***

The Earl of Raymore had a great deal more time than his ward during the day to brood on what had happened the evening before. After very few hours of fitful sleep he rose early and saddled his fastest horse. Hyde Park was not the ideal place for an uninhibited gallop, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. At least he did not have to worry about endangering any other riders or pedestrians. The mists of early morning had still not lifted as he drove his spurs into the horse and galloped quite recklessly across the green lawns.

How could he have so forgotten himself and propriety as to have kissed his own ward? He disliked the girl intensely. She was everything he most detested in a woman-proud and independent of spirit, making no secret of her scorn for men. She was bold and had no sense of modesty. What other girl would have walked across an empty dance floor during her come-out ball even if she had the prettiest of walks? She had quite openly shown her contempt for the whole ton by making such a public demonstration of her deformity. Physically, she was not attractive at all to him. He had never admired tall women or dark coloring. Only fragile, fair beauty had ever tempted his appetites. Yet, despite all these things, he had given in to some madness the night before. For the span of a few minutes, he could not deny it, he had wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. It was only by some miracle that he had come to his senses when he had. A few minutes more, seconds even, and he would have passed the point of no return. The thought did not bear contemplation. Raymore turned his horse and urged it back in the direction from which he had just come. He tried desperately to keep his mind blank.

Uncharacteristically, the earl stayed at home after breakfast, first consulting with his secretary and checking his morning mail and then retreating to the library, where he sat at his desk and stared ahead of him. Why had she allowed such an unchaste embrace as they had shared last evening? God, in this very room! He would never have guessed that she was a practiced flirt. He would have expected that someone with her obvious lack of beauty and with her deformity would have been completely untouched. But apparently not. She had shown no signs of shock at finding that a kiss was not always just a meeting of the lips. She had shown no shame or embarrassment about fitting her body against his. She had invited his hands on her breasts. He had no doubt at all that she would have allowed him to undress her and lay her down on the library carpet. The slut! He drove one fist into the other palm and swore out loud. Why was he still capable of feeling surprise at anything that women could do? He had considered Annette to be just an innocent little doll too, had he not?

He had made another discovery the night before. Those loose clothes that Rosalind Dacey chose to wear hid the most curvaceous feminine body that he had ever touched. Perhaps it was that discovery that had made him come so close to losing his head entirely. But why would she hide the one asset that might make some man ignore the unfashionable dark foreign looks and even, possibly, that quite ugly limp? He guessed that he would never understand women.


The belief that he had been taken as a dupe upset the Earl of Raymore a great deal. He had thought himself immune to women. For the past eleven years he had taken women at his own pleasure, always to satisfy a purely physical need, never out of passion or any finer feeling. It was terrible to him to admit that he had lost control, even if only for a few minutes. What made matters infinitely worse was the knowledge that he had erred with his ward. However reluctantly he had accepted his guardianship, nevertheless he had a responsibility, a duty to protect her and care for her needs, a duty to see her suitably married. However willing a partner she had been, and however much she had instigated the whole episode, still he had wronged her by assaulting her as he had in his own home.

Raymore sat a long time silently considering what he must do. The most obvious solution seemed to be to give in to her demands and send her back to the country. Yet he could not display weakness by giving in to her so. He had very little hope left of finding her a husband in the near future. She had effectively prevented that by her behavior in the ballroom.

He had still not found a solution when the butler knocked on the door to ask if his lordship intended to eat luncheon at home. Raymore ordered a tray brought into the library. It cannot be said that he enjoyed his meal. He hardly tasted it, in fact. His mind was dealing with a thorny problem. Did he owe Miss Dacey an apology? The idea was quite unpalatable. She had clearly provoked him into anger. He was very ready to believe that she had lured him into that embrace. Even so, he admitted, he should not have touched her.

Raymore decided that he would join the ladies later in the drawing room. There would probably be visitors. His cousin Sylvia had appeared to take very well the evening before. He would draw Miss Dacey to one side, apologize briefly, and be done with the matter. It was far more desirable to do the job that way than to speak to her in private. She would be sure to make a major quarrel out of it if he did it that way.

In the event, though, Raymore found himself unaccountably uneasy when he entered the drawing room. As he accepted a cup of tea from Hetty and entered into a conversation with Standen and his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, he was uncomfortably aware of Rosalind sitting across the room talking to Standen's younger brother. He talked to each of the visitors in turn, but failed to take the opportunity of moving to his ward's side when Broome moved away to talk to Sylvia. Soon he lost the chance, when Axby took the empty seat that young Nigel had vacated.

Raymore left the room soon afterward without having spoken to his ward. In fact, he had not even looked directly at her the whole time he had been in the room. The earl frowned. What was the matter with him? Was he afraid of the chit? He hurried up to his room and rang impatiently for his valet. An hour later he left the house and remained away until the early hours of the following morning.


***

The ladies did not have any engagement for that evening, but they spent a productive evening going through the pile of invitations that had arrived with the day's post. Now that they were officially out, Sylvia and Rosalind were entitled to attend as many routs, balls, Venetian breakfasts, soirees, and other events as could be reasonably fitted into each day. Sylvia and Cousin Hetty were trying to decide which of the invitations should be accepted.

"Lady Sefton promised me last evening that she would send vouchers for Almack's," Cousin Hetty said, scratching the ears of a sleeping poodle as she passed an invitation card across to Sylvia.

"Almack's!" that young lady squealed. "How heavenly! Did you hear that, Ros?"

Fortunately for Rosalind, the question appeared rhetorical. Her cousin was already exclaiming over the card she held in her hand, which promised further delights at yet another party.

Rosalind did, in fact, escape early to bed, claiming that she was tired after the ball of the evening before. She was not exactly lying, she mused as she closed the door of her bedroom behind her and set down the candle on the table beside the bed. She was extremely weary and mortally depressed. Until the night before, she had buoyed up her spirits with the conviction that the Earl of Raymore would send her back home without delay once she had publicly embarrassed him.

But her scheme had failed. Not only was she being forced to remain in London, but she had succeeded in embarrassing herself quite dreadfully. The only factor that had given her the courage to walk across that ballroom the evening before was her conviction that she need never face any of those people again. Now it seemed that she was doomed to face them all many times.

How she hated her guardian. Even that afternoon he had appeared in the drawing room, probably to check on her, like a jailer, to make sure that she was not hiding in her room. She shuddered at the memory of what had happened between them the night before. That he was physically very attractive she could not deny. She had loved Alistair, his dream counterpart, for several years. But how had she allowed herself to ignore the very contemptible character that was housed in the very godlike body? She never would have done so had she not been furiously angry, she persuaded herself.

But her own abandonment to the embrace quite disturbed her. Rosalind had never been kissed before. Indeed, she had rarely had any contact at all with men, having always avoided the few social events that she and Sylvia had been invited to in previous years. She should, then, have been shocked even by the mere touch of a man's lips. And she had been shocked at first. She had pulled away from him with the same instinct as she would have withdrawn her hand from a hot surface. But when she had looked at him, his face had for once been unguarded, the coldness absent. His eyes had had depth, and she had fallen into those depths as he drew her to him again. And she would never be able to explain why she had reacted as she had that second time. Her behavior was frightening to look back upon. Rosalind could explain it to herself only by admitting that she had wanted him. She had wanted to be close to him, closer than she could be even by pressing her body against his. She had opened her mouth when his tongue had asked entrance, though she had not known there could be such a kiss. She had moved against his hands, wanting them to know her. She had always been embarrassed by her full figure, but she had welcomed his hands on her breasts, had ached to have them beneath the fabric of her gown. She had wanted him.