For his sake she wished the holiday need never end.

On her own account Anne was content to let the month run its course. Lady Aidan and Mrs. Pritchard, her aunt, became Anne’s particular friends, as did the duchess, who as a former teacher herself liked to talk to Anne about school. And Miss Thompson, the duchess’s bookish sister, also drew Anne into lengthy discussions of books and educational theory and proved herself to be both an intelligent and an interesting-even humorous-conversationalist. Indeed, there was no one who was not amiable to her. Even the duke engaged her in conversation for a full half hour one evening after discovering that she had read a book he had just finished.

But contrarily she felt her aloneness far more acutely here at Glandwr than she had ever felt it at Claudia’s school in Bath. For one thing she felt like an impostor, even though everyone here must know exactly who and what she was. For another, all the other younger people had partners, with the exception of Miss Thompson, who seemed content in her spinsterhood. One night, when Anne was standing at her bedchamber window, brushing her hair and gazing out onto the moonlit garden and the sea beyond, she became aware of a couple strolling across the lawn away from the house in the direction of the cliffs, his arm about her shoulders, hers about his waist, and realized with something of a shock that they were the duke and duchess.

The stabbing of envy she felt was quite involuntary and quite acute. And her aloneness was exposed for what it was at that moment-raw loneliness for a man in her life.

She thought briefly of Mr. Butler, but she dismissed the memory of him. She had liked him, and she thought he had liked her. But she had touched him up there on the rocks between the beaches without at all knowing she was about to do so. She had felt the instant stiffening of his body and seen the look of shock on his face-and she had felt an answering shock and incipient panic in herself when she saw her fingertips resting against his cheek and felt the warmth of his sun-heated skin.

But for one mindless moment before that she had felt a yearning so intense that it had been like a stabbing of near-pain down through her body, setting her throat to aching and her breasts to tightening and her womb to throbbing and her inner thighs to pulsing with raw sensitivity. She had recognized her feelings for the sexual desire they were, of course.

And only one short moment later part of her had recoiled. The other side of his face, so close to where her fingers had rested, was purplish and nerveless. He had no eye. He had no arm. Who knew what other disfigurements lay beneath his clothing?

She dismissed him from her mind-but even so she found herself thinking occasionally about how he had acquired those dreadful wounds. It happend at night, sometimes keeping her awake, sometimes weaving its ways into her dreams.

Finally, though, they did meet once more. The duke and duchess had invited guests from the neighborhood to dine one evening, and when Anne went down to the drawing room, clad again in her best green silk, her hair elaborately piled and curled by an enthusiastic Glenys, one of the first people she saw on the far side of the room, in conversation with Lord and Lady Aidan, was Mr. Butler.

Her heart leapt with a gladness that seemed quite in excess of the circumstances. The last time they met he had recoiled from her-and she from him.

Mrs. Pritchard invited Anne to sit down beside her, and Anne was glad to do so, since she had not met any of the neighbors and was extremely nervous about doing so. She would have avoided coming down this evening altogether if the duchess had not pointedly invited her.

Introductions were not to be avoided, of course, after the guests began arriving. There were a few English landowners with their wives and older children, a couple of the duke’s tenants with their wives, the vicar and his wife and son and daughter, and the Welsh minister and the village schoolmaster, both of whom spoke English with such pronounced Welsh accents that Anne had to listen carefully in order to understand them. Though she had had some practice-Mrs. Pritchard spoke with almost as thick an accent.

And then dinner was announced-and it was Mr. Butler who had been appointed to lead Anne in and to seat her at his left side.

She smiled uncertainly at him as she took his offered arm, and he smiled back at her.

She felt curiously like crying-and curiously like laughing with joy.

She had missed him. She had told him more of her inner self than she had told even Claudia or Susanna or Frances. He had confided some of his deepest self in her. But he had been content to let more than a week go by without making any attempt to see her again.

What had she expected?

That he would court her?

He had said during their walk together that humans can be remarkably resilient creatures. Anne saw the truth of that statement as she observed the way he used his fork in his left hand to cut his food and convey it to his mouth with deft movements that bordered on elegance and the way in which he turned his head without any apparent awkwardness to look at Lady Hallmere on his blind side while he conversed with her.

He spoke with Lady Hallmere through much of the meal-but perhaps only because Anne had given her attention to Mr. Jones, the village schoolmaster, almost as soon as he sat beside her. He was interested to know that she too was a teacher. Most teachers in Wales, he explained to her, were male.

She felt strangely self-conscious with Mr. Butler-perhaps because their conversations with each other had bordered upon intimacy. How many near-strangers admitted to each other that they were lonely, that there had been no one of the opposite sex in their lives for years and years?

Inevitably, though, as good manners dictated, Lady Hallmere turned toward one of the English landowners on her other side and Mr. Jones turned toward Mrs. Lofter on his.

“Miss Jewell,” Mr. Butler asked politely, “are you and your son enjoying your stay at Glandwr?”

“Enormously,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And has he done more painting?”

“Yes,” she said. “Twice, both times with Lady Rosthorn.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “Did you know there is to be entertainment this evening?”

“Yes,” she said. “Lady Rannulf is going to act. Apparently she is very good at it. And Joshua and Lady Hallmere are going to sing a duet even though Lady Hallmere was very belligerent when everyone was trying to persuade her. It was only when Joshua commented that no one was going to be allowed to bully his wife when he was there to protect her that she bristled with indignation at him and agreed to do it. She did not see the winks he exchanged with her brothers.”

Mr. Butler laughed and she joined him.

“It has always amazed me,” he said, lowering his voice, “that Hallmere seems to know just how to handle Freyja. She was always a hellion and a spitfire. There is to be another duet too tonight. Huw Llwyd is to sing while his wife accompanies him on the harp.”

Mr. and Mrs. Llwyd were the duke’s tenants, a youngish couple.

“They are good?” Anne asked.

He set his spoon down in his empty dish and tapped two fingers over his heart.

“Their music comes in through the ears,” he said, “but it lodges here. You will know what I mean when you have heard them.”

“I look forward to doing so, then,” she said.

“What you ought to hear,” he said, “is the congregation of the Welsh chapel singing hymns on a Sunday morning. They come close to raising the roof off the building, though not with indiscriminate noise. They sing in four-part harmony without ever coming together during the week to rehearse. It is quite extraordinary.”

“It must be indeed,” Anne said with feeling.

“I would like to take you there next Sunday,” he said. “If you can bear the prospect of not understanding a word of the service, that is. It is all in Welsh. But the music!”

Anne had gone to church the previous Sunday, as she did almost every week. But she had gone to the English church with the Bedwyn family. She had sat in the special padded pews set aside for them at the front of the church. Many of the other pews, she had noticed, were empty.

“I should like to go,” she said.

“Would you?” He looked up from the plate of fruit and cheese a footman had set before him and focused full on her. “Will you walk by the cottage on Sunday morning, then, and we will go together?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

And suddenly she felt breathless, as if they had made some sort of secret assignation. She had agreed to go to church with him, that was all. But what would everyone think of her? And why should it matter what anyone thought? She wanted to go.

And he was looking at her, she thought, as if he wanted it too.

Lady Hallmere claimed his attention again at that moment and soon Mr. Jones turned back to Anne, and they conversed for a few minutes before the duchess got to her feet and invited the ladies to follow her to the drawing room while the gentlemen remained behind to enjoy their port.

More than half an hour passed before the gentlemen joined the ladies. Anne felt almost annoyed with herself when she realized that her eyes had gone immediately in search of Mr. Butler among them. It was no big thing, after all, that he had invited her to attend the Welsh church with him on Sunday so that she might hear Welsh singing for herself.

Except that it was.

She felt stupidly like a girl again, being singled out for a gentleman’s attention. It was stupid. She was twenty-nine years old and this was nothing remotely connected to courtship. But until less than two weeks ago she had not stepped out with a man, even in simple friendship, since Henry Arnold. And that was a whole lifetime ago.