"I wouldn't look weary if you wouldn't persist in being late and worrying me when you are."

Stephen was too startled by her tone to react strongly to the unjust criticism. "I wasn't aware time was of the essence. I'm sorry you were worried."

"It is excessively rude to keep your hostess waiting," she added crossly.

Stephen straightened and eyed her with surprised annoyance. "My sincerest apologies for my tardiness, your grace." With a formal bow, he added, "For the second time."

Dismissing her unnaturally querulous behavior with an imperceptible shrug, he turned so that she could acknowledge his guests. "Mother," he said, "I believe you're acquainted with Miss Fitzwaring-"

"How is your papa, Monica?" the dowager demanded as the young woman made her a pretty curtsy.

"Very well, thank you, your grace. He sends you his warmest regards."

"Please convey mine to him. And now, since you are clearly exhausted from your trip, I suggest you go straight upstairs and stay there until supper so that you may rest and recover your color."

"I am not in the least tired, your grace," Miss Fitzwaring said, stiffening in affront at the bald hint she didn't look her best.

The dowager ignored her, extended her regal hand to the other woman, and announced as Georgette curtsied, "I heard you have been ill recently, Miss Porter. You must spend the weekend lying down."

"Oh, but-that was last year, your grace. I'm fully recovered."

"Prevention is the key to good health," she persevered doggedly. "That is what my physician always says, and that is how I have lived all these years with such robust health and cheerful disposition."

Whitney stepped in and greeted her unexpected guests before they could pause to mentally challenge her claim to cheerful disposition. "You both look perfectly fit, but I'm certain you'd like a few minutes to refresh yourselves," she said with a smile as she escorted the mortified Miss Porter and the offended Miss Fitzwaring to the door so that a footman could show them to their rooms.

"Where is my nephew?" Stephen asked as he pressed a brief kiss to Whitney's cheek. "And where," he added in a sardonic whisper, "is my mother's 'cheerful' disposition?"

"Noel is with Miss Charity…" Whitney began as it suddenly hit her the time was at hand. It was now. There was no turning back. "In a half hour, everyone is to go down to the pond, where the children are to have a little party. Noel will be there then, along with some of the cottagers' children."

51

Swans floated gracefully on water as still as a mirror, as Sheridan and the two other governesses stood near a graceful white gazebo, watching several children who lived on the estate playing happily with small, fledgling ducks on the bank of a small lake on the front lawn. Their happy voices rang out as they tried to coax the lofty swans closer to the bank, mingling with the deeper, more reserved voices of the Fieldings, Townsendes, Skeffingtons, and Westmorelands.

Sheridan kept a close eye on the children, but none of the day's sounds were as loud as the thunder of her heart as she watched Stephen finally emerge from the house with two women. Whitney had already whispered a warning about the women before she joined her guests, but Sheridan scarcely paid it any attention. In her mind, all she could hear was Whitney's earlier words: "Stephen kept the cleric there until late that night. He could not-would not-believe you weren't coming back."

Tenderness and regret shook through her every time she thought of it, reinforcing her courage, her determination to face him and give him whatever "invitation" was necessary to bring him back to her.

He was listening to whatever Monica was telling him, but his smile was absent, and his gaze was on the children.

The closer he came, the harder Sheridan's heart beat until it seemed to roar in her ears. Noel came running up to her with Charity close beside him, and he stopped shyly in front of her. "Flower, for you," he said, holding out a tiny wildflower that Charity had told him to pick.

Charity's reason was obvious as she said, "Langford will be looking for Noel, and if he is with you, then we will all be relieved of our tension sooner than if we have to wait until he notices the governesses."

Sherry didn't care for that idea, but she crouched down to accept the flower, smiling softly at the sturdy three-year-old, who reminded her of his father and Stephen both. "Thank you, kind sir," she said, watching Stephen from the corner of her eye as he neared the gazebo. Behind her, beneath a large oak tree, the adults were surreptitiously watching the same scene begin to unfold, and their conversations became halting, while their laughter came to an abrupt end,

Noel looked at the sunlight glinting on the flaming strands of her hair, reached out to touch it, then paused to look inquiringly at Charity. "Hot?"

"No," Sheridan answered, loving every feature on his face. "It's not hot."

He grinned and reached out to touch it, but Stephen's call drew his instant attention.

"Noel!"

Noel broke into a grin, and before Charity could stop him, he turned and raced to his uncle, who swept him up into his arms. "You've grown a foot!" Stephen told him, shifting him to his left arm, his gaze on the group of adults beneath the tree. "Have you missed me?"

"Yes!" Noel said emphatically with a shake of his head, but as they passed within a few feet of Sheridan, Noel saw Sherry watching him with a hesitant smile. He made a sudden decision and wriggled to get down.

"What, leaving me so soon?" Stephen asked, looking surprised and a little hurt. "Obviously," he joked to the Townsendes and Fieldings, as well as Georgette and Monica, as he lowered the wriggling little boy to his feet, "I need to start bringing him more lavish gifts. Where are you going, young man?"

Noel gave him an adoring look, but pointed a chubby finger to a woman who was standing a few paces away, wearing a drab dark blue gown, and explained, "First, kiss 'bye!"

Unaware that he was the cynosure of a half-dozen pairs of eyes, Stephen straightened, glanced in the direction the child had pointed… and froze, his gaze levelling on Sheridan, who was bending to receive her kiss but looking directly at Stephen.

Whitney saw his reaction, saw his jaw clench so tightly that a muscle began to throb in his cheek. She had secretly harbored the hope that he might somehow believe the Skeffingtons were actually acquaintances of hers and that Sherry's appearance here was coincidence, but that hope was in vain. Slowly, Stephen turned his head and looked straight at her, his eyes boring into Whitney's. In frigid silence he accused his sister-in-law of complicity and treachery, and then he turned and stalked purposefully toward the house.

Afraid that he intended to leave, Whitney put down her wineglass, excused herself to her guests, and went after him. His legs were longer, and he didn't care about appearances, so he had gained the house several minutes before she entered it. The butler provided the information that he had called for his carriage to be brought round and gone up to his room.

Whitney ran up the steps. When there was no answer to her knock on his door, she knocked again. "Stephen? Stephen, I know you're in there-"

She tried the door, and when it wasn't locked, she opened it and went inside. He stalked out of the dressing room wearing a fresh shirt, saw her, and his expression became more forbidding than it had been outside. "Stephen, listen to me-"

"Get out," he warned, quickly fastening the shirt up the front and reaching for his jacket.

"You aren't leaving, are you?"

"Leave?" he jeered. "I can't leave! You worked that out too. My compliments to you, your grace"-he emphasized contemptuously-"on your duplicity, your dishonesty, and your disloyalty."

"Stephen, please," she implored, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. "Just listen to me. Sherry thought you were marrying her out of pity. I thought if you had a chance to see her again-"

He started toward her, his expression threatening. "If I'd wanted to see her, I'd have asked your friend DuVille," he said scathingly. "She went to him when she left me."

Whitney began talking faster as she automatically backed away. "If you will just try to see it from her perspective."

"If you are wise," he interrupted in a soft, blood-chilling voice as he loomed over her, "you will avoid me very carefully this weekend, Whitney. And when this weekend is over, you will communicate with me through your husband. Now, get out of my way."

"I know you loved her, and I told-"

He clamped his hands on her shoulders, forcibly moved her aside, and walked around her.

In stunned silence, Whitney watched him stalk swiftly down the hall and bound down the stairs. "My God," she whispered weakly. She had known Stephen Westmoreland for over four years, and she had never guessed, never imagined, that he was capable of the kind of virulent hatred she saw in his face when he looked at her.

Slowly, she went back downstairs to rejoin her guests for a party that had already had a very inauspicious beginning. When she reached them, it was to discover that Stephen had taken Monica and Georgette for a jaunt to the local village, which meant he would probably be gone for several hours. Lady Skeffington looked as dismayed as everyone else over his departure, only for different reasons, of course. In fact, the only two members of the party who didn't seem depressed about it were Sir John, who was having yet another glass of Madeira, which-thankfully-seemed to make him quiet instead of effusive, and Julianna Skeffington, who was talking to Sheridan and helping with the children. With a smile, she lifted Noel into her arms and hugged him tightly, then she turned and said something to Sheridan with an expression on her face that was clearly sympathetic.