She was so very weak. It was so difficult to see him, to speak with him, to be alone with him and not reveal her true feelings to him. It was an agony to know that these memories of him would cling about her with almost unbearable pain once he had gone home again. She did not need more memories. She already had far too many.

But in the event she was finding the afternoon quite magical. The weather had turned summery again after several days of gloom and intermittent rain. Riding in an open phaeton and feeling the warmth of the sun and seeing its brightness gave a wonderful lift to her spirits. So did his company.

But it was something else that created the magic. An idea had struck her and excited her, and she could not help but be buoyed up by it even though she knew she must return home and think carefully about it before in any way acting upon it.

She had refused to marry Neville because she was uncomfortable in his world and could never fit the role of countess. She had refused for her own sake and for his too—eventually he would have been made intensely unhappy by her inadequacy.

But the realization had come that she would no longer be uncomfortable or unfit in his world. Oh, she had not been transformed in little over a month. She still had a vast long way to go before she could function like a lady who had been born and raised to the life. But she was on the way. And slow and difficult as some of the lessons were, she knew that she could master them. She would never be a lady by birth, and there were those in the beau monde who would always hold that against her, but she would be a lady by training. And there were plenty of people—people she liked and respected—who would accept her.

What was to stop her, then, from marrying Neville again ?

She would not allow him to marry her out of a sense of obligation, she told herself at first. But she knew that was ridiculous. She knew that he still loved her even before he stopped her outside the jeweler's shop and said what he did about her locket. And she certainly knew that she loved him. She had not stopped adoring him since she was fourteen and first set eyes on him.

She must think carefully, though. She must be very sure that she was not rationalizing. She must be certain that no lingering sense of inferiority would prevent her from seeing herself as his equal. She would not be his equal in birth or fortune. She must know for sure that that fact would never be a stumbling block for either of them—even after the first bright bloom had worn off their love, as it inevitably would in the course of their lives.

But she would think when she was alone again. For this afternoon she would allow herself to relax into the magic and simply enjoy herself. And so she went to Gunter's with him, and she ate her ice and talked to him about all the lessons she had learned in the past month. She chose to amuse him with all the comical details she could think of—most of them at her own expense. They laughed merrily together, and she knew, perhaps with a twinge of unease, that the magic had taken hold of him too.

It was something of a disappointment to have their tête-à-tête interrupted, but Lily smiled politely at the gentleman who stopped at their table to have a word with them. It was difficult to remember the names of all the people to whom she had been introduced since the evening of the Ashton ball, but she remembered Mr. Dorsey immediately, partly because he had been at Newbury Abbey for a day or two after her arrival, but mainly because it was over him that Elizabeth and the Duke of Portfrey had quarreled.

"Ah, Miss Doyle. Good afternoon," he said, smiling and bowing and looking surprised, as if he had just spotted her. "Kilbourne?"

They both answered politely but without any great enthusiasm. Neville wanted to be alone with her as much as she wished to be alone with him, Lily guessed. She was remembering Elizabeth's brief reference to the incident at the ball the morning after. She could not break a confidence to give a full explanation, Elizabeth had said, but she believed there was indeed good reason for Lily to avoid furthering an acquaintance with Mr. Dorsey.

But he was an amiable gentleman and surely harmless, Lily thought over the coming five minutes, during which he sat uninvited at their table and chatted with them. He had heard that the Earl of Kilbourne had recently been at Leavenscourt in Leicestershire. He wished he had known. He was heir to the ailing Baron Onslow, who lived at Nuttall Grange a mere five or six miles away. He would have been delighted to go there himself to show the earl the countryside. Or perhaps his lordship had been there on business?

It was a rather embarrassing coincidence, Lily thought, that the Duke of Portfrey himself should happen to walk past Gunter's during those five minutes and, glancing in, see the three of them there. He paused for a moment and then walked on after touching his hat to Lily. Well, she thought, at least she would be able to assure Elizabeth that she and Neville had been given no choice beyond being rude.

A minute or two later Mr. Dorsey took his leave.

"A curiously amiable fellow," Neville said. "He would have gone all the way to Leicestershire merely to show me the countryside if he had known I was five miles away from his uncle's estate? And yet I scarcely know him. Perhaps he believes he owes me a courtesy because he was a guest at Newbury in May. But he came as an acquaintance of Lauren's grandfather. At least he has gone out of his way to show that he bears me no grudge."

They smiled at each other.

"You have not, I suppose," he said, leaning toward her, the interruption forgotten, "been to Vauxhall Gardens yet, have you, Lily?"

"No." She shook her head. "But I have heard of them. They are said to be enchanted at night."

"Will you go there with me," he asked her, "if I can get up a party?"

It might well be a most dangerous place to go if upon careful consideration she decided that she could not after all change her mind about him. She should perhaps refuse outright now. Or at least she should say no more than that she would think about it and talk with Elizabeth about it.

But she found herself leaning eagerly toward him until their faces were only inches apart.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Yes, please, my lord."

Chapter 21

Elizabeth and Lily were members of a party of guests the duke had invited to share his box at the theater. Lily had been enthralled by the whole experience so far—by the sumptuous elegance of the theater, by the audience in the other boxes, the pit, and the galleries, by the first act of the play. She had been swept away into another world as soon as the performance had begun and had lost all sense of her separate identity—she had become the characters on stage and had lived their lives with them. But now there was an interval, and the box had filled with visitors come to greet Elizabeth or other members of the party—and to get a closer look at the famous Lily Doyle.

His grace had wasted no time on idle chatter. He had suggested that Lily stroll outside the box with him for a while.

"What is anyone's interest in me, your grace?" she said in answer to his remark. "By ton standards I am a nobody."

"He has never been in the petticoat line," his grace said, "or into any particular gallantries to the ladies. But he has deliberately sought you out on two separate occasions that I am aware of."

"I believe, your grace," Lily said, "it is none of your concern."

"Ah, that flashing of the eye and jerking upward of the chin," he said, shaking his head. "Lily, what does one do when… Well, no matter."

"Besides," Lily said, "Mr. Dorsey was more interested in the Earl of Kilbourne than in me at Gunter's. He would have gone to Leicestershire himself a few weeks ago, he said, if he had known his lordship was there."

"Kilbourne was in Leicestershire?" the duke asked.

"At Leavenscourt," Lily said, "where my father grew up—my grandfather was a groom there."

"He is still alive?" his grace asked.

"No," Lily said. "He died before my father did, and my father's brother has died since then too."

"Ah," the duke said, "so there is no one left. I am sorry."

"Only an aunt," Lily said, "and two cousins."

"My wife was from Leicestershire," the duke said. "Did you know I was once married, Lily? She grew up at Nuttall Grange a few miles from Leavenscourt. Calvin Dorsey was her cousin. And your mother was once her personal maid."

Lily stopped walking abruptly. She stared at him, not even noticing other strollers, who almost collided with them and were obliged to circle about them. Suddenly, for no reason she could name, she felt very afraid.

"How do you know?" she asked almost in a whisper.

"I have spoken with her sister," he said. "Another aunt."

During the past week Lily had discovered certain facts about her parents' roots. And she had just discovered that both had surviving family. She was not quite as alone in the world as she had thought. But instead of exulting, her mind was churning with unease—worse than unease. She could get no grip on the feeling, though. Of what exactly—or of whom exactly—was she afraid?

"I believe," his grace said, "it is time we returned to the box, Lily. The second act will be beginning soon."

Lily was extremely fond of Elizabeth, who exemplified for her all the finer qualities of a true lady. Lily respected and admired her. She was also aware of the fact that she was Elizabeth's employee, who did almost no work for her very generous salary. All Elizabeth required by way of service was that Lily apply herself to the lessons she herself had dreamed of and that she display as much as possible of her newly acquired knowledge and skills by attending certain social functions with her employer.