Rosalind herself wore a gown of bright turquoise. She had had it made hurriedly for this very occasion, after she had accepted Bernard's offer. And for the first time she had allowed Madame de Valery to shape the gown to her figure. She did not have to hide herself any longer. Nobody could dispute the fact that Sir Bernard Crawleigh was a fashionable member of society. He had chosen her to be his bride. It did not matter that she limped, that she was unfashionably dark, that she did not have the sylphlike figure of the ideal debutante. He had chosen her. She had therefore decided to be ashamed of her appearance no longer.

She was rewarded by a look of frank admiration from her betrothed as she entered an already crowded drawing room. "I say," he said, "you will make me the envy of every man present tonight." He raised her hand to his lips.

Rosalind smiled determinedly into his eyes. A sixth sense told her that Raymore was also in the room already, but she could not risk looking around and meeting his eyes.

Lord Standen was circulating in the room, Sylvia on his arm, introducing his bride-to-be to his neighbors. They made an extremely handsome couple, Rosalind thought. His ice-blue coat, white satin knee breeches, and silver waistcoat complemented Sylvia's outfit to perfection. They looked like a bridal pair.

Sylvia was seated at dinner at the right hand of Lord Standen, instead of at the foot of the table next to his mother as she had been all week. She made a great effort to talk to him during the meal and flushed becomingly when he rose at the end to introduce her formally as his betrothed to the company. She looked at Nigel for the first time at that point. He was smiling at her, but she knew him well enough to detect that the smile was strained. She smiled warmly back at him. All will be well, she wanted to tell him, if only my plan works. It must work, she thought as she turned to answer a comment made by the guest sitting to her right.

Rosalind had the great misfortune to be seated next to the Earl of Raymore. She was most dismayed and vastly annoyed with herself for not having taken an active interest in the preparations earlier in the day as the other ladies had done. Perhaps she could have discovered the seating plan and had it changed while it was still possible to do so. Raymore too seemed taken aback to find himself seated next to her. For the whole of the first course they studiously devoted their attention to their other neighbors. Rosalind listened to a monologue on the corn crop delivered by a Mr. Phelps, who was openly delighted to discover such a receptive audience. Raymore submitted himself to an exhaustive interrogation on the latest hairstyles and fashions in gowns and bonnets by an eager little matron whose husband would apparently never agree to take her to town. Both held themselves turned stiffly away from the other. Each felt an electric awareness of the other.

Raymore was finally forced to turn to his ward when the little matron leaned across him to ask Rosalind to pass the salt.

"You are looking extremely handsome tonight," he said stiffly after the salt had been passed.

Rosalind darted him a startled look. "Why, thank you, my lord," she said. It was the first time she had looked directly at him since he had held her in his arms. He looked breathtakingly handsome himself, she thought, looking away in confusion as her quick glance took in the black coat, which molded his shoulders as if he had been poured into it; the elaborate, diamond-studded folds of his white neckcoth. His hair looked gleamingly blond in contrast to his coat.

"I trust your foot has not been paining you lately?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she replied. "I am quite well now." She had a sudden, alarming urge to giggle. What a ridiculous conversation to be holding on such a festive occasion. "Did you make final arrangements for your concert while still in London?" she asked.

His face relaxed almost into a smile. "Yes," he replied. "I believe it will be a great success. Dr. Hans Dehnert has agreed to perform."

Rosalind turned to gaze at him, wide-eyed. "Hans Dehnert?" she repeated. "You mean the Austrian pianist? He has agreed to play for you?"

He smiled openly. "Are you surprised?" he asked. "I can be very persuasive, you see, when a matter is important to me."

"I have dreamed and dreamed of being able to hear him play Mozart," she said, cheeks flushed with excitement. "He will play Mozart, will he not?"

"Exclusively," he assured her. "It was the one condition he made, and I would have requested it, anyway. I, too, shall be hearing him for the first time, though he will come to the house for a few days before the concert to acquaint himself with my pianoforte and the room in which he will play."

"And may one listen to him?" she asked eagerly.

"He has specified not," he replied. He grinned suddenly. "But there is an anteroom, you know, from which one can hear sounds made in the music room as well as if one were right there."

Her eyes sparkled into his. "Dare we?" she asked, and they grinned at each other like a pair of conspirators.

A footman stretched out an arm between them in order to refill Rosalind's glass with wine. His presence broke the spell with great thoroughness. Raymore's face sobered as he continued to gaze into his ward's eyes. She stiffened, blushed, lowered her eyes, and turned jerkily away. Mr. Phelps was waiting to recapture her attention with news of enclosures that he had been making on the eastern portion of his land.


***

Lady Standen stood with her son and Sylvia in the receiving line when the other guests arrived later for the ball. Sir Bernard Crawleigh led Rosalind to a sofa and seated himself beside her. She felt self-conscious again. These people were strangers and had not seen her before. She had intercepted several curious glances. However, she raised her chin and refused to be daunted. Let them stare. Lady Theresa, she noticed, was smiling dazzlingly and chatting with the Earl of Raymore. He was looking bored, as he usually did in such situations.

It was much later in the evening when Sylvia, dancing with Lord Standen for the second time, complained of the heat. "I feel I shall surely faint if I do not have some air," she told him.

"I ordered the doors to be left closed, my dear, because the evening is quite raw and I would not wish any of the ladies to take cold," he replied.

"But I must go outside," she said. "Please take me into the garden for a while. Your guests will not miss you." She held her breath. Would he reply as he had the many times she had rehearsed this scene with herself?

"I could not desert my guests in the middle of a ball," he told her kindly. "Perhaps if you were to sit down and I were to bring you a glass of lemonade, you would feel better my dear?"

"Perhaps," she answered faintly.

He led her solicitously to a chair close to the windows and seated her before moving away to the refreshment room. Sylvia smiled at Nigel, who was standing a short distance away, not dancing. He came across to her uncertainly and bowed.

"Are you not feeling quite the thing?" he asked.

"Just a trifle faint," she assured him. "Standen has gone to fetch me some lemonade."

When it arrived, she sipped on it awhile while both men watched her. She looked up at Lord Standen with pleading eyes. "If you cannot take me outside, may Nigel accompany me?" she asked. "Just for a brief walk?"

"I was about to suggest the very same thing," he said. "Nigel, do you mind?"

Nigel hesitated. He looked quite taken aback. "It would be my pleasure," he said, bowing in Sylvia's direction. "You will need a shawl, Sylvia, or even a cloak."

"I shall have one brought from your room," Lord Standen agreed.

Having given his orders to a footman to have a maid fetch a cloak from Lady Marsh's room, Lord Standen also ordered that one set of French doors be thrown back for the comfort of his guests. The crowded ballroom, laden with flowers, had become unpleasantly stuffy.

Five minutes later, Nigel led his charge, well-protected from the chilly evening air in a pink cloak, out onto the terrace. Rosalind noticed Sylvia leave and felt a twinge of uneasiness. It had seemed for a few days as if her cousin was happy with her betrothal, but Rosalind had never been quite certain of the role played by Nigel Broome in the relationship. The Earl of Raymore also saw his ward leave but was not alarmed. The girl had appeared happy tonight with Standen, and, as he thought, the man was taking pains to look after his own. Raymore had noticed how he had delegated to his brother the task of escorting Sylvia out of doors.

It was only much later that anyone still present indoors realized that neither Nigel nor Sylvia had returned to the ballroom.

Nigel's arm was tense beneath Sylvia's hand. He walked her in silence along the terrace and turned to walk back again.

"Let us not go in yet," she pleaded with him. "Let us go down onto the lawn, Nigel."

"It is cold," he said. "You will catch a chill."

"No, I will not," she said. "Please, Nigel."

They descended the stone steps to the grass below and she turned and strolled-aimlessly, it seemed-in the direction of the trees to the east of the house. It was a dark night, but occasionally moonlight flooded down on them as broken clouds scudded across the sky. They said nothing but an awareness grew as they moved farther and farther away from the light and music of the ballroom. Again Nigel moved to turn back when they reached the line of trees.

"Take me to the lake," she said. "I want to see it in the moonlight."