"You must suit yourself," Harry replied with a shrug.

She shot him a swift, sidelong glance. "You do not mind that I do not plan to love you?"

"Not as long as you fulfill your responsibilities as my wife."

Augusta shivered. "You are very cold, my lord. I had not realized. Indeed, based upon certain recent actions of yours, I had begun to hope you might be as reckless and hot-blooded as any Northumberland Ballinger."

"No one is as reckless and hot-blooded as a Northumberland Ballinger," Harry said. "Least of all myself."

"Pity." Augusta reached into her reticule and drew out the book she had brought along to read on the journey. She opened it on her lap and gazed pointedly down at the page.

"What is that you are reading?" Harry inquired softly.

"Your newest, my lord." She did not deign to look up. "Observations on Livy's History of Rome."

"Rather dull fare for you, I should imagine."

"Not at all, my lord. I have read some of your other books and I find them quite interesting."

"You do?"

"Why, yes. If one overlooks the obvious flaw in all of them, that is," she concluded smoothly.

"Flaw? What flaw is that, pray tell?" Harry was clearly outraged. "And who are you to point it out, may I ask? You are hardly a student of the classics, madam."

"One does not have to be a classical scholar to notice the persistent flaw in your work, my lord."

"Is that so? Why don't you tell me just what that flaw is, then, my dear?" he ground out.

Augusta raised her brows and looked straight at him. She smiled sweetly. "The chief irritation I feel in reading your historical research, sir, is that, in every single one of your volumes, you have contrived to ignore the role and contribution of females

"Females?" Harry gave her a blank look. He recovered at once. "Females do not make history."

"I have decided one gams that impression chiefly because history is written by males, such as yourself," Augusta said. "For some reason male writers choose to pay no attention to female accomplishments. I noticed that particularly when I did research for the decor of Pompeia's. It was very difficult to find the information I needed."

"Good lord, I do not believe I am hearing this " Harry groaned. It was too much He was being taken to task by an overly emotional little baggage who read Scott and Byron. And then, in spite of himself, Harry started to smile "Something tells me you are going to be an interesting addition to my household, madam"

Graystone, the great house that reigned over Harry's Dorset estates, was as solid and forbidding as the man himself. It was an imposing structure of classical Palladian proportions that loomed above impeccably maintained gardens The last of the late afternoon sunlight was gleaming on the windows as the traveling coach rolled up the sweeping drive.

A flurry of activity erupted as the servants rushed out to handle the horses and greet their new lady.

Augusta gazed about eagerly as Harry assisted her down from the coach. This was to be her new home, she told herself over and over again For some reason she could not yet seem to fully comprehend the change that had taken place in her life that morning. She was now the Countess of Graystone. Harry's wife. These were her people.

She had a home of her own at last.

That thought was just sinking in when a small, dark-haired girl raced out of the open door and flew down the steps. She was dressed in a severely plain white muslin dress that did not boast a single flounce or ribbon.

"Papa. Papa, you are home. I am so glad."

Harry's expression softened into a smile of genuine affection as he bent down to greet his daughter. "I was wondering where you had got to, Meredith. Come and meet your new mother."

Augusta held her breath, wondering what sort of welcome she was about to receive. "Hello, Meredith. I am very pleased to meet you."

Meredith turned her head and looked at Augusta with intelligent, crystal gray eyes that could only have come from her father. She was a beautiful child, Augusta realized.

"You cannot be my mother," Meredith explained with unshakable logic. "My mother is in heaven."

"This is the lady who will take her place," Harry said firmly. "You must call her Mama."

Meredith studied Augusta carefully and then turned back to her father. "She is not as beautiful as Mama. I have seen the portrait in the gallery. Mama had golden hair and pretty blue eyes. I will not call this lady Mama."

Augusta 's heart sank, but she summoned a smile as she saw Harry start to scowl in response to that observation. "I am sure I am not nearly as pretty as your mother, Meredith. If she was as pretty as you, she must have been very beautiful indeed. But perhaps you will find other things about me that you will like. In the meantime, why don't you call me whatever you like? There is no need to call me Mama."

Harry frowned at her. "Meredith is to show you the proper respect and she will do so."

"I am certain she will." Augusta smiled at the little girl, who was suddenly looking quite stricken. "But there are lots of respectful things she can call me, are there not, Meredith?"

"Yes, madam." The child cast an uneasy glance at her father.

Harry's brows rose repressively. "She will call you Mama and that is that. Now, then, Meredith, where is your Aunt Clarissa?"

A tall, rawboned woman dressed in a soberly cut, unadorned dress fashioned of slate-colored material appeared at the top of the steps. "I am here, Graystone. Welcome home."

Clarissa Fleming descended the steps at a stately pace. She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties who carried herself with rigid dignity. She looked out on the world with remote, watchful gray eyes, as if fortifying herself for disappointment. Her graying hair was done up in a severe bun at the back of her head.

"Augusta, this is Miss Clarissa Fleming," Harry said, completing the introductions swiftly. "I believe I may have mentioned her. She is a relative who has done me the favor of becoming Meredith's governess."

"Yes, of course." Augusta managed another smile as she greeted the older woman, but inside she heaved an unhappy sigh. There was not going to be any welcoming warmth from this quarter, either.

"We received word of the wedding by messenger only this morning," Clarissa said pointedly. "A rather hasty business, was it not? We were under the impression the date was some four months hence."

"Circumstances changed abruptly," Harry said without offering either apology or explanation. He smiled his cool, remote smile. "I am aware this all comes as something of a surprise. Nevertheless, I am certain you will make my bride welcome, will you not, Clarissa?"

Clarissa's eyes were speculative as she surveyed Augusta. "But of course," she said. "If you will follow me I will show you to your bedchamber. I imagine you will want to refresh yourself after your journey."

"Thank you." Augusta glanced at Harry and saw that he was already busy issuing orders to his staff. Meredith was at his side, her small hand tucked in his. Neither of them paid any attention as Augusta was led away.

"We understand," Clarissa intoned as she started up the steps and into the vast marble hall, "that you are related to Lady Prudence Ballinger, the author of a number of useful schoolroom books for young ladies."

"Lady Prudence was my aunt."

"Ah, then you are one of the Hampshire Ballingers?" Clarissa asked with a touch of enthusiasm. "A fine family and one noted for its many intellectual members."

"Actually," Augusta said, tilting her chin proudly. "I am descended from a different branch of the family. The Northumberland side, to be precise."

"I see," said Clarissa. The hint of approval died in her eyes.

Much later that evening Harry sat alone in his bedchamber, a glass of brandy in one hand and a copy of Thucydides' The Peloponnesian War in the other. He had not read a word for quite some time. All he could think about was his new bride lying alone in her bed next door. There had been no sound from the adjoining chamber for some time now.

This was definitely not how he had envisioned spending his first night under his own roof with his new wife.

He took a sip of the brandy and tried to concentrate on the book. It was hopeless. He closed the volume with a sharp snap and tossed it onto the end table.

He had told himself during the journey that he was going to make a subtle point about his self-control to Augusta. Now he wondered if he was being a bit too subtle.

She had as good as thrown down the gauntlet when she had flung the fact of his reckless lovemaking in Sally's carriage in his face. As far as Harry was concerned, she had virtually challenged him to prove he was not a slave to his physical desire for her. He was not going to play Antony to her Cleopatra.

He could hardly blame Augusta for her assumptions, though. After the way he had seduced her in Sally's carriage, she had every right to conclude that he could not keep his hands off of her. No woman was above using that sort of power. And in the hands of a bold, daring little chit like Augusta, such power was exceedingly dangerous.

Harry had therefore decided it would be best to take a stand early on in his marriage and make it clear he was not lacking in self-control. Begin as you mean to go on, he had told himself.

Last night when they had stopped at an inn, he had booked a separate chamber for Augusta, making some excuse about her being more comfortable with her maid. The truth was, he had not trusted himself to spend his wedding night on his own side of the bed.