It had been a particularly difficult moment later in the evening, after everyone but him had left, when Elizabeth had asked him how he had enjoyed the evening. It had been relatively easy to lie, even to laugh good-humoredly at her teasing and Robert's about the various ladies who had appeared smitten by his charms. But then she had spoken about Nell.

"Was she always so rude when you were in Yorkshire, William?" she had asked. "I do not wonder that you removed to Scotland if that was the sort of manners to which you were exposed."

"The elder sisters have quite acceptable manners," Robert had added. "My guess is that the youngest one has been overindulged. Someone should have given that girl a few good spankings when she was younger. Elizabeth wanted to throw her out when she was so rude to you, William." He had grinned.

Mainwaring's smile had been strained. "I am sure there must have been good reason for her mood," he had said. "She is not naturally an ill-natured girl."

"You are too good, William," Elizabeth had said. "I have quite made up my mind that the girl will not be included in any of our invitations for the rest of the winter. Our friend does not have to be exposed to such uncouth behavior."

He had left it at that and bade them good night. It was the only time he had suspected Elizabeth of insensitivity. But how could she be expected to know?


Mainwaring was beginning to feel cold. He wore only a riding coat, and the weather was overcast and blustery. He wished that he had his greatcoat. There was an inn perhaps a mile ahead along the road. He would stop there, he decided, and have some refreshments before heading his horse for London again.

A few minutes later he was gratefully ensconced in the chimney corner of the inn's taproom, a glass of ale and a steak-and-kidney pie on a plate before him. He was not hungry, but he had not had breakfast or luncheon. He must eat before setting out on his return journey. He estimated that he had been riding for about two hours before he had stopped here.

He had not exaggerated when he told Nell that he had lain awake all the previous night. He had not slept. He had a problem that needed to be solved, and he had no idea how best to go about it. Marry the girl he must. There was no question of that. And that decision was not hard to make. It had already been decided, in fact, though he had thought it was a penniless girl he was going to claim. The problem was how to make the offer without making it seem as if he offered only because of his recent discovery.

He was not sure that he loved Nell. The knowledge that he was free to love a woman other than Elizabeth Denning was still a novelty to him. He knew that he wanted her. Her loss of looks, so evident at the ball, had no bearing on that. And he knew that he was powerfully drawn to her, that he wanted to know her better, because he had the conviction that there was a great deal worth getting to know. But was that love? He did not know.

And he did not care. He would marry her. His final decision had been to waste no time. The proposal would only become more difficult to make the longer he delayed it. Perhaps her unhappiness of the night before came from a belief that he no longer cared. Perhaps if he went to her the next morning and asked her to marry him, she would respond and he would have the chance to explain to her why he had left her in the summer. Then he would be able to assure her that he had been planning to make the offer regardless of her identity. Perhaps. He had decided to take the gamble.

And it had not worked. Somehow it had been quite the wrong thing to do. She hated him and she despised him. And she believed all those things about him that be had hoped to avert. He had felt so helpless against her anger and her contempt. He had behaved badly. And he had acted with a double standard. Although he would dearly have liked to deny her accusations, he knew in his heart that he probably would not have made love to her had he known who she was. He quite possibly would not even have kissed her. It was a disturbing admission to make to himself. He had always prided himself on his treatment of those beneath him socially. He had always convinced himself that he treated people equally, regardless of their rank. And it was not true.

Mainwaring nodded curtly when the landlord offered to refill his glass of ale. He pushed away from him the half-eaten pie.

He had deserved her rebuff. He could not fully exonerate himself of all she had accused him of. And what could he do now? She had made it clear that she scorned his attentions. But he could not leave her alone. He had to marry her. By God, he had taken her virginity! She would not be able to accept any other man under those circumstances, and how would she explain to her parents her reluctance to choose a husband? She really had no choice but to accept him. And she hated him. Poor Nell!

Mainwaring paid his reckoning and walked out to the stableyard to claim his horse, which was looking refreshed after a feed and a thorough brush-down. He swung himself into the saddle. He would have to win her, prove to her somehow that marriage to him would not be the heavy sentence that she anticipated. He would have to show her that, though no angel, he was a man of integrity and conscience. He would have to try somehow to revive the love that she had given him so freely and so trustingly but a few months before.

It was not going to be easy.


***

Helen was not to be allowed to escape. No sooner had Mr. Mainwaring left the room than the butler was standing in the doorway, bowing and informing her that the countess desired her presence in the drawing room.

Helen sighed. There was no point in trying to avoid the issue. She walked toward the door, which the butler was holding open for her.

"Well," her mother said, rising to her feet as soon as Helen appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, "my own dear child. I knew we would find eligible husbands for you all if we just came to town and if you exerted yourselves. I don't know how it came about, my love, when you met Mr. Mainwaring for the first time only last evening, but such things do happen sometimes, I have heard. And to think Papa and I thought you did nothing but sulk throughout the ball."

"Mama…" Helen said.

"You are really to marry Mr. Mainwaring?" Melissa asked. "I wish you joy, Helen. I rather favored him myself at one time, but I believe I should look around me more carefully before making any choice."

"I think you are very fortunate," Emily added. "Mr. Mainwaring is a very proper sort of man even if he does not enjoy a high rank. Have he and Papa decided when the wedding is to be, Mama?"

"Oh, not too soon, I hope," Melissa cried in alarm. "It would not do, would it, Mama, for Helen to be married before Emmy and me?"

"Well, my love-" the countess began.

"Mama," Helen said, "I have refused Mr. Mainwaring's offer."

There was an incredulous silence for a moment.

"Refused?" the countess said. "But you cannot have done that, child. Papa said that he might marry you."

"But I have said no," Helen said, a slight tremor in her voice. "Papa cannot say that I must marry anyone."

"Helen!" Emily exclaimed. "How ungrateful can you be? Papa has brought us all here at great expense when he would much prefer to have stayed at home for the hunting season. And he has found you a quite acceptable husband. For what possible reason could you have refused?"

"If you consider it so important for us to marry, and if you find Mr. Mainwaring so eligible," Helen blurted, "then do you marry him, Emmy. I have no intention of marrying anyone, now or ever."

The countess had sunk down onto a sofa. "Child," she said now, "what are we to do with you? You are twenty years old; practically on the shelf already, and you behave like a hoyden many years younger. You must marry. What else is there?"

"Mama," Helen said, seating herself beside her mother and taking her limp hand in her own, "I shall stay with you. I cannot marry, indeed I cannot. And I cannot bear Mr. Mainwaring. I should die rather than accept his offer. Please do not try to force me. I shall be a good daughter, I swear. But please do not expect me to enter the marriage mart."

The countess was unused to seeing her youngest daughter so distraught. She patted her hand. "Well, Helen," she said, "I really do not know what is to become of you. And I do not know how Papa will view this. You have made him appear very foolish, you know, child. Mr. Mainwaring had his blessing. I do believe they had even talked about a settlement.” She sighed.

Helen rose to her feet. "May I asked. "I do not feel like any luncheon, Mama. I shall rest in my room."

The countess sighed again. "If only you could be more like your sisters," she said. "Melissa has had two bouquets this morning, and Emily has been asked to drive in the park with Lord Harding and his sister this afternoon."

Helen smiled and made her escape. In her own room she pulled the pins from her head and shook her hair loose about her shoulders. She lay down on her bed and stared at the canopy over her bed.

What had made him come? Why had he made an offer for her? She had certainly given him no encouragement the evening before, and she knew that she had not looked good. She had behaved throughout the evening in a manner calculated to repel any man rather than to attract. Yet he had decided to come this morning, to speak to Papa in a formal offer for her hand, and then to speak to her. How could he have done such a thing?