"Are you mad?" she cried, her voice rising. "You paint me as some sort of seductress. The notion is absurd. Look at me, Edward. Do I look like the sort of woman who would know how to tempt a man even if she wished to do so? I am ugly and deformed."

"You are not ugly!" he snapped, taking a step toward her, his ice turned to fire. "And you forget that I, too, was fool enough on one occasion to taste your charms. I know what you hide under those cleverly designed garments, Rosalind." His eyes raked her again as they had done earlier in the summerhouse, and she felt that she was being stripped of all her clothing. "I shall not be well-pleased if it should become general knowledge that one of my wards is a woman of loose morals."

Rosalind could feel the blood drumming through her head. She fought to keep some control. "If I were a man, my lord," she said, "I should make you take back those words at the point of a sword. You have insulted me beyond bearing tonight. If you have nothing else to say, I shall go to my room."

"Do you intend accepting Crawleigh's offer?" he asked, turning away from her and crossing to a sideboard, where he poured himself a drink.

"He has not yet asked me," she replied curtly. "I will have to discuss the matter with him before I make a decision."

"I would advise you to refuse him," he said, "if you do not wish to have him grow to hate you."

"You would not be able to conceive of the idea that perhaps he loves me and wishes to marry me, would you?" she asked.

"No, I would not."

"Good night, my lord," she said, turning to the door.

"Rosalind!" he said sharply, and when she half-turned toward him she saw that he had crossed the room to her. "You do not have to marry Crawleigh, you know."

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

"I believe you were not missed tonight by anyone except me and perhaps Hetty," he said. "Your honor is not seriously at stake."

His face was quite serious, Rosalind observed, not icy, not sneering.

"I never for a moment thought it was," she replied before turning back to the door and leaving the room.

Raymore sat in the library for several hours, one forgotten drink in his hand, his eyes staring unseeing into the empty fireplace. He should be feeling elated. By tomorrow afternoon he should have both wards safely betrothed and there was still a month of the Season left. With continued good fortune, both men would press for an early wedding. He could be free of his obligations by autumn, free to return to his bachelor existence and forget about women as much as he wanted to.

Why, then, did he feel so dissatisfied? He had to analyze the cause. Both men were entirely good matches. Standen had long been an acquaintance of his and was a man of sense and good principles. He would make a good husband. And so would Crawleigh. Raymore could remember a time when the latter had been a wild young man, associated with a dandy set, given to any number of excesses: gaming, women, accepting senseless dares. But he appeared to have outgrown such wildness and had never, in fact, been vicious. He was reputed to keep a mistress in somewhat extravagant luxury, but since he conducted the affair discreetly, there could be no serious objection.

He should certainly be thankful that such an eligible suitor had shown interest in Rosalind. After her refusal of Axby, he had seen little hope of bringing anyone else to the point, certainly not someone of Crawleigh's standing. He could have just about any lady of quality he desired for a bride. Why had he felt such opposition to the match, then, when Crawleigh had first mentioned it in the summerhouse and when Rosalind was in the room here with him earlier?

He had felt unease as soon as he had missed her from the ballroom. He had looked across many times to see her sitting on the sofa, usually with someone seated next to her. But he had not seen her go. He did see Crawleigh leave through the terrace door close to the empty sofa, though. And he had given them ten minutes before giving in to his impatience and following them outside. It had taken him another fifteen minutes to find them. He remembered now his own fury when he had quietly opened the door of the summerhouse and found them together, Rosalind's hands at Crawleigh's neck, his splayed across her back, his mouth at her ear. For a moment he had wanted to kill, though he was not quite sure now which of them he had wished to make his victim.

She had come to epitomize for him all women. She appeared to be innocent and modest. When he had first met her, he would have been ready to swear that she had never been near any high society or any men. Her handicap and her looks should have ensured that. But he had been forced to revise that early impression. Like all women, she had learned to be alluring. She was not, in fact, ugly. The plain hairstyle and gowns had quickly been thrown aside once she had had a chance to make an impression on the ton, and he had to admit now that she could look quite remarkably stunning in the richly colored gowns she favored and with those thick, shiny locks dressed fashionably. She was out of the ordinary way. He found increasingly that she drew his eyes like a magnet when they were in the same room.

And the demure innocence was just a deceptive facade, too. He could see now why she had been so contemptuous of Axby's offer. She was quite capable of luring a more attractive husband on her own. Had she been trying to trap him into marriage on the night of her come-out ball? He remembered with some anger the way he had reacted to her. He had been so startled by her almost instant abandonment to his kiss, the passion with which she had offered herself to him, and the glorious shapeliness of her body, that he had almost succumbed to his own desire. By God, she had almost succeeded. If he had taken her on that occasion, he would have been honor-bound to marry her, not only as a gentleman, but especially as her guardian. His jaw clenched. He had not fully realized until this moment just what a fortunate escape he had had. Perhaps she did not realize her own good fortune. He would have seen to it that her life was hell if he had been forced to make her his wife.

And now she had succeeded with poor Crawleigh. Raymore doubted very much if the man had really been about to offer for her. She had obviously been intent on seducing him there in the summerhouse. She doubtless would have succeeded had he not interrupted them. But the end result was the same. Crawleigh had been forced into a situation in which he had no choice. And why should pity be wasted on him? the earl thought bitterly. He had been willing to enjoy her there in the garden. Let him have joy of her for the rest of his life. Raymore thought again of Crawleigh's hands on her back and gritted his teeth.

His rose! In the past weeks he had been lulled again into thinking that the girl who could produce such glorious music must be pure. The truth was that only a person of experience and knowledge would be capable of reproducing the passion of Beethoven and that of her unknown poet.

Raymore pulled himself to his feet. He would be glad to see the last of her. It could not be soon enough for him.


***

Rosalind, in her room, sitting up in bed, was having similar thoughts. She had to get away from the Earl of Raymore. The man was pure tyrant, treating her earlier tonight like a child who has no ability to look after herself instead of like the adult she was. And his behavior in the library had been the outside of enough. He had actually accused her of being a seductress, of deliberately setting out to trap Bernard into marriage. If he had called her a whore she could not feel more insulted.

The trouble was that she had a sinking feeling that he was right on at least one detail. Bernard had been forced into that ridiculous declaration. Of course he had not been about to ask her to marry him any more than she had been expecting such a proposal. She liked Bernard excessively and had grown to depend greatly on his friendship. She felt a pleasant attraction to him and had enjoyed both kisses shared with him. She thought she might be falling in love with him. But if they were ever to love deeply enough for marriage, it was likely to be at some future date. Theirs was not a passionate relationship that would develop quickly, but rather an affectionate friendship that might or might not grow into love. At least, that was how she viewed the matter.

And now because of a ridiculous sense of honor, Bernard's hand had been forced. He would call on Raymore tomorrow and then she would be summoned to hear his formal proposal. The whole situation was farcical. She would be downright embarrassed. How could she take Bernard seriously as an ardent suitor? She would tell him, of course, that she could not consider marrying him at present, and that would be the end of the matter. But it was most provoking. Their pleasant friendship would be strained, perhaps ruined, and certainly any chance of love developing would be permanently quenched.

Damn him! Damn Edward Marsh! Why had he had to appear just when he had? That kiss had been so harmless, a joke really. A few seconds later and they would have both been laughing and turning to walk back to the house. And he had been so furious. Rosalind had thought at first that he was about to attack one or other of them. His fists had been clenched at his sides. And she remembered that, inexplicably, she had wanted to go to him, touch him, assure him that what he had seen was really quite deceptive. She had had a vivid memory, looking at him, of what it had felt like to have his arms around her, his mouth on hers. How thankful she was that she had not given in to the impulse. He had been so insulting immediately afterward, putting the worst possible interpretation on what he had seen.