As he had just proved the truth of that, she could hardly argue the point. But, her temper flying and caution disappearing with it, her unruly tongue marched ahead unheeding. ‘In future, Lord Hazelmere, whenever I’m tempted to walk your woods I’ll most certainly take an attendant!’

‘Very wise,’ he murmured, voice low.

Unattuned to the nuance of his tone, she did not stop to think before pointing out, in her most reasonable voice, ‘But I really can’t see the necessity. You said you would not mistake me for a village girl next time.’

‘Which merely means,’ he said in tones provocative enough to send a tingling shiver down her spine, ‘that next time I’ll know whose lips I’m kissing.’

‘Oh!’ She gasped and stopped to look up at him, outrage in every line.

Halting beside her, Hazelmere laughed and gently touched her cheek with one long finger, further increasing her ire. ‘I repeat, Miss Darent-you need an attendant. Don’t risk walking in my woods or anywhere else without one. In case the country beaux haven’t told you, you’re by far too lovely to wander alone, despite your advancing years.’

The amused hazel eyes held hers throughout this speech. Dorothea, seeing something behind the laughter which made her feel distinctly odd, could find nothing to say in reply. Irritated, furious and light-headed all at once, she turned abruptly and continued along the path, skirts swishing angrily.

Glancing at the troubled face beside him, Hazelmere’s smile deepened. He sought for a suitably innocuous topic from the tangle of information poured into his ears by his great-aunt before her death. ‘I understand you have recently lost your mother, Miss Darent. I believe my great-aunt told me you were staying with relatives in the north.’

This promising sally fell wide. Dorothea turned her wide green eyes on him and, ignoring the dictum that ladies should not answer a gentleman’s question with another question, asked breathlessly, ‘Did you see her, then, before she died?’

The marked degree of disbelief, for some reason, stung him. ‘Believe it or not, Miss Darent, I frequently visited my great-aunt, of whom I was very fond. However, as I rarely stayed longer than a day, it’s hardly surprising that neither you, nor in all probability the rest of the county, were aware of that fact. I was with her for the three days prior to her death and, as I was her heir, she endeavoured to instruct me in the families of the area.’

This speech, not unnaturally, brought the colour to her cheeks, but instead of turning away in confusion, as he expected, she met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘You see, we were such good friends that I was most unhappy not to have seen her again.’

The hazel eyes held hers for a pregnant second. Then he relented. ‘The end was quite painless. She died in her sleep and, considering the pain she’d been in over the past years, that can only be viewed as a relief.’

She nodded, eyes downcast.

In an attempt to lighten the mood he tried again. ‘Do you and your sister plan to remain at the Grange indefinitely?’

This time he had more success. Her face cleared. ‘Oh, no! We’re to go to our grandmother, Lady Merion, early next year.’

Hermione, Lady Merion, previously the Dowager Lady Darent, had swept through the chilly corridors of Darent Hall like a summer breeze, warm from the glamour of London. And had taken undisputed charge. The sisters, together with Aunt Agnes, the elderly spinster who acted as their nominal chaperon, had been dispatched home to the Grange, buried deep in Hampshire, there to wait out their year of mourning. They were to present themselves to her ladyship in Cavendish Square in February, six months from now. And what was to happen from that point on was, they all had been given to understand, very definitely in her ladyship’s competent hands. Reminiscing, Dorothea grinned. ‘She intends to present us.’ Noticing the sudden lift of the dark brows, she continued defensively, ‘Cecily is considered very beautiful and, I believe, should make a good match.’

‘And yourself?’

Suddenly inexplicably sensitive on this point, she believed she detected a derisive note in the smooth voice. She answered more categorically than she intended. ‘I am hardly ware for the marriage mart. I intend to enjoy my days in London seeing all the sights, and, if truth be known, watching those about me.’

She glanced up and was surprised by the intensity of the hazel gaze fixed unswervingly on her face. Then he smiled in such an enigmatic way that she was unsure whether it was intended for her or was purely introspective. A thought occurred. ‘Do you know Lady Merion?’

The smile deepened. ‘I should think all fashionable London knows Lady Merion. However, in my case, she’s a particularly close friend of my mother’s.’

‘Please, tell me what she’s like?’ It was his turn to be surprised. Seeing it, she rushed on, ‘You see, I’ve not met her since I was a child, except for the one night she spent at Darent Hall earlier this year, when she came to tell us we were to come to London.’

Hazelmere, reflecting that this conversation was undoubtedly the strangest he had ever conducted with a personable young lady, helped her over the stile and into the lane, then fell to considering Lady Merion. ‘Well, your grandmother has always been a leader of fashion, and is well connected with all the old tabbies who matter in London. She’s thick as thieves with Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy. Both are patronesses of Almack’s, to which you must gain entry if you wish to belong to the ton. In your case, that hurdle will not be a problem. Lady Merion is independently wealthy and lives in a mansion on Cavendish Square, left her by her second husband, George, Lord Merion. She married him some years after your grandfather’s death and he died about five years ago, I think. She’s something of a tartar, and a high stickler, so I would advise you not to attempt to wander London unattended! On the other hand, she has an excellent sense of humour and is known as being kind and generous to her friends. She’s in some ways eccentric and rarely leaves London except to visit friends in the country. All in all, I doubt you could find a lady more capable of launching you and your sister successfully into the ton.’

Dorothea pondered this potted biography, finally remarking in a pensive tone, ‘She did seem very fashionable.’

‘She is certainly that,’ he agreed.

They had reached a gate in the high stone wall that had bordered the lane for the last hundred yards. Dorothea stopped and reached for the basket. ‘These are the gardens of the Grange.’

‘Then I’ll leave you here,’ Hazelmere promptly replied. He had escorted her home purely to prolong his time in her company but had no wish to be seen with her. He knew too well the gossip and speculation which would inevitably spring from such a sighting. Expertly capturing her hand, he carried it to his lips, enjoying the spark of anger that flared in the green eyes and the blush that rose in response to his understanding smile. ‘But remember my warning! If you wish to keep in your grandmama’s good graces, don’t go about London unattended. Young ladies who venture the London streets alone won’t remain alone for long. Farewell, Miss Darent.’

Released, Dorothea opened the gate and made good her escape.

She hurried through the garden, for once unconscious of the heady scents rising from the rioting flowers. The long shadows cast by the ancient roof of the Grange fell across the path, heralding the end of the day. She stopped in the garden hall; the coolness of the dim, stone-flagged room brought relief to her burning cheeks. The clattering steps of the housemaid sounded in the passageway. Moving to the door, she called her in.

‘Take these berries to Cook, please, Doris. And after that you can lay out the meadowsweet on the drying racks.’ With a wave of her hand she indicated the wooden frames covered with tightly stretched muslin lying on the bench along one side of the room.

As an afterthought, she added, ‘And please tell my aunt I’ve gone to lie on my bed until dinner. I think I must have a touch of the sun.’ More accurately, a touch of the Marquis of Hazelmere! she thought furiously. Successfully negotiating the passageway and stairs undetected, she closed her bedchamber door and sank on to the window-seat.

Gazing over the now deeply shadowed garden, she struggled to bring some order to a mind still seething. Ridiculous! She had left the Grange a serenely confident twenty-two-year-old, entirely secure in her independent world. Yet here she was, a scant hour later, feeling, she suspected, as Cecily might if the Squire’s son had made eyes at her! It was not as if she had never been kissed before. It shouldn’t make the slightest difference who was doing the kissing. The fact that it had made a great deal of difference exacerbated a temper already tried by a pair of hazel eyes. A pair of all too perceptive hazel eyes. She spent the next ten minutes reading herself a determined lecture on the inadvisability of forming an attachment for a rake.

Fortified, she forced herself to consider the matter in a more reasoning light. Undoubtedly she should feel outraged, ready to decry the Marquis as a licentious scoundrel. Yet, despite her irritation, she was too honest not to admit that her inappropriate attire was partly to blame. Moreover, she suspected that the response of a young lady on finding herself in the arms of the Marquis of Hazelmere should have been quite different from the way she had behaved. In her defence, she felt it should be noted that had she swooned in his arms he would have had little choice but to wait with her until she recovered. Then the situation would have been, if anything, worse. By following this train of thought, she convinced herself there had been nothing particularly reprehensible about the proceedings after Lord Hazelmere had released her. In fact, he had proved a valuable informant on the subject of her grandmother.