He dipped his head to set his lips against her warm hair.

"Are /you/ happy?" she asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"But it is not quite the right word," she said. "You promised me joy today, Stephen, and you have delivered. They are not quite the same, are they – happiness and joy?"

They stayed as they were for a while, and he found himself wishing that time would stand still, at least for a while. There was something about her that drew him. It was not just her beauty. It was certainly not her seductive ways. It was… He could not put words to what it was. He had never been in love, but he did not imagine that this was what being in love felt like. How puzzling human emotions could be at times – though he had not noticed it much before meeting Cassandra.

"Happiness is more fleeting," he said, "joy more enduring."

She sighed and raised her head.

"But then comes disaster," she said. "Someone goes off to drink for three days, and… And there goes happiness. Does joy remain? How can it?"

"One day," he said, "you will learn that love does not always betray you, Cass."

She smiled at him.

"You are the only person who has ever called me that," she said. "I like it. I will remember it – that private name spoken in your voice."

She kissed him briefly on the lips again and swung her legs over the side of the branch and joined him on his.

"This is the point," she said, "at which one realizes that climbing a tree was not such a wise idea after all. One has to go back down, and descending is always ten times harder than ascending."

But she laughed when he would have offered assistance and swung her way down to the ground as if she had been climbing trees every day since she was a girl. She was smiling up at him when he jumped down onto the ground to join her, and he thought he had never in his life seen anyone lovelier.

Cass joyful.

It was a picture he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

Very close to his heart. /Dangerously/ close.

For despite everything, she had killed her husband, and there was no denying that as a dark, heavy burden she must carry with her through life.

And there was no denying that it would be a heavy burden for him to consider shouldering if he were ever to consider falling in love with her. /If?/ Was it already too late?

What the devil did falling in love /feel/ like?

/15/

STEPHEN spent the morning of the following day at the House of Lords, participating in a debate on an issue that particularly interested him.

He went to White's afterward, as he often did, for a late luncheon with some of his friends and would probably have proceeded to the races with them if his mind had not been distracted by something – or someone – he had seen from a distance just before arriving at the club.

Wesley Young.

And of course his mind had been on Cassandra ever since yesterday. She had even inhabited his dreams. He had been standing on that tree branch again, kissing her, and they had floated off into the sky, happy enough until they tried to find their way back while she fretted over the fact that the dog needed to be fed and he tried to see where they were going through her windswept red hair.

Such an absurd dream.

He could not remember dreaming about a woman ever before.

"Does anyone know where Sir Wesley Young lives?" he asked now of no one in particular.

All of them shook their heads except Talbot, who seemed to recall that Young had bachelor rooms on St. James's Street, not far from the club.

The house with the bilious yellow door and the semicircular fanlight above it.

"I remember standing in front of that door after having a few drinks, while Young fumbled with his key," Talbot said. "And it did nothing to settle my stomach, I can tell you, Merton. It quite put me off drinking more than half a dozen glasses more once I was inside."

The fact that he had seen Young not far from here might mean, Stephen thought, that he had been going home for luncheon – or leaving to take it elsewhere.

He disappointed himself and a few of his friends by deciding against going to the races. He went instead in search of the bilious yellow door, which turned out to be not quite so bilious after all when viewed in sunlight and with a sober stomach.

Stephen knocked upon it.

This was really quite irrational, he realized. And purely impulsive. He was not even sure why he was doing it except that he had somehow got himself – and his emotions – entangled with Cassandra and could not resist the reprehensible urge to interfere in her life.

He ought not to be doing it. She had not asked it of him.

He had not even made any arrangement to see her again after yesterday's picnic. He had felt the need of a cooling-off period. Within four days he had got himself embroiled in madness. It was quite unlike him. He led a normally tranquil, rather predictable life, and he liked it.

His dream had not cooperated with his very sensible decision, of course.

Neither had his waking spells when, if he was honest with himself, he had lain in his bed wanting her, desire like a raging fever in his blood.

It simply would not do. He needed to /do/ something for her and then resume the normal, perfectly happy course of his life.

Young's valet opened the door and took Stephen's card. He asked him to wait in a downstairs visitors' room – typically dark and gloomy – while he saw if Sir Wesley was at home, a sure sign that he was. If he had not been, Stephen would have been turned away at the door.

Young came in person within a few minutes, looking both surprised and mystified. He was dressed as though he had been about to step out.

"Merton?" he said. "This is an unexpected honor."

"Young?" Stephen inclined his head.

He was auburn-haired and good-looking, though he had none of the vivid beauty of his sister. The family resemblance was unmistakable, though.

He had a pleasant, good-humored face, a fact that irritated Stephen.

There was an awkward silence.

"Would you care to step up to my rooms?" Young asked, breaking it.

"No, thank you," Stephen said. He had no wish to engage in small talk either. "I have given the matter much thought during the past few days, and I have come to the conclusion that there are absolutely no circumstances under which I can imagine myself riding past one of my sisters in Hyde Park and giving her the cut direct."

Young seated himself in an old leather chair without inviting his guest to sit too. Stephen sat anyway in a lumpy chair opposite him.

"Especially," he said, "if she were friendless and destitute."

Young flushed and looked annoyed – not without reason, perhaps.

"You must understand, Merton," he said, "that I am not a wealthy man – or perhaps you /cannot/ understand that. It is important to me that I make an advantageous marriage, and this year I am – /was/ – close to doing just that. It was selfish of Cassie to come to London now of all times, especially when I had specifically warned her not to."

"Selfish," Stephen repeated as Young got restlessly back onto his feet and crossed the room to gaze into the empty fireplace. "Where else was she to go?"

"She might at least," Young said bitterly, "have lived quietly here so that no one would have noticed her. But I have heard since that afternoon in the park that she had already appeared at Lady Sheringford's ball and at Lady Carling's at-home. And somehow she persuaded you to take her driving in the park at the very busiest hour.

She has to understand that after what she did she is fortunate to be alive and free. She certainly cannot expect decent people to receive her. She cannot expect me to – But why am I explaining all this to you? I scarcely know you, Merton. And it is none of your business how I choose to treat my own sister."

Stephen ignored the rebuke, though Young was quite right, of course.

"You believe what you have heard about her, then?" he asked. "Did you know Paget well?"

Young frowned down at the grate.

"He was the most amiable fellow you could hope to meet," he said. "And generous to a fault. He must have spent a king's ransom on jewels for her. You ought to have seen them all. I went to Carmel a few times to visit. I was disappointed in Cassie. She had changed. She had lost the warmth and sparkle of humor she had always had when we were growing up.

She scarcely spoke. She clearly regretted having married a man who was no younger than our father, and I thought that very unfair to Paget, who doted on her. She knew his age when she married him, after all. Did she kill him? Well, /someone/ did, Merton, and I cannot think anyone would have had any motive except her. She wanted to be /free/. She wanted to come back here and behave just as she is behaving. She obviously has you besotted, and everyone knows you are as rich as Croesus."

"Would the sister you remember actually /kill/ a man," Stephen asked him, "in order to be free to enjoy life again?"

Young crossed back to the leather chair and dropped heavily into it.

"She was mother, sister, and friend to me when we were growing up," he said. "But people change, Merton. /She/ changed. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Perhaps," Stephen said, "she was made to change. Perhaps all was not as it seemed in that marriage. Your visits, I take it, were infrequent and not lengthy?"

Young frowned at his own boots and said nothing.

He knew, Stephen thought. He had probably always known – or strongly suspected, anyway. Sometimes it was easier not to know, though, to shut one's mind to the truth.