Helen put her head back against the soft velvet cushions of the coach and glanced at her companions again. The baby was sleeping; Elizabeth had closed her eyes. Helen did likewise.

She would not relive yesterday for all the money in the world. They had decided after all not to begin the journey to Sussex until the morning after their return from Richmond. But Mama had been very delighted by the invitation to her youngest daughter. Her trunk had been all packed by night.

So yesterday morning there had been little to do but to get ready and to wait for the arrival of the marchioness. Alone with her mother quite by chance in the morning room, Helen had taken her courage in both hands and blurted out the truth to her. For one moment she had expected her mother to faint-she certainly had paled and swayed on her feet. But the countess seemed to have felt that it was not the time for the vapors. The matter was too serious. Helen could not now remember what either of them had said. She knew only that she had refused to tell the name of the father, beyond denying that he was Oswald Pyke. Her mother had agreed, in a daze, to break the news to the earl.

It had been horrible, and more so when it came time to kiss everyone else good-bye in the hallway, as if she were on the way to a coveted holiday. Both she and her mother had done well, she thought. It was strange how one's own wrongdoing could reach out to hurt others. At first she had hardly admitted her own guilt. She was mostly the wronged party, she had convinced herself. When she had begun to suspect the presence of the child, she had felt a great bitterness against William for his betrayal. It was only recently that she had admitted again that she was at least equally guilty. And she had hurt not only herself, but her mother and doubtless her father and sisters too. Not to mention the poor innocent growing inside her.

Her upbringing, of course, had been largely to blame for it all. She had always been a dreamer, and despite their scolding and nagging, her parents had given in to her and allowed her to go her own way. They had certainly allowed her a great deal more freedom than Emmy or Melly had ever had, or than most other girls of her class had, she suspected. She had made a habit of being away from home for hours at a time, but they had never insisted that she take a groom or a chaperon with her. But she must not shift the blame to her parents; it would be unfair to do so. She knew that she had been a very difficult girl.

She had lived in a dream world. Because she could find little to satisfy her in the world where she actually lived, she had created her own, centered on the woods and the stream, and she had lived deeply in her imagination, losing herself in nature and books and in the creative process of painting, writing, and-at home-sewing and playing the pianoforte.

So it had happened that although she knew what was right and wrong, what was acceptable and unacceptable in her world, she had applied the standards of her own world in her relationship with William. He had seemed so much a part of that world, a man who liked solitude as she did, a man who liked reading and who seemed to understand her as no one else had ever done. It had been the most natural thing in the world to fall in love with him and to show that love in the ultimate physical way. She had known, of course, even at the time, that she was doing wrong, but she had known only with her head. With her heart, she had known that what she did was the only right thing to do.

Everyone had to grow up at some time in life, she supposed. It was just unfortunate for her that it had been such an abrupt and such a painful process. Finding William to be faithless and cruel had been the first step. It had jolted her out of her dream world. Acknowledging her own responsibility for what had happened had been the second. Discovering that she was with child had completed the process. Her thoughtlessness, her refusal to be realistic in her actions, had now involved an innocent person, who would suffer all his life from his illegitimacy. These weeks in London had served to make her realize that she herself had done very wrong. Now she knew that such behavior as hers was almost unheard of in a young girl, though older, married ladies often lived by an entirely different moral code. She was really very fortunate to have encountered someone as kind as the marchioness.

William. She was, she supposed, extremely foolish to have refused his offer of marriage. Perhaps her first refusal was understandable. It had happened only the morning after her meeting with him. She had been taken completely by surprise. But two days before, he had kissed her and asked if they might start again, if he might court her properly. His behavior had suggested that he really did wish to marry her, not just that he felt obliged to do so. Yet she had still rejected him. Marriage to him would be the answer to all her problems. She would be with the man she loved. Her child would have a name and a father. Both of them would have the security of a home.

But she could not do so. There was probably something quite ridiculous, she thought, about clinging to this little shred of pride when she had so completely degraded herself, but it was all she had to cling to. She could not trust him. And she would not marry a man whom she could not respect, even if she loved him ten times more than she loved William.

Helen relived that kiss. It had felt so very right to be there in his arms, her body leaning against his. She had felt for those few moments as if all the burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. If only…

She opened her eyes to find Elizabeth looking across at her and smiling.

"We are on Hetherington land already," she said. "We should be at the house in fifteen minutes or less. I shall be very happy to get down and have a good stretch."

"This coach is very comfortable," Helen said politely.

"Yes," Elizabeth agreed. "Robert and I traveled all the way to Devonshire and back with it last year." She bent her head over the sleeping child to hide a private smile.


***

"And she said nothing else?" Mainwaring prodded.

The Marquess of Hetherington shrugged his shoulders and lowered his head to avoid contact with an overhanging branch. As was their frequent custom, the two men were riding in the park before the crowds of the day made it a social pastime rather than an exercise.

"You have asked me the same question a dozen times," he said. "Elizabeth merely said that the girl was unhappy and tired of London. Apparently she jumped at the invitation to spend some time at Hetherington."

"But Elizabeth was not planning the journey," his friend persisted. "You have both said continually since my arrival that you are here for the winter."

"Elizabeth loves the country," Hetherington said. "We both do, in fact. I am unable to leave at the moment. I have that big speech to deliver in the House the day after tomorrow, you know. I was quite delighted when she found a companion with whom to travel."

Mainwaring rode on in silence for a few moments. "Did Elizabeth tell you that I love Nell?" he asked.

"Nell? Is that what you call Lady Helen?" said Hetherington. "Yes, she did mention it. I must confess I was surprised, William. She is so unlike the kind of woman I would have expected you to choose."

Mainwaring reddened somewhat and forced a smile. "You mean she is very unlike Elizabeth?"

Hetherington laughed. "Well, she is, is she not?" he said.

"Yes, she is totally different," he admitted. "But I do love her, Robert. I wish you could know her as I knew her in Yorkshire. You would not wonder at my feelings, I think. She has not shown to advantage here. City life and the social round do not suit her. And I fear that I hurt her last summer. I left her, you see, because I did not think I had a whole heart to offer her and I did not feel it fair to offer anything less."

"Does she know this?" asked Hetherington.

"No," Mainwaring said. "She refuses to listen to any explanation. She is convinced, you see, that I shall merely make an excuse. I can hardly blame her."

Hetherington grinned suddenly and prodded his horse to a canter. "Females can be like that," he said. "When it happened to me, I merely kidnapped Elizabeth. This is the first time she has got free of my clutches since."

Mainwaring prodded his horse forward too until he drew level with his friend again. "She was your wife already," he said. "But did you really, Robert? Anyway, it would not work with Nell. I have done her enough wrong already. I am not even sure that there is not something else weighing on her mind."

"Oh?" said Hetherington. "Do you have any idea what?"

Mainwaring hesitated. "I had hoped that you might be able to enlighten me," he said. "I thought perhaps she would have confided in Elizabeth."

"Here we are back at the gates again," Hetherington sighed, "and I am going to have to ride right through them. 1 am still far from satisfied with that speech. I shall have to spend the rest of the morning going over it yet again. Are you coming with me, William?"

"No," his friend replied. "I am going to ride for a while. But I am inviting myself to Hetherington next week when you go. I have to make one more effort to see Nell and talk things out with her."

"I am not sure you will be very welcome," Hetherington warned. "Even Elizabeth might frown on your arrival if she has really taken a fancy to your little Nell and if she feels that the girl does not wish to see you."

"You are forbidding me to come, then?"