Baulked of all prey, her ladyship spent the rest of the morning in comfortable speculation on what her son and the lovely Dorothea had been up to.

Hazelmere woke to the rattle of curtains. Sunlight streamed into the large apartment. He closed his eyes again. He had left orders to be woken at one. He supposed it was one.

Then memory returned and the events of the early morning swam into focus. The severe lips curved in a smile of pure happiness. A discreet cough interrupted his recollections. He reluctantly opened his eyes and located Murgatroyd, standing by the bed, disapproval in every line.

‘I wondered, my lord, what you wished me to do with these?’ From finger and thumb hung suspended a garment, which, after a few moments of total bewilderment, Hazelmere recognised. ‘I found them in the pocket of your driving cloak, m’lord.’ Never, in all the years he had been valeting, had Murgatroyd had to deal with such an occurrence. He was badly discomposed.

Raising his eyes to the face of his henchman, now devoid of all expression, Hazelmere sternly repressed the urge to laugh. As soon as he could command his voice he said, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I suppose you had better return them to their owner.’

Something very like shock infused the countenance of his imperturbable valet. ‘My lord?’ Incredulity hung in the air.

‘Miss Darent,’ supplied Hazelmere, sorely tried.

Murgatroyd assimilated this information, his face wooden. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and had almost reached the door before Hazelmere spoke again.

‘Incidentally, Murgatroyd, Miss Darent and I are to be married in a few weeks, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to such happenings.’

‘Indeed, my lord?’ Murgatroyd’s breast seethed with a whole range of emotions. He had never before valeted to a married gentleman, preferring the regularities of bachelor households. It was the reason he had left his last position. But he had been very comfortable in Hazelmere’s employ. And Miss Darent, soon to be her ladyship, was a very lovely woman. And the Marquis was…well, Hazelmere. The rigid features relaxed into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m sure I wish you both very happy, my lord.’

Hazelmere smiled his acknowledgement and dropped back on to his pillows as Murgatroyd left in search of Trimmer.

The next five days passed in a rush of activity. Hazelmere had decreed they were to be married at St George’s in Hanover Square in just over two weeks. There was a wealth of detail to be discussed and decisions made. A constant stream of couriers passed between London and Hazelmere, carrying orders and information. On that first afternoon Tony Fanshawe and Cecily dropped by on their way back to London. On hearing the news, Cecily was ecstatic; Betsy promptly burst into tears.

From Lady Merion came the news that the whole town was a-buzz with the tale of their trip to Hazelmere Water and, far from there being any undesirable comment, everyone was describing it as the romance of the Season. As Dorothea refolded her grandmother’s letter Hazelmere smiled wickedly across the breakfast table. ‘Just as well they’ll never know what really happened at Hazelmere Water.’

Dorothea gasped, then, outraged by the knowing look on his face, threw a roll at him. Ducking, he protested, ‘I thought only Cecily threw things!’

They decided to return to London on Monday. Hazelmere spent Sunday afternoon with Liddiard. He would only be able to spare a single day in the run-up to their wedding for dealing with any further business. Liddiard was to be in ultimate charge of all his estates until they returned from their wedding trip to Italy.

Dorothea, time hanging heavy on her hands, went to sit in the sunken rose garden. It had been five days since they had arrived; five days since that morning above Hazelmere Water. And in those five days Marc had been politely attentive but curiously distant. They had exchanged nothing but the most chastely light kisses-no passionate embraces, no delicious caresses. It was ridiculous! What on earth was the matter now?

A swish of silk skirts heralded Lady Hazelmere’s approach. The two women had become firm friends. With a smile her ladyship settled herself on the stone bench beside her soon to be daughter-in-law, and, as was her habit, took the bull by the horns. ‘What’s the matter?’

Used by now to her ways, Dorothea grimaced. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

Lady Hazelmere’s shrewd eyes studied the younger woman. Then she made an educated guess. ‘Hasn’t Marc slept with you yet?’

Dorothea blushed rosily.

Her ladyship laughed musically, then reassured her. ‘Don’t get upset, child. I couldn’t help notice you were missing a rather vital article of clothing when you arrived. I presume you didn’t set out from London like that?’

In spite of herself, Dorothea grinned. ‘No.’

‘Well,’ said her ladyship, examining the tips of her slippers as they peeped from under the hem of her stylishly elegant gown, ‘Marc seems to be taking after his father in more ways than one. It’s something of a shock to think you’re marrying a rake and find instead that, at least before the wedding, you’d get the same treatment from the Archbishop’s son.’

Dorothea giggled.

‘Well, maybe not quite the same,’ amended Lady Hazelmere. ‘But all the Henry men are like that-scandalous on the one hand and puritanical on the other. It’s decidedly confusing. Mind you, I doubt there have been many virgin brides in the family, either.’

Dorothea sat up straighter. ‘Oh?’

‘A word of advice, my dear: if you don’t wish to be forced to wait the full two weeks until your wedding, you’d better do something about it. You’re leaving for London tomorrow and once there, if I know Marc, you’ll have no chance to force the issue. If, on the other hand, you break his resistance now, you should have no trouble in London.’

‘But he seems so very distant, I wondered if perhaps he-’

‘Distant? What on earth happened at Hazelmere Water?’ exclaimed her ladyship. ‘That sort of thing, let me tell you, just doesn’t happen if a man is “distant”. Marc’s keeping as far away from you as possible because he doesn’t trust himself-he knows he’s too close to the edge with you, that’s all. If you want him to make love to you before your wedding you’ll just have to give him a push.’

Dorothea, eyes round, regarded her soon to be motherin-law. The novel idea of forcing such an issue with her stubborn and domineering betrothed had an attraction all its own. ‘How?’

Tucking her arm into Dorothea’s, Lady Hazelmere smiled joyously. ‘Let’s go and look at your wardrobe, shall we?’

That evening Hazelmere arrived in the drawing-room, just ahead of Penton, as usual, to escort his betrothed and his mother into dinner. As he crossed the threshold his eyes went to Dorothea. He blinked and checked, then smoothly recovered himself.

Throughout the meal he struggled to keep his eyes away from the vision in ivory silk seated on his right. But for once his mother seemed curiously silent, leaving Dorothea and himself to carry the conversation. In the end he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. That was bad enough, but not nearly so disturbing as the rest of her. Where in hell had she got that gown? Presumably Celestine-simplicity was her hallmark. An ivory sheath with a bodice so abbreviated that it barely passed muster, with an overdress of silk gauze so fine that it was completely transparent. The entire creation was held together by a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front. He had never been so thankful to see the end of a meal as he was that night.

He watched Dorothea and his mother retire upstairs to the parlour. With a sigh of relief he went into the library. Half an hour later, settled in one of the huge wing chairs before the fire, a large brandy by his side, he was deep in the latest newssheet when he heard the door shut. Looking up, he stood as Dorothea came towards him, calm and serene as ever, a book in her hands. ‘Your mother has retired early so that she’ll be able to farewell us in the morning. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while. You don’t mind, do you?’

He smiled in response to her smile and settled her in the wing chair opposite his. She opened her book and seemed to be quite content to sit quietly reading. He returned to his newssheet.

For a while only the ticking of the huge grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional crackle from the fire disturbed the peace. Glancing up, he saw she had laid aside her book and was calmly watching the leaping flames. The light from the fire flickered in a rosy glow over her still figure, striking coppery glints from her dark hair. He forced his attention back to the newssheet.

After reading the same paragraph four times, and still having no idea what it said, he gave up. He laid the paper aside. In one smooth movement he rose and, crossing to her, took her hands; raising her, he drew her into his arms. He looked down into her emerald eyes, then bent his head until his lips found hers. The room was still; only the flames rose and fell, illuminating the figures locked together before the hearth. When the kiss finally ended they were both breathing raggedly. The hazel and green eyes locked for a time in silent communion, then Hazelmere bent to lightly brush her lips with his. ‘I love you.’

Hardly daring to speak in case the magic surrounding them shattered into a million shards, Dorothea barely breathed the words, ‘And I love you.’

The severely sculpted lips lifted in a decidedly wicked smile. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Many hours later Dorothea, blissfully sated, snuggled herself against the long length of her husband-to-be. They had come up to his room; her room next door was not yet refurbished. Her clothes, and his, were scattered in a trail from the door to the hearth. They had first made love, exquisitely, on the huge daybed before the fire. Later they had moved to the even larger four-poster, where they now lay. With a soft, contented sigh she settled herself to sleep, one arm across his chest, his arm around her, holding her close.