"You never answered my question last night."

"Which was that?"

"I asked if you had advice for me for hunting a husband during the season," she said, hoping it did not sound as if she were asking advice for hunting him-although that actually was what she was doing. Not that she could use whatever information he gave her; it would be too transparent. Oh, heavens, why had she said anything at all?

"That all depends upon which sort you wish to catch. You must dangle the proper bait for the beast."

"I have only one very poor bit of bait to dangle, and it rules out fortune hunters and social climbers."

"That is a shame. Many a young lady has made her match with such," he said. " London is full of them."

"I was rather counting on an elderly gentleman with a comfortable income."

"Simply because they are aged does not mean they are any less likely to want an heiress," Mr. Brent said. "Their greed does not slow with their limbs."

"Dear me. How about impetuous youths who have already inherited, and so cannot be disowned for making a bad match?"

"Those are difficult to catch, and make poor husbands, being prone to drink and gambling. Like as not you will end up living on credit, and soon enough be bankrupt."

"There is no point in returning from whence I started," she said.

Mr. Brent seemed to be enjoying this vein of conversation. She was almost enjoying it herself. He dared her to say the thoughts that she would normally not utter even to herself. She had spent her life speaking only those words that would please her benefactors, pretending to be much nicer than she knew herself to be, hiding her darkest, most selfish and discontented thoughts for fear they would show on her face and betray her as a woman unworthy of even grudging charity.

"An exceedingly ugly man might prove acceptable," she proposed. "I think I could grow to love him, if he had a sweet temper."

"He will either be so vain as to think himself worthy of a better match, or so shy he will never manage to offer."

"A sick man, then, who needs an heir before he dies?"

"The competition will be fierce. What young lady would not like to be a wealthy widow, free to do as she pleased?"

"That is a harsh view to take," Vivian argued. "I do not believe that one in a thousand young ladies would be so calculating."

"You said yourself you would be willing."

"For the sake of having a husband, not for being his widow. Really, Mr. Brent, you have a jaded view of womankind."

"Not as jaded as I could wish," he said. The next moment dinner was announced, interrupting their conversation and leaving her to wonder what he could possibly mean by such a statement.


The dinner table was too small, the company too cozy and close to engage in suggestive banter. Vivian was seated next to Captain Twitchen, Mr. Brent across from her. The family spoke of relations not present or long dead, dredging up memories in which she could not share.

She kept a vacant smile on her lips and concentrated on dinner.

Mr. Brent caught her eye several times, looking with a questioning brow at her plate, then at the dishes arrayed around the table. She had only to let her gaze linger upon some platter beyond her reach, and he would move it nearer to her. If the captain was engrossed in telling a tale and did not notice she was waiting to be served yet again, Mr. Brent dared her with his eyes to serve herself.

So she did. There were two removes between main courses, and she was almost feeling full by the time dessert was finished and Lady Sudley signaled the ladies' retreat to the drawing room.

The tea had been poured and distributed, and Penelope had gone to the pianoforte to stumble through some of the sheet music there, when two nursemaids appeared in the doorway, white-gowned toddlers and young children around their knees.

"My lady, the children wished to say good night," one of the maids said, as the plump creatures spilled into the room. One went for the spaniel that had been curled harmlessly by the fire; one waddled to Lady Sudley; another sprang to the table where the tea things stood, his small hands reaching up to play with the sugar dish and creamer; and the last wobbled to the pianoforte and added his own notes to Penelope's soon-halted playing.

The spaniel cast a long-suffering look to the adults in the room, then slunk off to hide beneath a divan. Deprived of her target, the little girl of about four years went to join the younger boy at the tea tray.

"She looks more like you every day," Mrs. Twitchen said, nodding toward another girl, who had crawled into Lady Sudley's lap.

"She has her father's sense of mischief, though. Don't you, my naughty pumpkin?"

"Nooo," the girl protested, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck.

Vivian blinked at the four children, trying to match their ages with the length of Lady Sudley's marriage, wondering how she could have produced so many so quickly.

An altercation arose at the tea tray. The boy-not more than two, surely-had a spoon in his fist, and the girl was trying to take it away. The girl wrenched it from his hand, and the boy wailed, then went with flying fists at his sibling.

"William! Sara!" came a harsh male voice from behind Vivian. "Stop it at once!"

"My 'poon! Mine!" William wailed, striking his sister again.

Sara shoved the boy, and he fell onto his round backside. It was not a long distance to fall, but the indignity of it overtook him, and he threw himself face-first to the carpet and howled.

"Sara! What did I tell you?" Mr. Brent said, stepping into the fray. "Give me the spoon."

"But, Papa!"

"At once!"

Sara held tight to it a moment longer, then with a pout handed it over.

"Now apologize to your brother."

Sara knelt down beside the still-howling William and patted his back. "'S'all right, Willie. I'm sorry."

William took a breath and gave a howl of a higher pitch. Sara bent over and looked at her brother face-to-face. He turned to the other side. She followed and put her hands over her eyes.

"Who's that?" she said, taking them away from her face.

William's howls stopped. Sara covered her eyes again.

"Who's that? Is that Willie?" she asked, revealing herself again.

"'S Sara," he said.

Vivian watched wide-eyed as Mr. Brent picked William up from the floor, holding him against his side, over his hip, with the ease of long practice. William flopped against his father with his arms straight at his sides, his still-red face looking down at his sister with an unreadable expression.

"You're overtired, the both of you," Mr. Brent said, then kissed William on the temple and handed him to one of the nursemaids. Sara had her arms raised and waiting, and he picked her up and carried her after the retreating maid. "You cannot simply grab things from people, Sara," he said gently as he went out the door.

Vivian barely noticed as Lady Sudley said good night to the two remaining children, bundling them off with their nursemaid. She was too caught in the utter shock of what she had just learned.

Mr. Brent had children! Was that why Penelope thought him willing to take anyone for a wife, that and his rather questionable social graces? And what of Mrs. Brent; what had happened to her? Was she dead?

Or perhaps-the most shocking possibility of all-the two had divorced. That would explain Penelope's attitude better than anything. She wondered what terrible deeds could have made them choose such a course, if that was in truth what had happened.

The future she had been planning in her mind without knowing, a future where she and Mr. Brent were married and started their own family, fell to pieces. He had already had a family, and would not be looking with any great eagerness to starting yet another. If they had a child, it would be the third for him, and no astounding miracle.

He had a whole history of which she was unaware, a whole life that had been lived before she met him. There had been a woman he had loved and lost, who had borne him children, and who might very well still be heavy in his thoughts.

She was a fool. Of course he had a previous life. Did she think the world had stood still for everyone as she had tended to Miss Marbury all those years?

Mr. Brent was a father. Although she did not guess their difference in ages to be much, the difference in their experiences was. Her naive plans to entice him into marriage now seemed childish and silly. The man had children! He had had a wife once already! And what was Vivian, but awkward and dowdy in her borrowed finery, playing at being fast for his momentary entertainment, making herself an amusement of no value? He must think her a fool.

And even if he did have an interest in her-even if so!- she did not know if she had the strength to be anyone's step-mama.

The captain and Sir John had rejoined them, and by the time Mr. Brent returned from tucking his children into bed she had managed, she hoped, to hide her distress. She volunteered to play when a game of piquet was called for, and smiled blankly at Mr. Brent when he sat across from her.

After the game was finished she found a plate of small lemon tarts on a side table, and ate them, every one.


They had returned to Copley Grange, everyone yawning and speaking of bed, but Vivian followed Penelope into her dressing room nonetheless and badgered her young cousin as she began to undress.

"Why did you not tell me he had children?"

"Oh, la!" Penelope said, waving her hand as if it were nothing. "Two tiny children; they were not worth mentioning. You would not be the first woman to become a stepmother."

"You could have prepared me!"