – " His lips pressed against hers. They were parted, and she instantly tasted warmth and moistness and wine. Her hand trembled against his cheek, and he held it there more firmly. He drew his head back a few inches. "If I wanted experience, Maggie," he said, "I would go to a brothel." Which was not at all a nice thing to say. She was not sure she had even heard the word spoken aloud before. But – He was not like /Crispin/, was he? "Have you often been to one?" she asked, and bit her lip at the same moment as his eyes leapt to life and she was surprised to see laughter in their depths.

He /was/ like Crispin. Oh … /men/! If she gave him half a chance, he would start babbling on about loneliness and needs, which women were fortunate enough not to feel.

She did not give him a chance to answer her question. "But you will not go ever again," she said. "I shall cut up very nasty indeed if you even /try/ it." His eyes were still laughing – and they were a warm brown now, the color of a cup of hot, rich chocolate. It was really quite disconcerting, especially when they were only inches from her own. "I will not need to, will I?" he said. "You have promised to make me happy. And if your lack of experience is making you a little anxious, then we had better see about getting you that experience, had we not?