"Charles and I met Anne earlier," Aunt Sarah said with a smile, "and so did Aunt Emily and her brood. I don't know what keeps them abovestairs so long. Is she holding a family conference up there, Mamma?"

Jack still stood opposite Anne, regarding her with that strange, amused scrutiny. "Well, well," he said, for her ears only, "the abandoned bride. I had expected to see a veritable antidote. Has Alex been afraid to take you to town for fear that someone else would run off with you?" He grinned as Anne kept her eyes on the table and straightened plates and linen napkins that did not need rearranging. "I shall look forward to making your acquaintance, Anne," he said. "If Alex has no interest in you, perhaps I can deputize for him."

"Did you want more tea, Jack?" Merrick asked, moving up to stand beside his cousin. "If so, I am sure my wife would be very willing to pour it for you."

Jack grinned. "You should know, Alex," he said, "that tea is not quite my cup of tea, so to speak. Is one permitted to speak to your wife, old boy, without incurring your wrath?"

Merrick smiled easily back at him. "Not when he causes her such noticeable embarrassment," he replied.

Jack sighed. "I perceive that there is to be little fun connected with this celebration," he said.

The duchess's voice had risen in volume, indicating that she was about to make a general pronouncement. "His Grace has decided," she said, resting a hand lightly on the arm of her husband, who had sat silent and frowning through the whole tea, "that we must have some activity to give focus to these two weeks. We both remember how years ago, when many of you were children, you all used to love the plays we performed for the servants at Christmas. Amateur theatrics, His Grace has decided, is just the thing to keep us all pleasantly occupied until the night of the grand ball. We have exactly two weeks to prepare. We shall perform a play for all the guests who have been invited, between the dinner hour and the start of the dancing." She patted the duke's arm again.

"Grandmamma!" Hortense shrieked. "How are we to choose a play, allot parts, learn lines, and produce a polished performance all in two weeks?"

"Impossible!" Stanley agreed.

The duchess held up a hand for attention. "That is where I have taken the initiative," she said. "I have a play already selected and I have decided who is to play which parts. All you have to do, my dears, is to learn and perform your lines."

"Mamma!" Sarah said severely. "We came here to be with you and Papa and to relax."

The duke produced a rumbling sound in his throat, which might have been a cough. "Boredom," he said. "Relaxation produces boredom. This'll keep you all busy."

"Damme if I don't think this a grand idea," Freddie said, smiling eagerly around at the group. "If I just had some brains, I would have a part. No memory, though. Can never remember lines, and when I do, don't know when to say them."

"You have a part too, Freddie, my boy," the duchess assured him.

Freddie giggled.

"What is the play, anyway?" Sarah asked. "Something short, I hope."

"She Stoops to Conquer," the duchess said, gazing imperiously around her, daring anyone to complain about the choice. "We shall all meet in the morning room after breakfast tomorrow, and I shall allot parts. There will be no arguments, and I expect everyone to learn his lines."

Jack groaned. "In the absence of any stronger beverage," he said, "I had better fortify myself with more tea. Will you pour, Anne?"

Chapter 7

The whole family gathered in the morning room the next morning except the duke, who was reported to be nursing his gout in his private apartments. Those who assembled displayed a variety of moods, from enthusiastic (Freddie) to downright belligerent (Jack), but it was a tribute to the power the duchess exerted over her family that all were there and none was openly arguing against the projected dramatic presentation.

"Who knows this play, anyway?" the duchess's nephew, Martin Raine, asked of the room at large, while the duchess sat at a desk and perused a sheaf of notes through her lorgnette. "Is it a comedy or a melodrama or a tragedy or what?"

"We saw it performed last year," Celia offered. "A very comical play. But I fail to see how we are to produce it in just two weeks. We shall doubtless make cakes of ourselves."

"Balderdash!" said the duchess, not raising her eyes from her task.

"Oliver Goldsmith wrote it," Stanley said. "I wonder you have not heard of it, Martin."

"I don't get to town often," Martin replied. "The last thing I saw performed was The Beggar's Opera. And glad I am that Aunt Jemima did not choose that one."

"Yes, I have it all organized now," the duchess said, raising her head and commanding silence with one glance. "Claude," she looked at her sister's second son, "you always took charge of the Christmas theatrics years ago. I am putting you in charge of directing this play. All the rest of you must accept his authority without question." She stared around the group, daring anyone to contradict.

Claude clasped his hands across a somewhat rotund middle and blew a mock sigh of relief. "Well, Aunt Jemima," he said, "I cannot pretend to be wholly thrilled, but at least I can now relax and not be afraid that I will be called upon to act."

The duchess held up her hand for silence. "Let us not waste time," she said. "The sooner you all know the parts you are to play, the sooner you can get busy on learning your lines. And remember that you do not have a great deal of time in which to do so. Now. There are two pairs of lovers in the play, and several character parts, which may not be as large, but which require a deal of good acting. First of all, to set your mind at rest, Freddie, dear boy, I do indeed have a part for you. There are not many lines involved, but you are required to laugh in a few places and to behave in a very confused manner throughout. The character's name is Diggory."

"Diggory," Freddie said. "I'll do it, Grandmamma. Learn my lines night and day. I can laugh, y' know."

"Yes, I do know, dear boy," she said. "The main pair of lovers are Kate Hardcastle and Charles Marlow, who falls in love with her thinking she is the maid of the house when she is really the daughter. A highly unlikely plot, of course, but it is meant to be a comedy. I want Anne to be Kate and Alex to be Marlow."

"No," Merrick said, rising to his feet and then sitting again when he realized that there was nowhere to go. "I know the play, Grandmamma, and Marlow's is a big part. You know I am far too lazy to learn the half of it."

"Balderdash," she said, raising her lorgnette to her eye and surveying him through it.

"Grandmamma," Anne said timidly from her place on a sofa between the duchess's two young grand-nieces, Prudence and Constance Raine, "I have never acted in my life or seen a play, in fact. I beg that you will give the part to someone else and let me observe for this occasion. Perhaps some other time."

"If you are to be a member of this family, my dear," the duchess said kindly but firmly, "you must learn to act. We all do, you know. And there is no time like the present."

Anne sat very still, completely caught up in her own dismay. She heard none of the other announcements or the comments and protests of the other would-be actors. It was not enough, it seemed, that she had mastered her own terrible shyness and come to this house party, where she would meet all her husband's family. And she had been so proud of herself. She had not cringed from any of the introductions and had made an effort to converse with all of them with whom she had come into close contact. But now she was being called upon to act in a play, and the major role, at that. And they were to perform the play before a crowd of the duke's neighbors and several friends who were coming out from London for the anniversary ball. The very thought made her feel faint.

The worst of it was, though, that she would have to act with Alexander. Their characters were lovers, the duchess had said. That would mean that they would be together a great deal on stage and be forced to speak words of love. Perhaps they would even have to touch. Perhaps kiss? Anne did not know what was permitted to happen during a play. She had never seen one. The only time a traveling company of actors had come within visiting distance of their home, Bruce had refused to allow her to go. To him, acting was a creation of the devil.

She could not do it. She really could not, even to please the duchess. How could she look at Alexander and speak words of love to him when she knew that he hated her so much? He had promised her the day before that he would think of a suitable way of punishing her for disobeying his command to stay away. She did not know if he had yet punished her enough. She really did not know if the night before had been the punishment or not.

He had come to her room when she was still brushing her hair before her mirror, clad in her usual linen nightgown, trimmed at neck and wrists with lace. He had not knocked, and she had gaped at his reflection in the mirror, the brush stilled against her hair.

"Alexander," she had said foolishly, "what do you want?"

He had raised his eyebrows and gazed back at her reflection, his expression cynical. "I wonder you ask," he had replied. "You came here of your own free will, madam. I assume that you came here to perform again your wifely duties."

"No," she had said, putting down the brush with a clatter onto the dresser and spinning around to face him, "no, Alexander, please don't. Please."