Fanshawe, viewing proceedings from the distance of his pursuit of Cecily, now close to success, could think of only one reason for Dorothea’s serene manner. But, having heard from Ferdie of their last meeting, and knowing from Cecily’s silence that Hazelmere had not proposed and forgotten to mention it, he was left wondering. From their friends’ behaviour, he guessed Dorothea had succeeded in the not inconsiderable feat of adding them to her circle of doting admirers. Hazelmere would get something of a shock when he found to what use she had put his watchdogs. Luckily he was more likely to be amused at their susceptibilities than annoyed at her success. Life was going to be interesting when the Marquis returned to town.

For Dorothea, the time passed in a dull whirl she would readily have traded for the sight of his lordship’s hazel eyes, preferably smiling at her. She was not entirely looking forward to her next private meeting with him, foreseeing a certain awkwardness in explaining why she had behaved as she had. But she would rather have faced it sooner than later. Unfortunately she could do nothing but wait and, with so many people endeavouring to please her, she felt it would be churlish to complain, even though her enthusiasm for fashionable pursuits had waned.

The only truly dreadful moment occurred at the Melchetts’ ball on Saturday night. She might have guessed, had she thought of him at all, that Edward Buchanan would, like a distempered ghost, return to haunt her. He had heard of the encounter in the Park and had listened with interest to the speculation on the outcome. To his mind, Miss Darent’s options were rapidly diminishing.

He accosted her as she stood by the side of the dance-floor in company with Lord Desborough. Unfortunately the musicians had had a slight accident, and in the unexpected interval the guests were strolling about, conversing in small groups. Desborough had not previously met Edward Buchanan and so accepted at face value his claim to acquaintance with Dorothea. Knowing she would be mortified by Mr Buchanan’s gallantries, Dorothea asked Desborough to fetch her a glass of lemonade, hoping in the interval to dispose of her unwelcome suitor. Her plans backfired, and instead she found herself in a small ante-room with Edward Buchanan again pressing his suit.

‘I have, after all, got your guardian’s blessing. And now there are these rumours about your behaviour with Hazelmere. What I say, my dear, is that none of your fancy beaux will have you now.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her and his ponderous voice gained in weight. ‘Too top-lofty, that lot. You’ve queered your pitch there, right enough. You’d do well to lower your sights, my girl. Hazelmere and his set are out of your reach now. You should consider my proposal, indeed you should!’

Rigid with anger, Dorothea struggled to control her voice. ‘Mr Buchanan! I will tell you for the last time: I do not wish, in any circumstances, to marry you! I trust that is plain enough. I will not change my mind. It was unwise in the extreme for Herbert to have encouraged your suit. I’m sorry, but I must return to the ballroom.’

She moved to sweep past him where he stood, his back to the door. As she did so Desborough, who had been looking all over for her, appeared there. Sheer relief showed on Dorothea’s face. At the same moment Edward Buchanan grabbed her by the shoulders and attempted to kiss her. She struggled frantically, averting her face.

Almost instantly Buchanan was bodily plucked from her and thrown roughly against the wall. In considerable surprise he slid down to sit on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him and an idiotic look on his face. Desborough, adjusting the set of his coat before offering his arm to Dorothea, turned at the last moment to say, ‘Be thankful it was me and not Peterborough, Walsingham, or, God forbid, Hazelmere. Any of those three and you would be nursing rather more bruises and, very likely, a few broken bones as well. I suggest, Mr Buchanan, that you trouble Miss Darent no longer.’ And, with that, he ushered a deeply grateful Dorothea back into the ballroom.

The upshot was that Hazelmere’s friends never, ever, left her unattended again, whether in the ballroom, the Park, or any other gathering of the fashionable.

Hazelmere’s entire attention was devoted to controlling the frisky bays as he threaded through the crowded streets of the capital. Once they had passed the village of Hampstead and started over Finchley Common he dropped his hands and the bays shot forward. With the horses driven well up to their bits, the curricle rocketed past coaches travelling at conventional speeds. Jim Hitchin, hanging on grimly behind, kept his lips firmly shut and prayed that his master’s customary skill did not desert him. As the evening wore on and the shadows started to spread, throwing inky patches across the road, concealing pot-holes and ruts, Jim expected their pace to ease. But no change in speed was detectable as they left Barnet behind and raced onwards up the Great North Road towards the George at Harpenden, where they spent the night on such trips as these.

Jim kept silent, more from fear of distracting the Marquis than from reticence. But, when Hazelmere overtook the north-bound accommodation coach just before St Albans on a tight curve with less than inches to spare, Jim, in considerable fright, swore roundly.

‘What was that, Jim?’ came Hazelmere’s voice.

‘Why, nothing, m’lord,’ replied Jim. Unable to help himself, he added, ‘Just if you was to be wishful to break both our necks I could think of few faster ways to do it.’

Silence. Then Jim heard his master laugh softly. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I know I should not have done that.’ And the curricle slowed until they were bowling along at a safer pace.

Yes, and you’re still up in the boughs, thought Jim. Just as long as you keep this coach on the road, we’ll survive.

It was late afternoon on Thursday when they reached Lauleigh, Hazelmere’s Leicestershire estate between Melton Mowbray and Oakham. His steward, a dour man named Walton, had not erred in demanding his attendance. There was an enormous amount of work to be done and they made a start on it that evening, going over the accounts and planning the activities of the next two days.

Walton, hearing from Jim of the likely change in his lordship’s affairs, made sure that anything requiring his authorisation was dealt with. He was under no illusion that he would be able to summon his master north again that Season. Accustomed, like most of the Marquis’s servitors, to keeping a weather eye out for his temper, in this case Walton guessed it was unlikely to be directed at him, and his flat tones droned in Hazelmere’s ears incessantly over Friday and Saturday.

Hazelmere called a halt on Saturday afternoon and retired to his study, informing Jim that they would leave early the next morning. The events of the past two days, entirely divorced from those of the Season, had succeeded in restoring his calm. By forcing his mind to deal with such mundane affairs, he had managed to shut out the turmoil of emotions he had experienced on leaving Dorothea until now, when he felt infinitely more capable of dealing with them.

While it was warm in the south of the country, in Leicestershire the winds blew cool in the evening and the fire was alight. Pouring himself a drink, he dropped into the comfortable armchair before the hearth, stretching his long legs to the blaze. Cupping the glass in both hands, he gazed into the leaping flames.

Conjuring up the image of a pair of emerald eyes, he wondered what she was doing. Ah, yes. The Melchett ball. Away from the endless round of London during the Season, he was even more conscious of how much he wanted her by his side. That meeting in the drawing-room at Merion House had had about it an air of inevitability. He’d been so angry with her when he’d walked in the door-admittedly more from hurt pride than righteous indignation. And she’d been so surprisingly angry with him! Thankfully, she had promptly told him why. He grinned. All the dictates of how a young lady should behave had been overturned in the space of a few minutes. He could imagine no other female-apart from his mother, perhaps-who would dare let on that she even knew of his mistresses, much less question him on the subject.

As his relationship with Helen Walford was so well known among the ton, it had never occurred to him that a different version could be presented to Dorothea. Very clever of the Comte. He vaguely recalled some difficulty with Monsieur de Vanée over one of the barques of frailty who had at one time resided under his protection. What had been her name? Madeline? Miriam? Mentally he shrugged. The Comte’s lies had undoubtedly been the cause of Dorothea’s distress that night, coming on top of the incident with the Prince. Hardly surprising that she had baulked at meeting Helen and him in the Park.

But why, why had she flung that drivel about her being no more than a challenge at him? Even if Marjorie Darent had impressed it on her, surely she didn’t believe it? He sipped the fine French brandy and felt it slide warmly down his throat. No-she hadn’t believed Marjorie’s tales. The Darents had left London on Monday, so any conversation between Dorothea and Marjorie must have occurred earlier. But Dorothea had behaved normally at that horrendous party on Sunday night. And at the Diplomatic Ball she’d been entirely unconcerned until the Prince’s performance had opened her eyes too far. Even then, she had not been distraught, only, as he had expected, angry with him. It had only been later, after the Comte’s interference, that she had been shattered and almost in tears. Well, his actions in her grandmother’s drawing-room should have settled that. She couldn’t possibly have missed the implication of that kiss.