Sir Thomas had insisted she had come to live with himself and his daughter. Augusta had eventually agreed. For months she had appeared sunk in a deep melancholy that nothing could lift. All the fire and dazzle that characterized the Northumberland side of the family appeared to have been extinguished.

And then Sir Thomas had had his brainstorm. He had asked Augusta to undertake the task of giving his daughter a Season. Claudia, a lovely bluestocking, was twenty years old already and had never had her opportunity in town because her own mother had died two years previously. Time was running out, Sir Thomas had gravely explained to Augusta. Claudia deserved a Season. But being from the intellectual side of the family she had no knowledge of how to go on in Society. Augusta had the skills and instincts and—through her new friendship with Sally, Lady Arbuthnott—the contacts to show her cousin the ropes.

Augusta had been reluctant at first but she had soon plunged into the business with true Northumberland Ballinger enthusiasm. She had worked night and day to make Claudia a great success. The results had been spectacular and somewhat unexpected. Not only was the demure, well-behaved bluestocking Claudia immediately hailed as the Angel, but Augusta herself had proved just as successful.

Sir Thomas had confided to Harry that he was quite pleased and expected both young ladies to form suitable alliances.

Harry had known it was not going to be quite that simple. He strongly suspected that Augusta, at least, had very little intention of finding herself a suitable husband. She was having too much fun.

With that lustrous chestnut brown hair of hers and those lively, mischievous topaz eyes, Miss Augusta Ballinger could have had a dozen husbands by now had she truly desired marriage. The earl was very sure of that.

His own, undeniable interest in her amazed him. On the face of it, she was definitely not what he required in a wife, but he could not seem to ignore her or put her out of his mind. From the moment his old friend Lady Arbuthnott had suggested that Augusta be added to Harry's list of prospective brides, he had been fascinated by her.

He had even established a personal friendship with Sir Thomas in order to get closer to his prospective wife. Not that Augusta was aware of the reason behind the new association between her uncle and Harry. Few people were ever aware of Harry's subtle plots or the reasons behind them until he chose to reveal himself.

Through his conversations with Sir Thomas and Lady Arbuthnott, Harry had learned that, as strong-willed and reckless as Augusta was, she nevertheless had a steadfast loyalty to family and friends. Harry had learned long ago that loyalty was as priceless as virtue. Indeed, in his mind it was synonymous with virtue.

One could even overlook the occasional harebrained escapade such as the one that had taken place tonight, if one knew the lady could be trusted. Not that Harry intended to allow that sort of nonsense to continue after he had Augusta safely wed.

During the past few weeks Harry had come to the conclusion that, although he might have moments of dire regret, he was going to marry Augusta. Intellectually, he could not resist. She would never bore him. In addition to her capacity for intense loyalty, she was intriguing and unpredictable. Harry, who had always been compelled by puzzles, had found her impossible to ignore.

As a final seal on his fate, there was the undeniable fact that he was fiercely attracted to Augusta. His whole body tightened with awareness whenever she was near.

There was a feminine energy about Augusta that captured his sense. The image of her had begun to haunt him when he was alone at night. When he was near her he would find his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts, which were far too prominently displayed in the scandalously low-cut gowns she wore with such natural grace. Her small waist and sweetly flaring hips teased and tantalized as she moved about with a subtle swaying motion that never failed to make the muscles of his lower body clench.

Yet she was not beautiful, he told himself for the hundredth time—at least not in the much-admired classical style. He conceded, however, that there was an undeniable charm and vivacity about her faintly slanting eyes, tilted nose, and laughing mouth. Lately he had grown increasingly hungry for a taste of that mouth.

Harry stifled an oath. It was very much as Plutarch had once written about Cleopatra. Her beauty was not remarkable in itself, but her charm and presence were irresistible, even bewitching.

He was no doubt mad to be plotting to wed Augusta. He had set out looking for another sort of woman entirely. Someone serene, serious, and refined. Someone who would be a good mother to his only child, Meredith. Someone who would devote herself to hearth and home. Most importantly, he had intended to marry a woman who was completely free of any taint of gossip.

Previous Graystone brides had brought disaster and scandal to the title and had left a legacy of unhappiness that stretched back for generations. Harry had no intention of marrying a female who would continue that sad tradition. The next Graystone bride must be above reproach. And above suspicion.

Like Caesar's wife.

He had set out to find that treasure which intelligent men had always considered more valuable than rubies: a virtuous woman.

Instead he had found himself a reckless, headstrong, extremely volatile creature named Augusta who had the potential to make his life a living hell.

Unfortunately, Harry realized, he seemed to have lost interest in all the other females on his list.

2

Augusta arrived at the door of Lady Arbuthnott's imposing town house shortly after three on the day following her return to London. She had Rosalind Morrissey's journal safely tucked into her reticule and she could hardly wait to tell her father that ail was well.

"I shall not be staying long today, Betsy," she said to her young maid as they went up the steps. "We must hurry home to help Claudia prepare for the Burnett soiree. This is a very important evening for her. The most eligible males in Town will no doubt be there and we want her to look her best."

"Yes, ma'am. Miss Claudia always looks like an angel when she goes out, though. I don't expect tonight will be any different."

Augusta grinned. "How very true."

The door was opened just as Betsy was preparing to knock. Scruggs, Lady Arbuthnott's elderly, stoop-shouldered butler, glared at the newcomers as he saw two other young women out the door.

Augusta recognized Belinda Renfrew and Felicity Oatley as they came down the steps. They were both regular visitors to Lady Arbuthnott's home, as were several other well-bred ladies, all of whom came and went on a regular basis. The ailing Lady Arbuthnott, the neighbors frequently noted, was never short of visitors.

"Good afternoon, Augusta," Felicity said cheerfully. "You are looking well this afternoon."

"Yes, indeed," Belinda murmured, her eyes speculative as she took in the sight of Augusta dressed in a fashionable dark blue pelisse over a sky blue gown. "I am delighted you are here. Lady Arbuthnott has been most anxiously awaiting your arrival."

"I would not dream of disappointing her," Augusta said as she went past with a laughing smile. "Or Miss Norgrove, either." Belinda Renfrew, Augusta knew, had wagered Daphne Norgrove ten pounds that the journal would not be returned to its owner.

Belinda gave her another sharp glance. "All went well at the Enfield house party?"

"Of course. I do hope I shall see you later this evening, Belinda."

Belinda's answering smile was wry. "You most certainly shall, Augusta. And so will Miss Norgrove. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon. Oh, hello, Scruggs." Augusta turned her smile on the glowering, bewhiskered butler as the door was closed behind her.

"Miss Ballinger. Lady Arbuthnott is expecting you, of course."

"Of course." Augusta refused to be intimidated by the irascible old man who guarded the Arbuthnott front door.

Scruggs was the only male member of the Arbuthnott household and held the high honor of being the only man Lady Arbuthnott had hired in ten years. He was new to her staff this season and in the beginning no one had understood quite why Sally had taken him on. It was obviously a gesture of kindness on her part because the aging butler was clearly unable to cope physically with many of his duties. There were entire days and evenings when he did not appear at the door at all due to his rheumatism and other assorted complaints.

Complaining was one of the few things Scruggs apparently enjoyed. He complained of everything: his painful joints, the weather, his duties in the household, the lack of assistance he received in carrying out those duties, and the low wages he claimed Lady Arbuthnott paid.

But somewhere along the line the ladies who visited here so regularly had concluded that Scruggs was the finishing touch they had been needing all along. He was eccentric, original, and vastly entertaining. They had adopted him wholeheartedly and now counted him as a valuable addition to the premises.

"How is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?" Augusta asked as she untied her new feather-trimmed bonnet.

"What was that?" Scruggs glared at her. "Speak up if you want to ask a question. Don't understand why ladies are always mumbling. Think they could learn to speak up."

"I said, how is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?"

"Extremely painful, thank you, Miss Ballinger. Rarely been worse." Scruggs always spoke in a deep, raspy voice that sounded like gravel being ground under a carriage wheel. "And it don't help none having to answer the door fifteen times in one hour, I'll tell you that much. All the comings and goings around here are enough to drive a sane man straight into Bedlam, if you ask me. Don't understand why you females can't stay put for more than five minutes."