“Lorraine’s happiness is important to us,” he said. More important under the circumstances than their grief, which was a private, ongoing thing.

“I wish to marry the countess,” Fenner said. “I loved her five years ago and I have not stopped loving her since. She wishes to marry me. I am confident that she loves me. However, neither of us wants to do anything that will appear distasteful to your family. If it appears to you that we are acting with indecent haste, then we will wait a year. No longer, I hope. But we will wait a year if we must. I hope we do not need to.”

He paused and looked inquiringly at Edward.

Love, Edward thought broodingly. What the devil did it mean? It meant all the euphoria of romance and all the underlying but unspoken power of lust, obviously. Perhaps it had only to be believed in to be experienced. But was there any real substance to it? Did it last? Somehow one had the feeling that with Lorraine and Fenner it would, perhaps because they had taken the wrong path five years ago—at least, she had—and now had a second chance to take the right one. Second chances were very rare. If Maurice had not agreed to—or suggested—that curricle race, if he and the driver of the hay cart had not met exactly on the blind part of that bend, if—Well, if any of a thousand little, seemingly insignificant details of life had been in the smallest way different from the way they actually had been, then the whole of life would be different.

There was absolutely no point to such thoughts. Lorraine and Fenner had been given their second chance, and they were embracing it with firm resolve. As they ought. Maurice was dead, and life went on.

“I cannot speak for my mother and sisters, Fenner,” he said, “though I believe they will agree with me wholeheartedly. Lorraine was the best of wives to my brother and she was and is a good mother to my niece. Her happiness is as important to me as if she were my sister. If she can find that happiness with you—and I do believe she can—then I see no reason why the two of you should be made to wait a year or even a day longer than you choose. The mourning period is at an end. Life must continue for all of us. I wish you well.”

He offered his hand, and Fenner grasped it warmly.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are kind.”

And Edward found himself, quite unreasonably, feeling more depressed than ever. Because Maurice was dead and Lorraine was moving on? Because other people seemed to believe in love and sometimes it could lead them to happiness? Or because of something else?

It did not take long for it to strike him that Fenner was Lady Palmer’s brother and Tresham’s cousin—or second cousin, anyway. He was Lady Angeline Dudley’s second cousin. And Lady Palmer was her sponsor for her come-out Season. This betrothal was sure to bring the two families together, even if only for the wedding. If he never saw a single member of the Dudley family again, he would be entirely happy. But Fenner was a member of that family even if only in the capacity of second cousin.

His forebodings were well founded, he discovered less than a week later, just after he had read the official announcement of the betrothal in the morning paper. Actually, the situation was even worse than he had anticipated, for it was not just the wedding that was to bring the families together.

Lady Palmer had decided to celebrate the betrothal with a brief house party at Hallings in Sussex, her husband’s country estate. Edward and his family were invited to attend, of course, and he did not need to be told that Fenner’s family would be there too. The party was to last five whole days.

Nothing could be more conducive to further depression. Five days of trying to avoid Lady Angeline Dudley in the intimacy of a country setting. If he had known what was facing him when he left Wimsbury Abbey less than two months ago, he would never have left. The duty of taking his place in the House of Lords be damned. And he would have chosen a bride from the ranks of the local gentry.

But it was too late now.

The rest of the drama is yet to be written, Eunice had said to him a few weeks ago. It was utter nonsense, of course. There was nothing still to be written. It was unlike Eunice to be so very wrong.

He had not set eyes upon her since the morning she had said it. He missed her.


ANGELINE WAS DESPERATELY gay during the three weeks following her rejection of the Earl of Heyward. She spent almost every morning out riding with Ferdinand and his friends or walking in the park with Maria or Martha, sometimes both together, or shopping on Oxford Street and Bond Street. She bought three new bonnets as well as feathers and ribbons and fans and reticules that she did not need but could not resist. She visited the library twice and borrowed books each time, though there was really little point as there was absolutely no time to read—there was too much fun to be had doing other things. She called upon Miss Goddard twice, careful to take a recovered Betty with her, and they sat and talked all morning both times, since both times it was raining and they could not go out for a walk. She could not remember afterward what they had talked about except that it was not bonnets and beaux and not Lord Heyward. They had each talked an equal amount, though, and really had not stopped for a moment.

She spent the afternoons paying calls with Cousin Rosalie or attending garden parties or Venetian breakfasts or picnics or driving in Hyde Park with one or another of her many admirers. There was not an idle afternoon.

And there were always more evening entertainments to choose among than there were evenings. There were balls, soirees, concerts, the theater, the opera, dinners. Sometimes it was possible to attend both a dinner and a concert or the theater.

Everywhere she went there were people she knew, and she was gradually learning to put names with faces without making too many errors. And there were always new people with whom to become acquainted. There were ladies who were friendly—younger ones who would link arms with her and stroll at a party, older ladies who remembered her mother or her father and loved to talk to her about them, elderly ladies who remembered her grandparents. And of course, there were her particular friends, Martha and Maria, who had also taken well with the ton and were always abuzz with excitement about various beaux or would-be beaux. There was Miss Goddard, by whom she sat at one concert and with whom she felt free to be quiet and actually enjoy the music.

And there were the gentlemen. There were the older ones, who tended to be courtly and who occasionally paid her the compliment of actually conversing with her. There were Tresham’s friends—Sir Conan Brougham and the blond and handsome Viscount Kimble in particular—who treated her in an avuncular manner, though they were not many years older than she. And Ferdinand’s friends, who tended to treat her as a regular one of the fellows, especially as she saw most of them only when they were all out riding. And there was a whole army of younger men, as well as a few older ones, who flocked about her wherever she went and paid court to her and flirted with her and flattered her and danced with her and walked and drove with her and occasionally proposed marriage to her.

There was Lord Windrow, who always pursed his lips and regarded her with laughing bedroom eyes whenever they were at the same social event, but generally kept his distance from her. She found him amusing and would have flirted outrageously with him if he had given her the chance since he clearly understood the game and would not take her seriously.

And there was, of course, the Earl of Heyward, who was at many of the same events that Angeline attended. It was unavoidable. The ton was not huge in number. Everyone tended to get invited everywhere, and everyone usually accepted the invitations. Angeline became quite adept at never being closer than half a room away from him and never looking his way and never ever meeting his eye. It was not difficult, of course, for he was clearly just as intent upon not seeing her. And he always was intent upon some other young lady, always a pretty, dainty young lady.

She would have been quite indifferent to him, would have forgotten him entirely, if it had not been for one fact. She still believed Miss Goddard was in love with him and he with her and that they would surely marry if only society was not so silly about such things. She found herself wishing that she could do something to bring them together. It would somehow soothe her sore heart if she could do that and be noble and selfless about the whole thing. She would be perfectly happy if the two of them married, and then she could get on with the business of falling in love and marrying and living happily ever after. No, forget the ever after part, for there was no such thing, of course, and it would not be desirable even if there were. It would be tedious. Quarreling would be fun when one knew one would kiss and make up and be happy all over again. Sometimes she thought wistfully of that sort-of quarrel she had had with Lord Heyward when he escorted her home from Lady Sanford’s, but she put the memory firmly from her mind. She was going to be noble from now on.

Besides, she was too busy enjoying herself to brood upon quarrels or almost-quarrels, too busy smiling, laughing, chattering, dancing, doing whatever exuberantly happy people did, having the time of her life.

And then came the day when she realized that she was not going to be able to avoid closer contact with the Earl of Heyward forever. Cousin Leonard had proposed marriage to Lady Heyward and been accepted, and Angeline was as overjoyed about it as Cousin Rosalie was. But Rosalie was planning a special celebration of their betrothal by having them at Hallings in the country over a long weekend and making a house party of it. They were all to go—Leonard’s family, that was—and so were the countess’s in-laws, even though they were only in-laws and she was about to marry out of their family. But she had only a reclusive father, Rosalie explained, and looked upon her late husband’s family as her own. They had been exceedingly kind to her.