The wood nymph

Chapter 8

October and November

The Marquess of Hetherington entered the morning room of his home in London, where the marchioness was writing an answer to an invitation spread on the escritoire before her. She looked around, smiled, and lowered her head to the task again. He walked up behind her, bent, and planted a kiss on the back of her neck.

She looked up at him and smiled broadly. "If John proves to be as mischievous as his father," she said, "I see I shall be forever scolding. Look what you have made me do, Robert." She pointed to the letter in front of her, which was neatly written with the exception of final character. It had a long upward curl that took it sharply through the two lines above it.

Her husband did not appear contrite. He grinned. "If all I get when I enter a room is a vague smile, my love," he said, "then you deserve punishment. You will just have to start all over again."

Elizabeth Denning put her pen down with exaggerated care, rose to her feet, and put her arms up around her husband's neck. "Since I saw you at the breakfast table a mere half-hour ago, my lord," she said, "I did r* t see the need of an elaborate greeting. But if you insist. There, is that better?" She kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Minx!" he said, still grinning. "Control your passion, Elizabeth, or I shall forget entirely why I came here."

"So it was not just to see me?" she asked.

"That too," he replied. "But mainly I wanted you to see this." He held up a sheet of paper. "It is from William, love."

"From William?"

"Yes," he said. "From Scotland. It is no wonder we had no reply to our last letter. He seems not to have received it. He is glad that your confinement is now safely over and hopes that both you and the child are healthy."

Elizabeth clucked her tongue. "And John is more than two months old already," she said. "Will William never stay in one place long enough for a person to remain in communication with him?"

"He is coming to London after all," Hetherington said. "That is why he has written. He should be here soon. He was almost ready to leave when he sent this."

"Oh, how splendid!" Elizabeth said, smiling with genuine pleasure. "Is he to stay here, Robert? I must have a guest chamber prepared for him immediately."

"No," he replied. "He says here that he will take rooms as he has always done when in town. It is better to leave it at that," he said, holding up a hand to silence the protest that his wife was clearly about to make. "We are both very fond of him, love, and I believe he returns our regard, but remember that this is likely to be a painful reunion for him. When I last saw him, I fought with him, and when you last saw him… well, we need not go into that."

"Yes, you are right," Elizabeth said thoughtfully, seating herself sideways on the chair before the escritoire. "Poor William. But surely that episode has passed into history by now. Perhaps he has already found someone else, Robert."

"Unlikely, if I know William," he said.

"We will have to take him about with us and do some entertaining here," she said, "and make sure he meets some eligible ladies."

"You are not going to turn matchmaker, are you, love?" he asked with an expression of some pain. "Heaven help us when we have daughters! Come to the nursery with me. I have not seen John yet this morning. I want to see if I can make him smile again. You would not believe me yesterday."

"You are being quite absurd, Robert," Elizabeth said, rising to her feet and smiling at her husband. Two-month-old babies do not smile. They have wind. And you forget that I am quite a successful matchmaker. Lucy Worthing and Mr. Dowling were married during the summer, were they not? And it I who first suggested to her that she talk to him when she sat next to him at a dinner party. 'Ask him about his hogs,' I suggested. She did so, and a beautiful romance began at that very moment."

The Marquess of Hetherington snorted inelegantly. "I dread to think what poor William's fate will be," he said. "Come. To the nursery, woman."

"Yes, my lord," she replied meekly.

William Mainwaring was indeed on his way to London. He had set out two days before the letter arrived in his friend's hand. He was traveling slowly, in a closed carriage that could also convey his valet and his luggage. He was in no hurry to arrive. Although he had made the decision to come after long and careful deliberation, he was still not sure that he was doing the right thing, and he was certainly not looking forward to the weeks ahead with any great eagerness.

He had done a great deal of thinking during his two months in Scotland. There he had found the solitude he had craved since leaving London earlier in the year. It seemed that his neighbors had been accustomed to the hermit habits of his grandfather and him for so long that they did not consider the possibility that now he might be of a more sociable disposition. Mainwaring was quite happy to let them continue thinking so.

He had spent a great deal of time outdoors, sometimes riding up into the hills north of his estate, more often walking endless miles over the empty moors south of the hills. The bleakness of the landscape suited his mood. Although there was an austere beauty in the place, there was nothing of prettiness to distract the mind from its own inner workings.

He had tried to consider the state of his own life and make some plan for his future. He was past thirty already, and as unsettled as he had been when his grandfather died. He had lands and wealth. He even had friends. But he had nothing but regrets for the past, unhappy situations that he had fled from, and uncertainty about the future. He had no goal, no plans. What did he want of life? The question could not be avoided forever. Or if it were, then he would end up like his grandfather, a recluse, with nothing of purpose or of love in his life. More and more he understood why the old man had clung so much to him after the death of his parents. He must have been desperately lonely and unhappy.

Mainwaring did not really want such a life for himself. It was true that he did not find it easy to make friends or even to mix with other people on a social level. He had even somewhat resented the friendly advances of his neighbors at Graystone. Yet now, the more he was alone, the more he realized that people had become important to him. He would never be an outgoing person and would probably never have a large number of friends. But he needed some, and he already had friends whose company and whose love he valued and needed. Robert and Elizabeth Denning were uppermost in his mind, but he could not escape thinking even of Nell. She could have been a friend if only circumstances had been different.

Where had he gone wrong in the last few years? Why was he still so rootless? Why had he come skulking back here, like a wounded animal to its den, to lick his wounds? He knew that, much as he needed this quiet breathing space in his life, staying here was not the answer. He would have to face life again if he hoped ever to achieve a measure of contentment.

And the more he thought of it, the more Mainwaring came to realize that the first thing he would have to do would be to face his past. He could not be always running away. He had greatly valued Robert Denning's friendship. Although their personalities were as different as it was possible for them to be, they had shared a bond. Each of them had suffered; each of them had developed a character somewhat deeper than that of most men about town. And quite apart from his emotional feelings for Elizabeth, he valued her friendship too. And these friendships could not thrive on letters alone. He would have to find the courage to face them.

And it would take some courage. He had loved Elizabeth with all the ardor of a first love, and he had never fully recovered from her loss. To see her again under any circumstances would be painful. But to see her with his best friend, to see her with Robert's child, would be an ordeal that he dreaded. But face her he must. He must see the reality of her marriage with his own eyes. He must torture himself by being in their company for a goodly length of time. He would have to winter in London. Perhaps once the reality was finally impressed upon him, he would be able to come to terms with his feelings, put them behind him, and start a new life. Only one thing he would not do. He would not stay at their home. He could not do that.

Another person was on Mainwaring's mind at least equally as much as the Dennings during those two months. He found that he could not put Nell out of his mind. Whenever he went out-of-doors he could see her. He could see her in the hills, running lightly with her bare feet to the top so that she might see over. He could see her on the moors, stooped down in the heather, examining with intense interest the tiny purple blooms. He could see her among the trees that surrounded his home, her body pressed against a trunk, her cheek against the living bark, her slim hands exploring with sensitive interest its rough contours.

Indoors he could escape her no less. The house was cold, as it always had been. He spent his indoor hours almost exclusively in the room he had made into a library. And when he read the songs of Robert Burns, which he loved, hearing the melodies with his mind as his eyes read, he thought of her. She would love these songs, and she could be the subject of many of them. Many times his hands strayed, almost against his will, to his volume of Lyrical Ballads, and he would read all the poems he had meant to read aloud to her. He had read her only one very short one, and there were so many that he would like to have shared with her. He regretted that he had not had the opportunity to do so.

He felt heavyhearted whenever he thought of her, his little wood nymph. Had he made her unhappy by his desertion? Did she grieve for him still? Had he done the wrong thing to leave without a word? Would it have been kinder to have met her again, to have explained as gently as he could why they could not continue seeing each other?

He found that he missed her. Frequently he would find himself storing some little observation or small anecdote in his mind to share with her, only to realize almost immediately that he would not be seeing her again. Sometimes he would lie down in the heather on the hills, allowing his horse to graze unshackled beside him. He would clasp his hands behind his head and gaze up at the sky and find himself wondering, as she had done on one occasion, why the clouds seemed to move at such speed across the sky, though there was no wind on the ground. And he would find himself wanting her with a yearning that brought an ache to his throat.

He even thought of going back to her. Surely he could make a marriage with her work. He had a great deal to offer her-not so much material things as his friendship and his ability to teach her and to open to her the world of books and of art. And he had a great deal to gain. She would be a sweet and a cheerful companion and always full of vitality and a fresh originality, he believed. And she could bring him great sensual satisfaction. He could not imagine ever growing tired of making love to her, or caressing her to that peak of ecstasy that she had reached during their second time together, and of burying in her sweet, soft depths all his own needs.

But always he would dash the thoughts ruthlessly from his mind. He was being selfish to think in that. He was not thinking of what was best for her. The truth was that he could not offer himself to her unless he had all of himself to offer. And he could never offer that to any woman except one. Marry he must. He recognized the need in himself for a wife, for the companionship and the sense of belonging that marriage would bring. He recognized his need for children, who would give him a sense of his own identity. But his wife must be a woman who would not expect his love. He must choose for himself a woman whom he could respect and esteem and one whom he could not hurt. And she must be a woman of his own class, one who would not have to adjust painfully to his way of life.

So William Mainwaring traveled toward London, knowing that it was that it was the only course open to him if he was to make anything meaningful out of his life. But he felt no eagerness, no impatience to be there. In a few days' time he would see Elizabeth again, and he would see her child. And the wound would be raw and painful again. A man does not willingly hasten toward certain pain.

The Countess of Claymore and her three daughters were all in the drawing room of the rather shabby but undoubtedly imposing mansion they had rented on Charles Street when the earl arrived home late in the afternoon. His wife was all aflutter, he noticed as soon as he let himself into the room, and the older girls, too, were looking more animated than they had appeared in the three days since their arrival in town.

How provoking that you have been away until now," the countess said by way of greeting. "We have but now bade farewell to Lady Medbourne and her daughter. Charlotte Hinton that was. my love. Do you remember her? She made her come-out the same year as I did. We all felt quite sorry for her at the time -such a scrawny little thing, you know, and almost nothing for a dowry. But she did quite well for herself after all. Married Lord Medbourne the year after you took me north."

"Medbourne?" the earl said, brow furrowed in thought. "Old fellow, was he? Red-faced and always wheezing?"

"Yes, indeed," his wife agreed. "I would not have considered him much of a catch myself. He must have been close to his sixties at least, and not at all an imposing figure. But he had the title, you know, and a not inconsiderable fortune, it seems. Charlotte did quite well. She has been a widow these fifteen years, and she has a son and daughter who accompanied her this afternoon. Pasty girl. Rather like poor Charlotte was as a girl."

"Lady Medbourne has invited us to dinner tomorrow sennight, Papa," Emily said in a matter-of-fact voice. She believed in getting to the important point. "Mama says that she must have suitable connections. Soon, it would appear, we will have a circle of acquaintances suitable to our station."

"Lady Bridgemoor left her card this morning too while we were out," the countess added. "Celia Thompson that was, you will recall."

"Well, I do hope that invitations begin to arrive soon," Melissa added petulantly. "It is too provoking to be in London at last and have nothing to do."

"Nonsense, my love," her mother said. "Of course, we will be on everyone's invitation lists once it is known that we are here. But it must take a few days. Papa and I have been absent for so long, you see."

"You are very quiet, child," the earl said, turning to his youngest daughter, who was sitting very upright in the window seat, her hands clasped in her lap. He was finding himself becoming as irritated with the girl's listlessness as he had used to be with her restlessness. “And are you longing for the parties to begin too?"

Helen looked up with an expressionless face. "I shall be happy with whatever you and Mama plan," she said. "I am in no hurry, Papa."

The earl smiled and turned to the rest of his family. He rubbed his hands together. "I have made a few connections of my own today," he said. "I spent a few hours at White's."

And whom did you meet there?" his wife asked. “Anyone I know, my dear?"

"Yes, indeed," he replied, "and I do not know whether to be pleased or not. I believe I might have cut the man, had he been alone."

"Whomever do you mean?" his wife asked, her interest piqued.

"Mainwaring," he said. "He is not in Scotland after all. He has been here for more than a week apparently and intends to stay for the winter."

"Mr. Mainwaring?" the countess said indignantly. "He would surely not have the gall to present himself here. We really have no need of the acquaintance of the likes of him in London."

"Papa?" Melissa had turned pale and clutched the skirt of her gown. "You surely have not invited him here, have you? I could not bear the humiliation of seeing him again."

"It seemed only mannerly to do so," Claymore replied, "especially when his companion was so very civil. Hetherington, my love," he added, turning to his wife.

"The marquess?" she asked. "A very distinguished gentleman, I remember. How comes Mr. Mainwaring to know him, I wonder."

"This is young Hetherington," the earl explained. "The father died a number of years ago, I gather, along with his elder son."

"And he is a marquess, Papa?" Emily asked sharply.

"No less," her father replied. "And he has agreed to call upon us with his wife, tomorrow afternoon, my love." The earl beamed with triumph at his mate.

The countess clasped her hands against her breast. "You see, Emily?" she said. "I told you it must be just a matter of time before we will be accepted into the very best society. The Marquess of Hetherington! But what a pity that he is married already."

Emily said nothing, but resumed the needlework that she had put down on her father's arrival.

Helen continued to sit in the window seat, as apparently listless as she had been since their arrival in London and, indeed, for some time before that. Inwardly she was in turmoil, the blood hammering in her head so that she was totally unaware of the movement and conversation taking place in the room. William was in London! She was in grave danger of meeting him again, especially if her family became acquainted with his friend the Marquess of Hetherington. She could not. It must not happen. It was bad enough that she could not banish him from her thoughts, that she knew him to have completely ruined her life. She could not see him again. She would die if she were forced to do so.

She watched unseeing the hands that were clasped in her lap. How could she possibly avoid the meeting? Papa had said he was here for the winter. So were they. And it was inevitable that they would move in much the same social circles. Helen had none of her sisters' anxieties that perhaps they would be ignored by the ton. Her father was an earl, after all, and he and Mama had connections, neglected as they had been for several years. Sooner or later she would come face to face with William. It had been a sheer miracle that she had escaped him at home. She could not hope to do so for a whole winter here.

He would know the truth. Not that that mattered longer. She could even feel a sort of satisfaction in thinking of how surprised he would be and how uncomfortable to remember the summer. No, it did not bother her at all that the truth would be known. She felt too much contempt and hatred for Mr. William Mainwaring to be at all concerned about a little embarrassment. She could keep the anger and the deep dislike locked inside her as long as she did not see him again. But how could she come face to face with him, probably many times over the next few months, and not reveal to the whole world how strong her feelings about him were? And how could she face having to acknowledge again her own feelings of guilt and inadequacy?

How would she ever be able to be in his presence without being constantly aware of the fact that there would always be that bond between them, unwanted now by either? Had she merely loved him, she might have turned defiantly from him and lived a full life despite him. But he had possessed her, he still possessed her, and she would forever be bound by what had happened between them. She would never be free, but she certainly did not need his physical presence to remind her constantly of how foolish and how deceitful she had been. She had given herself to a shallow, unfeeling man, a man she had surely deserved at the time, and now she would have to watch him mingle with the ton as if he had every moral right to do so. Perhaps he did. She was not at all sure that his behavior was unusual for one of his class.

The Marquess and Marchioness of Hetherington did indeed make the promised visit the following afternoon. They were not accompanied by William Mainwaring, to the satisfaction or relief of most of the family of the Earl of Claymore. As they left, the regulation half-hour after their arrival, the marchioness placed in the hands of her hostess an invitation to a ball they were to hold the following week.

"It is not to be a large affair, ma'am," she said. "This Is not the Season, and London is not as heavily-populated as it will be then. But our mutual friend, Mr. Mainwaring, is newly arrived and we have planned the ball as a welcome to him. I am sure he would be delighted, as we would be, to see some of his neighbors there. I do hope you will be able to come." She followed her husband from the room after smiling warmly at the countess.

"Robert," she said as she sank into the warm velvet upholstery of their coach and made room for him beside her, "I am so glad you suggested that we visit the earl and his family this afternoon. They seemed almost pathetically grateful to see us."

“I could hardly say no, my love," the marquess said, turning to her with a grin, "when the man himself suggested it at White's yesterday. William had a previous engagement but I had none. But you are right. They have rusticated so long, I believe, that London is like a foreign city to them. You see the dangers of staying in the country for too long, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, well and good," she said, "but you know that once John is past babyhood I wish to spend most of our time in the country, Robert."

He leaned across and kissed her lightly on the lips. "And you will hear no argument from me," he said. "There I shall have you more to myself."

"Robert," she said seriously, a frown creasing her brow, "is it possible to help William become attached to any female? He seems to have been quite impervious to the charms of any of the ladies he has met in the past week or so."

The Marquess of Hetherington laughed and took her hand. "Elizabeth, I quite forbid this train of thought," he said. "William is a grown man, you know, older than either you or I. Let us leave him to manage his own life."

"But he cannot be happy, Robert," she persisted. "There must be someone worthy of him. Do you think he became well-acquainted with any of the earl's daughters during the summer?"

"I doubt it," he said. "I don't think any of them is quite William's type. The oldest one is too haughty for her own good. The middle one is shallow, if I may judge on such short acqaintance. And the youngest one… well, what did you think of the youngest one?"

Elizabeth looked at him. "Oh, Robert," she said, "I do hate to be unkind. But was she not dreadful? No looks. No manners. No personality. I feel quite sorry for the girl."

"I found her quite fascinating," Hetherington replied, and he grinned as his wife looked at him, eyebrows raised. "I do believe this afternoon was the first time I have ever seen you fail miserably to draw someone into conversation. Did she actually growl at you, my love, or did it merely appear that way from across the room?"

"She certainly scowled when I tried to commend her on her embroidery," Elizabeth said.

Hetherington leaned toward her until their shoulders touched. "I do not know why we are wasting time on such topics," he said, "when we are all alone together in such a setting, Elizabeth."

"Oh, do behave yourself," she said with a most unladylike giggle. "We are in the streets of London, Robert, not far out on an empty highway."

He sighed. "Even there, you always seem to be terrified that a highwayman or someone will poke his head through the window at some intimate moment," he said. "Not that that ever particularly deterred me, did it, love? It is still my theory that John was conceived on the road to Devonshire."

"Robert!" she said, her face and neck almost crimson. "You know I do not like you to say so. And I am sure it is not true. Oh, do stop it." She slapped ineffectually at his hand, which had already undone the ribbons of her bonnet and was pushing it back from her head. "Have you no shame?"

"None whatsoever, my love," he said, and he grinned down into her flushed face before lowering his mouth to hers.

Chapter 9

William Mainwaring propped one foot with its silver-buckled dancing pump against the cushions of the seat opposite him. He had drawn the velvet curtains across the carriage windows. Although there was always plenty of light in the main streets of London even at night, he had no particular interest in viewing other partygoers. He rested an elbow on a satin-clad knee and smiled. Really, he marveled, he felt happier than he had felt in a long while.

He knew the reason for this ball, of course, as he had known the reason for the two informal dinner parties that the Hetheringtons had held in the two weeks and since his arrival in London. Elizabeth was trying to matchmake. Robert had even admitted as much a few mornings before, when the two men were riding alone in the park. He had expected to feel more anguish at the realization. He had even gone home after the ride instead of accompanying his friend to Tattersall's, so that he might examine his bruised heart in private.

And it was there, quite alone, that he had discovered that there was no very painful bruise, only amusement that a woman several years his junior, a woman who had once agreed to marry him, had taken it upon herself to find him a wife. He did not love Elizabeth any longerl That is, he had been hasty to remind himself, he loved her a great deal. None of his admiration for her serenity and her intelligent good sense, and none of his appreciation of her beauty had faded. He still felt his heart lift in her presence as he always had. He still considered her one of the closest friends he had ever known. But he no longer felt about her as a lover feels.

The knowledge had come as a great shock to him. He had taken for granted that that type of love could never die. When he had first met her again-dreadful afternoon-all the pain of his brief courtship and of its abrupt end had flooded back and the wound had been as raw and as painful as it had ever been. She was more beautiful than she had been, if that were possible. Now there was an addition to the serenity that he had always loved. Now there was a radiance, and it did not take much imagination to know that it was Robert who had wrought the change. If he had ever doubted the true feelings of those two for each other, he could doubt no longer after seeing them together. They did not display their love in public, but they did not need to. They glowed.

His unhappiness had been made even worse when Robert, after disappearing for a few minutes, had returned to the drawing room with their son, a blond, blue-eyed replica of himself. Mainwaring had witnessed the look that husband and wife exchanged over the baby's head. It was not a particularly private look or a demonstrative one, but it had told him more clearly than any words could have done that the child was the greatest bond of love between them. He had felt the bottom fall out of his world.

Yet, over the days, when he saw both Robert and Elizabeth frequently, the pain had receded again and he had found himself genuinely relaxed in their presence. They were a warm and a charming couple, radiating friendliness and happiness. Without realizing it was happening, Mainwaring found that more and more he thought of them as a pair who belonged together. There was no doubt about it; they had been born to find each other. He thought of them less and less as separate persons. But it was not until that morning after the ride in the park that he had realized fully what had happened to him. Elizabeth was Robert's wife and it was right that she should be. She could never have belonged to him. He could not have made her happy, and consequently he would not have been happy himself. He finally, and with grateful relief, let go of her with his mind. Henceforth he could relax in her friendship.

The coach lurched to a stop and Mainwaring grabbed the leather strap beside his head to prevent himself from being hurled to the seat opposite. He drew back the curtain and peered out, but let it fall into place again hastily when he heard angry voices d outside. Let his coachman argue the matter out. He had no wish to become involved in a street brawl.

Strangely, it had been only that morning that he realized the implications of his freedom from loving Elizabeth. Two of his trunks, those that contained his less-than-essential belongings, had finally arrived the afternoon before. The servants had unpacked them, but he had instructed that the books be piled in the library, as he wanted to put them on the shelves himself. He had declined the usual morning ride with Robert in order to perform the task. And, of course, among the books was his copy of Lyrical Ballads. Nell. He had smiled ruefully and placed the book on a shelf. And then it had struck him.

He was free of Elizabeth. His heart was whole again. It was possible that he could love again. He had found himself thinking of his little wood nymph all day. She had never really been out of his mind since summer, in fact. But always he had assumed that he could never love her. He had concluded long ago that his feelings for her were mostly physical, that his longing for her was occasioned by the fact that she was the first, and only, woman he had ever possessed. He knew there was more to his feelings than that. He liked the girl, too. She had an interesting and original mind, even if she was uneducated. He was attracted to her as a person.

But he had never even considered labeling those feelings as love. He loved Elizabeth, and he had always assumed that one loved only once in a lifetime. For almost the whole day the possibility that he loved Nell haunted him. He tried to tell himself that he could not possibly love a girl of such vastly different background and station in life from himself. He tried to tell himself that he was behaving with naivete to so exaggerate such a brief episode in his life. The chances were that Nell had forgotten him already. It was quite possible that she had wed some village lad by now.

The carriage jerked into motion again. Mainwaring was not particularly in the mood for dancing. Not that he ever was. But he smiled again, remembering why Elizabeth had arranged the evening. She had probably invited every eligible female between the ages of eighteen and thirty in the hope that one of them would catch his fancy. Dear Elizabeth. He must waltz with her. She was lovely to dance with. The very first time he had talked to her had been during a waltz. She had been so surprised that he had asked her, a mere governess and chaperon at the time, to dance.

What would she say tonight, he wondered, if he were to tell her that he was seriously considering returning to Yorkshire to ask for the hand of a little waif of a girl who did not even possess a pair of shoes? She would think he had taken leave of his senses. He smiled again. He had taken leave of his senses. He was going to do it!

Mainwaring was one of the first to arrive at the ball. It seemed only right that he be early when he knew that the entertainment was unofficially in his honor. He walked about in the sparsely populated ballroom, bowing to distant acquaintances, talking with others. Really he was becoming quite adept at participating in light social chitchat, he thought. He was held up for quite a time by one dowager whose granddaughter was newly arrived in town. The girl was with her, a tall, thin girl who hid her fright behind a facade of boredom. But Mainwaring knew from her eyes that she felt self-conscious almost to the point of panic. He had experienced the feeling too recently himself to have forgotten. He signed the girl's card for two sets and made an effort to draw her into conversation, while the dowager looked on with satisfaction.

The trouble with such situations, he found, was that it was difficult to know when and how one might excuse oneself and move away. Why did such behavior come perfectly naturally to such people as Robert Denning? He was almost relieved to see the Earl and Countess of Claymore enter the ballroom. He had forgotten that Elizabeth had invited them. He had not felt particularly comfortable with the knowledge; he still had a suspicion that he might have behaved a little less than honorably toward their daughter. He had promised to take Lady Melissa riding one morning. He should have found the time to keep the appointment before leaving for Scotland.

However, under the circumstances he was quite relieved to make his excuses to his present companions and to cross the room to greet his neighbors.

Mainwaring felt quite relieved a few minutes later, the greetings over with. As with his meeting with Elizabeth a few weeks before, it had turned out that the actual encounter was not nearly as bad as it had been in imagination. The earl was all affability and Tie countess was civil despite the fact that she seemed to have decided to act the part of the dignified and aloof grand lady. The eldest daughter had favored him with a gracious nod of the head, and Lady Melissa had curtsied stiffly, her face unsmiling. Clearly she was indicating disapproval. But at least the proprieties had been observed and the next meeting would hold no embarrassment at all. He turned to ask Lady Melissa if he might claim a set with her later in the evening.

"Where is Helen?" the earl asked. "Never tell me the child has taken herself off alone already."

"A maid is sewing up the hem of her gown, Papa," Emily explained. "Someone trod on it on the staircase, it seems."

The earl sighed. "Such a thing could happen only to Helen," he said. "The dancing has not even begun yet."

"It was a minor matter, Papa," said Emily. "Here she comes now."

William Mainwaring turned to watch with interest the approach of the elusive youngest daughter. He saw a small girl, much shorter than her sisters and lacking their straight-backed poise. She swung her shoulders as she moved, and strode along rather than walked, although her movements did not lack grace. She wore a pink gown, lace over silk, high-waisted, perfectly fashionable. Yet neither the gown nor the color suited her. Her tawny hair had been piled and curled into a style that might have been becoming if numerous rebellious wisps had not insisted on forming a sort of halo around her head. She had a rather full, almost round face, pretty perhaps had her jaw not been clenched quite so tightly and had not the heightened color of her cheeks outdone the shade of her gown.

"It seems absurd that you have not met our youngest daughter, Mr. Mainwaring," the countess said in her grand manner. "May I present Helen to you?"

Mainwaring smiled with something more than mere politeness. So this was the skeleton in the closet. The girl was so very different from her very proper mother and sisters. He held out his hand for hers and prepared to bow over it. And it was only at that moment-he could never afterward imagine how he could have looked at her for what must have been almost a whole minute without realizing-that he knew her.

For one moment he was caught in a feeling of unreality-almost the feeling one would get if one walked out of a room only to find that one was walking into it. The girl who was raising that clenched jaw and staring with such controlled fixity into his eyes was Nell! She raised her hand and placed it in his.

"I am pleased to meet you, sir," she said. The sound came through her teeth. It was her voice indeed, yet different. The accent was more clipped. She curtsied, a stiff, ungraceful gesture.

William Mainwaring had missed his cue by perhaps only a couple of seconds. No one seemed to have noticed. He bowed over her hand, which still lay in his. "It is my pleasure, ma'am," he said.

Robert and Elizabeth were entering the ballroom to begin the dancing. It was time to excuse himself in order to claim his first partner. He bowed to the family as a whole and turned away.

The Marquess of Hetherington took his wife's arm and linked it through his. He led her in the direction of the adjoining room, where the refreshments were set out.

"Come and have some lemonade," he said. "I do not much care if you are thirsty or not, my love. My only objection to balls-and unfortunately it is a major one – is that one rarely so much as sets eyes upon the person with whom one would wish to spend the whole evening. I have not spoken with you since the opening set, and that was a country dance."

She laughed. "I seem to remember that you used to go and sulk in the library when such a thing happened," she said.

"Ah, but one cannot be so rag-mannered, my love, when one is the host," he said. "One must smile and smile and pretend that the desire to dance with one's own wife is the furthest thought from one's mind."

"Robert!" she said, glancing through her dance booklet as he took a glass of lemonade from a footman. "You have reserved the second dance after supper with me, and it is a waltz too. You have a mere two hours or so to wait."

He pulled a face and then waggled his eyebrows at her. "My main consolation must be that after all these people have left, I shall have you alone for the rest of the night," he said.

She tapped him on the arm with her fan. "That is at least four hours in the future," she said. "We will just have to be patient, Robert."

"We?"

"We," she repeated, smiling conspiratorially at him. Then her expression sobered. "Robert," she said, "the next set will be starting soon and I promised myself that this time I would see that that dreadful little Wade girl was partnered. I am not sure, but I could almost swear that she has not danced even once. For the last two sets she has been sitting among the chaperons, her chin in her hand."

"I had noticed," Robert said. "In fact, I asked for the last set myself. Do you know what she said? She said her feet were sore from wearing new slippers. She has not been on her feet long enough to develop even the smallest blister."

"Oh dear, I must go and see what I can do," Elizabeth said, depositing her half-empty glass on a tray and walking determinedly back toward the ballroom. "What on earth can be wrong with the girl?"

William Mainwaring reached Helen a few paces ahead of his friends. The set that was forming was the first for which he had not previously solicited the hand of some other lady. He bowed formally before Helen, who was still sitting, one leg crossed over the other, foot swinging, one elbow resting on her knee, her chin in her hand.

"May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Helen?" he asked, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.

She raised her eyes to him without lifting her chin or slowing the motion of her foot. "No," she said, and looked out across the ballroom again.

"May I fetch you something?" he asked. "A glass of lemonade perhaps?"

"I am not thirsty," she said, not bothering to look up at him.

Mainwaring hesitated and glanced at the empty chair beside her. "If you will not dance," he said, "may I sit and talk to you?"

She too glanced at the empty chair. "I cannot stop you from sitting beside me," she said. "I do not own the chairs here. But if you do, I shall move away." She looked up at him then and smiled. Her foot still swung slowly back and forth.

Mainwaring bowed, looked at her intently as if he were about to say more, and moved abruptly away.

Elizabeth Denning, several feet away, looked indignantly up into her husband's face. "Oh," she said. "Oh, I am lost for words. If it would not cause a dreadful scandal, Robert, I would order that horrid little girl from my house. Her manners are quite, quite uncouth. I am so angry I could scream."

Hetherington smiled. "Later, my love," he said. "You can scream and throw things at me in the privacy of our room. For now, smile! I believe your next partner is approaching, and Miss Fitzpatrick will be thinking that I am about to make a wallflower of her."

Helen knew that she was behaving quite shockingly badly. She seemed powerless to control herself. She never did behave with the smooth good manners of Emmy and Melly, of course. She was labeled at home as rather strange. But she had never before been so openly bad-mannered. Mama would have a thousand fits if the girls had noticed and told her about it later. And Papa would bluster at her and threaten all sorts of dire consequences. It was a relief to her that for the moment at least they were not present in the ballroom. Papa was doubtless playing cards and Mama was either doing likewise or had discovered some old cronies and was having a comfortable coze with them somewhere.

It was a relief to know, too, that the worst was over. She had dreaded this evening more than she had ever dreaded anything in her life-no, there was one thing she dreaded more, but she would not think of that yet. For days she had schemed to avoid the ball. A headache would not work, she knew. She had even considered taking a tumble from her horse and contriving to break a leg, but she had turned craven when it came to the point. She might just as easily break her neck, and she would not have liked that at all.

Anyway, she had told herself finally, she could not put off the meeting forever. Even a broken leg would heal before the winter was over. Meet William she must. She might as well get the ordeal over with. So she had resigned herself to attending the Hetheringtons' ball and to coming face to face with her faithless lover.

Not that the decision had made the ordeal any the easier. She had almost missed the ball despite herself. By the time the family was ready to leave, she had felt physically sick. She had come so close to fainting in the hallway of the Charles Street house, in fact, that Mama had remarked on her paleness and had offered her vinaigrette. Helen had declined, but Papa had laughed at her and had actually pinched her cheek, something he had not done for years. He had teased her about being nervous on the occasion of her first London ball.

She would never know how she had succeeded in walking without aid into the ballroom after her hem had been sewn up. She had known that he must be there already. He was the guest of honor, the Marquess of Hetherington had said the week before, and they were late arriving. But she had not really expected that he would be close to the doorway in conversation with her family. Her heart and every pulse in her body had hammered against her as she had walked the short distance toward them. She had no idea how she had kept her face or her legs under control.

But it had been done. She had even spoken to him and she had felt a hysterical kind of exultation when she realized that he had not immediately recognized her. She had felt his shock and believed now that she had even smiled. She hoped so. She wanted above all for him to believe that she cared every bit as little as he did. She was glad that the sight of him had aroused such hatred in her. She hated him now far more than she had in the more than two months since she had seen him last. She was well aware that the feeling was caused as much by the reminder of her own guilt that the sight of him brought as by his own bad behavior. But she determinedly focused all her animosity against him. Hatred would carry her through this interminable evening and through other such evenings for the months-no, weeks-ahead.

Helen had not meant to be so completely unsociable. She had intended to dance with anyone who asked her. She had intended, in fact, to have a wildly good time, to show Mr. William Mainwaring that she was not in any way dependent on him for happiness. She knew that she did not look good. Formal clothes never had suited her, and the pink gown that Mama had insisted on was a worse disaster than usual. She knew that in the last few months she had lost the few good looks she had had. She had not fooled herself into imagining that she might be the most popular girl at the ball. But she would make the most of the invitations she would have. So she had resolved.

But in the event she had found herself in the power of a massive lethargy. She was totally unable to bring herself out of the black mood that had swept over her as soon as the moment that she had lived for in such dread for the last week was over. As soon as William had turned away to claim his first dance partner, she had felt her whole being sag. No one had asked her for the first dance. They had arrived too late for the necessary introductions to be made. Melissa suffered a similar fate. And after the first set, she had started to refuse prospective partners, using a succession of different excuses, heedless of the possibility that two men might compare notes and realize that she had lied to at least one of them.

She could not dance. Her attention could only be focused entirely on the man she so hated. He was devastatingly handsome. She had never seen him dressed formally before. She was quite sure that every female in the room was watching him, either openly or covertly. He was at least twice as attractive as the next-most-handsome man. And he looked so much more distinguished than anyone else, dressed in black, with startlingly white linen, while the other men were almost all in pastel shades.

Handsome and entirely ruthless and heartless. She could not understand why she had not seen it before. No man of such good looks could possibly be kind and sincere. He could hardly avoid being conceited. Such an unimportant commodity as a woman's heart would mean nothing to such a man. He would crush it beneath his heel without even realizing what he did.

She watched him, without appearing to do so, as he danced with one lady after another, conversing with them in his rather stiff and aloof manner. Toplofty, thinking himself better than anyone else. She saw him approaching her when a new set was already forming. Why was he coming? Out of curiosity? Out of a desire to gloat? Did he imagine that she would swoon at his feet out of gratitude? That she would feel honored to be so singled put by the most distinguished man at the ball? By the time he stopped in front of her, she could cheerfully have spit in his eye.

She was not unaware of the proximity of the Marquess and Marchioness of Hetherington as she with William. And she was glad that they overheard. She resented them too. She was not exactly sure why she did so, unless it was the fact that they were his friends. And so handsome a couple and so charming and self-assured. And so happy. Yes, she resented them, especially the marchioness, who was dancing with William and smiling into his face and talking animatedly. She was not in any way jealous, of course. She did not even wish to see William Mainwaring again, and she had totally given up the idea of marriage, happy or otherwise.

Helen looked stonily downward and watched her slipper as it swayed back and forth in front of her.

Chapter 10

Helen was depressed. It was scarcely noon and she had still not fully persuaded herself that there was another day to face. She had been out of bed for a couple of hours despite the lateness of the night before, but she had not breakfasted or dressed. She was in her room reading Mr. Wordsworth's Prelude when her father sent for her. Not that she was really concentrating on the poetry. She found it so difficult these days to concentrate on anything or to feel any enthusiasm.

She sighed and rang the bell for her maid. Was Papa still cross with her? Were the scoldings of the night before to resume? They had been very late home and she had felt utterly dispirited, but both Mama and Papa had felt it their duty to take her to task over her behavior at the ball. She could not really blame either Emmy or Melly. It was Mama who had discovered her sitting glumly among the chaperons. The girls had merely confirmed her suspicions that Helen had been doing so all evening.

They had prosed on for so long that Helen had finally broken down in tears, something she hated to do in public. But Papa was not satisfied, it seemed. She changed into a day dress of her maid's choice and submitted to having her hair brushed and twisted into some sort of a style. Then she descended to the morning room, wishing that she had some food inside her to fortify her against the lecture that was coming, though she knew that food would not sit comfortably in her stomach at the moment. She blew out a breath silently through puffed cheeks and opened the door.

William Mainwaring stood facing her across the room, his hands behind his back, his legs slightly apart. He was looking pale, his expression even more austere than usual. Helen stared at him incredulously, closing the door behind her without conscious thought.

"You!" she said. "What are you doing in my father's house?"

"I came to speak to him and to you, Lady Helen," he said. His voice sounded strained.

"Indeed?" she prompted haughtily.

He seemed to be having trouble with his breathing. "I have asked your father if I may pay my addresses to you," he said at last. "He has given his consent. I would be greatly honored, ma'am, if you will consent to be my wife."

Helen continued to stare at him from her position just inside the door. "Have you completely taken leave: your senses?" she hissed. "How dare you come here with such a suggestion?"

He had not moved. His expression was still stern and controlled. "I can understand that you are angry with me," he said. "I did not know who you were."

"Angry," she said. She strode across the room suddenly, color flooding into her face. "Angry? Why should I be angry with you, sir? I am only incredulous at your temerity. I cannot imagine how you could have nerve enough even to come here this morning. But to talk to Papa! And to make me this offer! You can take your offer, sir, and chuck it in the Thames."

“Nell-" he began.

"My name is Helen, sir," she said, glaring at him m a few feet distant. "Lady Helen to you."

He took a deep and ragged breath. "I am sorry," he said. "I have not meant to insult you. I have lain awake all night thinking how I might make amends. I have much explaining to do, I know, and even then much of my behavior is beyond excuse. Please, ma'am, believe that I deeply regret what is past and wish to do something to put matters to rights."

Helen put her hands on her hips and laughed, a short, mocking laugh. "And you believe that matters can be put to rights, as you put it, by marrying me," she said. "I would consider marriage to you only further punishment for my own wrongdoings. I could think of no worse fate than to be sentenced to spend my life with a man of such low principles."

Mainwaring winced noticeably and turned paler, if that were possible. "I have ruined you, Nell… ma'am," he said quietly. His voice was almost pleading. "The least I can do is to offer you the protection of my name."

"I would prefer my own name and any ruin that goes with it, sir," she said. Her jaw was clenched as it had been the night before. She was finding it increasingly difficult to relax enough to speak clearly.

"Why did you not tell me?" he asked, searching her eyes with his.

Helen smiled unpleasantly and tapped her foot on the floor. "Would it have made a difference, William?" she asked. "If you had known I was Lady Helen Wade, would you have treated me with the proper respect? Don't answer that, please. I fear you might say yes, and then I would despise you even more than I do now. Are you one of those men who think it quite acceptable to tumble a girl of no social position, while you almost fear to touch the fingertips of a lady? I despise such double standards, sir."

He hesitated. "You do me some injustice," he said.

"Do I?" she asked. She looked him contemptuously up and down. "I did not notice you breaking a leg to find my fictitious father in the village to offer for me. In fact, you ran in the opposite direction. It was time to find someone new in Scotland, was it? You should be in your element now, sir. I hear that London is simply crawling with whores and lightskirts."

For the first time Mainwaring looked angry. "Such words and ideas do not become you," he said. "I see that I have made an error in coming here today. I apologize, ma'am. I shall not take any more of your time."

He bowed and moved past her in the direction of the door. He paused when he reached it, a hand on the knob. "If I can be of service to you at any time," he said quietly, "will you ask me? Please, Nell?"

She turned to face him, her eyes hard. "Mr. Mainwaring," she said, "you are the last person on God's earth to whom I would turn for help in any situation I can imagine."

He looked at her silently for several moments before letting himself quietly out the room.

Helen reached out a hand to grasp a porcelain figurine that stood on a table beside her. She aimed at the door on the level of where his head had been. But she let her hand fall to her side, the figurine still safely within her grasp. Her shoulders slumped. She was being self-righteous again. Why had she not simply agreed to exchange forgiveness with him so that they could have been free of their mutual guilt and free to merely dislike and avoid each other? She could not seem to do it. She could not forgive him. Was it perhaps because she could not quite forgive herself?

Helen replaced the porcelain ornament carefully on the table. She concentrated all her effort on not crying. Her face became so red and blotchy when she did so. Everyone would know of her misery.

William Mainwaring rode without thinking. When he finally came to an awareness of his surroundings, he was on the Great North Road, London already receding into the distance behind him. He did not know where he had thought to go-back home to Scotland, perhaps. Was the instinct to run away taking over from conscious thought again? He slowed his horse to a walk, but he did not immediately turn back. He needed to be alone for a while yet.

He could not possibly have botched things worse. The past twenty-four hours were like one jumbled nightmare in his mind-no, not even twenty-four. Until last evening, until he had found Nell in the person of Lady Helen Wade, he had thought that perhaps at last his life was beginning to follow some sort of satisfactory plan. Only an hour before meeting her again, he had decided to go back to Yorkshire and search her out and marry her if she would have him.

He still could not contemplate the night before with any rational thought. Seeing her in Robert's ballroom, knowing her real identity had completely numbed his mind. He could not now remember who his dancing partners had been. He could not remember who had been there or with whom he had talked. He could recall only his suffocating consciousness of her presence, at first standing, and later sitting on the sidelines. She had not danced even once. And she had looked sullen and quite unapproachable.

He had looked at her several times with incredulity. It was she, of course, yet she was not the Nell he remembered, the light, dreamy little wood nymph of his memory. This was a girl who was poorly dressed- the color and style of her gown were all wrong. Her hairstyle did not suit her and her face was fuller than he remembered. She would not have attracted him at all had he seen her for the first time that evening, he knew, especially with the brooding looks that were directed most often at the floor.

Yet he could look beyond her present appearance and see the ragged, unkempt, graceful creature he had known during the summer. And his heart had ached for her. Had London taken the bloom from her? Or had he done that? Looking at her minutes before he had approached her to ask her to dance, he had pictured her vividly as she had appeared the last time he had seen her, curled naked and sleepy beside him, flushed from his lovemaking, telling him that she loved him. He had found her refusal to dance a painful experience. He had wanted to stoop down in front of her, put his arms around her, and soothe away whatever it was that had taken away her joy.

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?

His reason was obvious, she supposed, and it was one that made her think worse of him than she had already done. He clearly did live by an appalling double standard. The accusation she had made to him in the heat of her anger had been quite justified. He had probably not given her a second thought since leaving her in the summer. A country wench did not merit any concern on the part of a gentleman. It was no barb for one's conscience to have ruined such a girl. But it was a different matter altogether when one knew that that girl was a lady. Only marriage could right such a wrong. It was true that she had done wrong to deceive him. She should not have put his moral values to such a test. But, right or wrong, she had tested him. And she did not like what she had found. She had to despise him for his behavior.

Had he seriously thought that she would accept him, gladly escape to respectability? Had he expected her to so humiliate herself, knowing full well that he offered only because he felt obliged to give her the protection of his name, as he had put it? He must have been confident if he had gone to her father first.

What did he really think of her? Despite his offer, he must really despise her. What woman of her age and rank would have done what she had done? She had given herself quite deliberately to a stranger, when even to have given a kiss should have shocked her. There was no question of seduction. She had entered into the liaison quite as freely as he. It was only now, perhaps, since they had arrived in London that she was beginning to realize even more fully the enormity of what she had done. She saw around her the young girls of the ton, cosseted and guarded at every turn by mamas and chaperons. Most of them probably never had a chance even to be alone with a man until after they were safely married. And she had met a man alone several times and had actually made love with him.

Yes, he must despise her. He must consider her to be a woman of very loose morals. Was she? She supposed she must be. She had suffered and she had been punished for her wrongdoing. She would continue to suffer probably for a long time to come. She could never again live the normal life of a girl of her class. She had accepted almost from the beginning that what she had done was terribly wrong. Yet despite it all, she still could not feel real shame for anything in the past except the deception she had practiced. She should be both ashamed and disgusted to remember that she had given herself to a man who was little more than a stranger. But she was not. The experience had made a woman of her in more than one way, and she would not revert to girlhood even if she could.

Let Mr. William Mainwaring despise her, she thought defiantly. Let him think that she could be as easily persuaded to marry him as to lie with him. She really did not care. If only he did not show to quite such advantage in his city clothes! It did not seem fair that he should have looked so handsome and so distinguished the night before, while she had looked as if she were dressed in someone's cast-off curtains. It was not fair that he had known he would see her this morning and had had the chance to dress in that close-fitting riding jacket of olive green and those buff riding breeches that fit him like a second skin and the highly polished boots. She had felt so dowdy in her brown wool morning dress and her hastily piled hair. And she had felt so unattractive with the extra weight she had put on recently, which seemed to have settled all around her face.

She must avoid him at all costs. She had thought that after seeing him once she would find future meetings easier. But he had made sure that that would not be the case. Now there would be all the acute embarrassment of remembering their interview of this morning. Not that another meeting would have been easy even without that encounter. Seeing him again the night before had only served to remind her of how very attractive a man William Mainwaring was. And disapproving of a man did not take away one's attraction to him, she had discovered with some dismay. She would just have to stay well away from him. The only consolation to her mind was the conviction that he would be just as anxious to avoid her from now on.

Chapter 11

Lord Harding appeared to be quite taken with Lady Emily Wade. He was a man in his early forties, a widower. He had spent the years since the death of his wife divided between his home in Richmond and the Foreign Office, where his fluent knowledge of several European languages made him an invaluable asset during the time of the Napoleonic wars. For a long while he had not seemed to feel the need for a new wife. His unmarried sister had moved into his home soon after his bereavement and had looked efficiently to his comforts and acted as his hostess on the rare occasions when he entertained.

But now the sister, at the age of two-and-thirty, had surprised everyone by betrothing herself to a widower, a baronet more than fifteen years her senior, who desperately needed a mature woman to care for his five children. When Lord Harding began to appear at the social events of the ton, therefore, it was rumored that he was finally looking around for a new wife. Lady Emily seemed to be his instant choice, and it was not difficult to see why that would be. She was the daughter of an earl. She was young, yet past her girlhood, elegant and dignified. He was not the sort of man who would be unduly concerned with her lack of humor.

She was invited to attend the theater with him, his sister, and her betrothed a week after the Hetherington ball, a week during which she had driven with him twice and received visits from him on two other occasions. Lady Melissa was also invited to attend in order to even the numbers with a young cousin of Lord Harding's. However, it was Helen who actually did go. She showed almost the only animation she had displayed since their arrival in London when she heard of the good fortune of her sisters.

"You are going to see The School for Scandal?" she said when Emily introduced the topic over tea in the drawing room one afternoon. "Oh, Emmy, I would give my right arm to be in your shoes. I have read the play, you know, and it is enormously witty. I wonder if it will be well-acted. Oh, I do wish I could see it myself."

Melissa pulled a face. "You would not be so eager if you knew what company you would be in, Helen," she said. "Lord Harding, Miss Lane, and Sir Rupert Davies are quite distinguished company, of course, but Mr. Simms! He must be a head shorter than I am, and so thin and youthful-looking that I shall be positively embarrassed to be seen with him."

"Oh, Melly!" Helen retorted. "What possible difference can it make who your companion is to be when you will be watching a play? You will hardly even be called upon to converse with him."

"Then do you go with him," Melissa said crossly. "You would be a more suitable companion anyway, Helen. I am sure the two of you are more of an age, and you probably would not be taller than he."

"Oh, may I, Emmy, do you think?" Helen asked, turning to her eldest sister eagerly. "I promise to be impeccably well-behaved and to smile until my face splits in two."

Emily replaced her cup in its saucer and placed both on the table in front of her. "I really do not see why you cannot take Melissa's place," she said. "Lord Harding asked only that my sister accompany us tomorrow evening. You really must keep that promise, though, Helen."

"Oh, I shall," Helen cried. "I shall be so intent on the play that I shall not have a chance to get into any kind of trouble, Emmy."

"Well," her sister said doubtfully, "you must remember that a visit to the theater is a social occasion too. You are not expected to have your attention so glued to the stage that you totally ignore your companions."

"I shall be very civil to Mr. What's-his-name, never fear," Helen assured her sister.

On the following evening Helen was still excited. She had never seen a play performed before. She could only imagine how delightful the experience would be. She took extra pains with her appearance, insisting on a plain satin gown of royal blue, which made her look a great deal less pasty than did the pastel shades favored by her mother. She had Matty tightly braid her hair and wrap it around the back of her head. It was a new style for her, but it would certainly tame those wisps of hair that always succeeded in working •heir way free of loose curls or ringlets. She thought the braids quite becoming when she examined herself in the glass. A pale face, which had lost its youthful bloom, looked back at her, but she was not concerned a ith dazzling anyone.

Lord Harding had brought his cousin with him in the carriage. They were to meet his sister and her betrothed at the theater. Melissa had been quite right. Mr. Timothy Simms was a very small man and thin into the bargain. Although he was apparently very young, his fair hair was thinning. He seemed to be living to disguise its sparsity by combing it straight up at the sides and piled in the center. His shirt points were so high and so stiff that Helen feared he was in danger of scratching his eyeballs with them. But she was not at all perturbed by the thought of having to spend the evening in his company. She smiled dazzlingly at him and unknowingly enslaved him from the first moment.

She gazed about her in frank wonder when they entered Lord Harding's box at the theater. She did not know what she had expected, but it was certainly not this.

"It is more like a ballroom than a theater," she said wide-eyed to Mr. Simms, who was solicitously placing a chair for her close to the balcony. "Look at those chandeliers and all the velvet in the boxes."

"It is quite a magnificent place, is it not?" he agreed.

"And the people!" she continued. "Do they always dress like this, sir, to watch a play?"

Mr. Simms smiled indulgently and placed his own chair as close to Helen's as he decently could. "But of course," he said. "Attending the theater is a fashionable activity, Lady Helen. No one wishes to be seen to disadvantage by other members of the ton."

"And will everyone quieten down when the play begins?" Helen asked. "There is such a noise now that I can scarcely hear myself think."

He smiled. "A great deal depends on the quality of the acting," he said. "People will listen if there is something worthwhile to listen to."

"And they will carry on talking otherwise?" she asked incredulously. "How unspeakably rude!"

Mr. Simms laughed outright. "You are delightfully idealistic, Lady Helen," he said. "Most people do not come to the theater for the primary purpose of watching a play, you know."

But at that moment the performance began and there was no further chance for conversation. Helen was enthralled from the outset. Mr. Sheridan's wit positively sparkled through the expert performance of the actors. She could not have said afterward if the audience had quietened down or not. She forgot there was an audience. She was alone in the theater, carried body and soul into the world of the drama. It was quite bewildering at the end of the act to discover that there was to be an intermission before the play resumed. Helen blinked and looked around her, disoriented for a moment.

Lord Harding rose and held out a hand to Emily. "May I escort you to the box of my aunt, Lady Downing? She has asked that I present you to her," he said.

They left the box, followed closely by Lord Harding's sister and Sir Rupert Davies. Helen had no intention of moving. Had she got up from her seat and moved out of sight of the stage, the spell would be broken. She waited impatiently for the play to resume. She found it harder to converse with Mr. Simms than she had before. She looked around when someone entered the box, expecting to see one of their party returned. But it was William Mainwaring who was standing there looking at her.

"Good evening, Lady Helen," he said gravely, bowing formally. "I trust you are enjoying the play?"

Helen gaped and suddenly became very conscious of Mr. Simms beside her. "Thank you, sir," she said. "Yes, indeed, I am. May I present Mr. Timothy Simms? Mr. Simms, Mr. William Mainwaring."

The two men exchanged bows and polite greetings. And all three of them conducted a stiff and labored conversation for the few minutes that ensued before Lord Harding's group returned. Mr. Mainwaring exchanged civilities with the newcomers and took his leave. But before he did so, he turned to Helen again and addressed her quietly, but for all to hear.

"May I call on you tomorrow, ma'am," he asked, "and take you driving in the park?"

Helen bit down hard on her lower lip. Just in time she remembered where she was and who her audience was. And she had promised Emmy so faithfully to be on her best behavior. She could not make a scene. And he must have known it.

"Thank you, sir," she was forced to reply meekly. "That would be very pleasant."

And that was the end of the play, as far as Helen was concerned. She might as well not have been there at all, she reflected later, for all that she saw or heard. She could see them out of the corner of her eye the whole time: William, the Marquess and Marchioness of Hetherington, and a slightly older couple, in a box almost directly opposite the one in which she sat. She could not imagine how she had not noticed them there before. They must have come late and she had been so engrossed in the play that she had not witnessed their arrival.

Why, in the name of all that was wonderful, had he decided to pay a call on her during the intermission? Had her rejection of the week before not been plain enough? And why would he want to challenge her rejection, anyway? Surely he had offered for her only out of a sense of social duty. It should have been a vast relief to him to find that he need not marry her after all. Yet not only had he felt somehow obliged to call on her this evening, but he had also maneuvered her into accepting a more private meeting with him the following day.

She did not wish to go driving with him. She did not wish to see him ever again; she certainly did not want to be close to him or to be in the position of having to converse with him. What did they have to say to each other? Even apart from her dislike of him and the contempt that each must feel for the other, it would be acutely embarrassing to be alone and yet on public display with the man with whom she had been so intimate just a few months before. Even during those very uncomfortable minutes when he had been involved with her and Mr. Simms in an absurdly formal conversation, she had had alarming flashes of memory of him kissing her, touching her, his face close to hers, dreamy with passion.

She would merely have to be sick the next day or she would have to think of some other excuse not to keep the appointment. But of course, it would not work. Emily had heard her consent quite positively and quite freely to drive with Mr. Mainwaring. And Emily would tell Mama. And Mama would make her go. Mama's hopes of a wedding for her youngest daughter would be instantly revived. Was that what he hoped for? Did he really wish to marry her?

Helen had the uncomfortable feeling that William Mainwaring might prove to be a troublesome adversary.

William Mainwaring was feeling decidedly nervous as he guided his curricle through the busy traffic of the London streets on his way to Charles Street. For a week he had been looking for her wherever he went, hoping that somehow he could arrange to talk to her, to give her a better impression of himself than he had I ne hitherto. He had racked his brains for a method of approach. But then, when he had seen her the evening before at the theater, he felt as if he had been taken by surprise. He had been as jittery as a boy with his first infatuation.

He had agreed at the last minute to accompany Robert and Elizabeth and their mutual friends, the Prossers, to the theater. He had not wanted to go at first, feeling that his presence as a fifth member of the party would be awkward. But all four of them had persuaded him over dinner that they really desired his company. They had been almost late, arriving only minutes before the performance began. And he had been looking forward to the play. He always enjoyed a sparkling eighteenth-century farce. He had seen Nell immediately, seated in the box opposite and talking animatedly to a young man he had not seen before.

The first act had been completely lost on him. He had hardly glanced at the stage but had looked across at her almost the whole time. There was no danger that she would turn and see his interest. She was as utterly absorbed in the play as she had been with the water when he first saw her or with the sky on the second occasion. She leaned forward over the edge of the box, both arms on the velvet armrest before her. She had looked beautiful to him again. Her hair was drawn back and made her look younger and more fragile. And her face had had that dreamy yet eager look that had attracted him during the summer. He had felt a rush of tenderness for her. He longed to be sitting beside her so that she would turn to him and share with him her enthusiasm.

The intermission between acts had been more than half over by the time he had made up his mind to go and speak to her. She was so obviously enjoying herself. Did he have the right to spoil her evening? Her reaction to him both during Robert's ball and on the following morning had suggested that she would not welcome a visit from him now. Yet if he did not go, he might not see her again for days or even weeks. Elizabeth had finally caused him to make up his mind.

"Have you seen your neighbors across from us?" she had asked. "I am so happy to see that they have made new acquaintances. They felt like strangers and outsiders when they first arrived, I think."

"Yes, I noticed them earlier," Mainwaring had replied, "and was about to pay my respects, in fact."

"Oh, William," she had said, laying a hand lightly on his arm, "perhaps you should wait until Lady Emily returns to the box. Only that horrid little girl is there at present."

He had smiled. "Lady Helen is really not such a horror once one gets to know her," he had said.

"If you ask me," Robert had added, grinning, "allowing you to go, William, is like allowing a Christian into the lions' den. We shall watch from here and come to pick up your remains if it seems necessary."

So he had gone and had found himself almost totally tongue-tied. He could not have said afterward what they had talked about. He did know that he had felt an unreasonable jealousy of Mr. Timony Simms, with whom she had seemed to be conversing quite happily before his arrival. He had noticed when they stood that they were almost of a height, and they had both looked youthful and shy. Perhaps he was too old for her, too dull, to different in every way.

He had not meant to trick Nell. When Harding had returned with his companions, he had prepared to leave, but he had had a last-minute panicked feeling that if he left then he would never have the chance to talk to her again. So he had turned to her, in the hearing of them all, and asked her to drive with him this afternoon. Of course, it had been a wicked thing to do. He had asked civilly, and she had almost no choice but to agree or make an unpleasant scene. But he had not meant to do it; he had not planned it beforehand.

He was on his way to call for her. He did not know what his reception would be. Perhaps she would have found some excuse for not going out with him. She would almost certainly be angry or sullen. And he did not know what he would talk about, how he would broach the subject that he wished to discuss with her. He wanted to explain to her why he had left her without a word in the summer, and he wanted to explain that he had decided to offer for her even before he knew her identity. But would she give him the chance? And would he find the right words even if she did?

One of his questions was answered as soon as he entered the house on Charles Street. The butler showed him immediately to the drawing room, where the countess and her two elder daughters were entertaining Lord Harding and Mr. Simms. Helen entered the room almost before he had a chance to greet everyone, wearing a russet velvet pelisse and brown bonnet trimmed with orange ribbons. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.

Lord Harding and Mr. Simms got to their feet. The latter made her an elegant bow. "Lady Helen," he said, "I hoped to see you this afternoon. Will you be at Lady Kirsten's musical evening tomorrow? I hope to see you there-and your sisters, of course."

"I have been looking forward to it, sir," she replied. "Lady Kirsten always succeeds in engaging artists of superior talent, I have heard."

Helen turned determinedly to Mainwaring. "Good afternoon, sir," she said brightly. "I am ready for our drive, as you see."

He bowed and stood aside for her to precede him from the room.

It was every bit as dreadful as he had expected. She was not angry and she was not sullen. But she was so determinedly bright that he soon despaired of ever breaking through her mask. She smiled constantly and sat bolt upright on the seat beside him.

"You look very pretty, Nell," he said. "Just like the autumn."

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "I considered that the outfit would be suitable for the season."

"Are you warm enough?" he asked. "There is a blanket that I can spread across your lap if you need it."

"Gracious no," she said with a bright little laugh. "It is a glorious day, sir, quite warm for the time of year. Look, there is not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is still quite high."

"Do you enjoy driving in London?" he asked. "It is not any match for the open countryside, is it?"

"Oh, but very much more interesting," she said. "One has only to look around to see all kinds and classes of humanity. And driving in the park is a most exhilarating experience. One can see in one afternoon almost everyone who is anyone, and one can learn a great deal about the latest fashions. The countryside has nothing to compare with such excitement, sir."

Mainwaring was silent for a while. Indeed, turning into the park without colliding with any other vehicle took his whole concentration. It was the fashionable hour, and the day was unusually suited to an outing.

"How are you enjoying London, Nell?" he asked when he could relax his attention again. He turned and looked at her flushed face beneath the brim of her bonnet. "Do you enjoy all the social activities and the •xtra company?"

"It must be every girl's dream, sir, to spend some months in London," she said, "and to participate in the social whirl. How else are we to find eligible husbands and to remain in touch with the important events in life?"

"But I am not asking every girl, Nell," he said quietly. "I am asking you."

She looked across at him haughtily. "And what makes you think that I am any different from the others?" she asked.

"Nell," he said, "not so long ago we could talk to each other, you and I. We could share thoughts and feelings. You were not a brittle little city girl then. Can you not talk to me now?"

"I am a different person entirely from the girl I was then," she said, looking away from him out over the grass and the trees beyond the traffic of carriages, horses, and pedestrians. "I have grown up, sir, and I find it boring in the extreme to be reminded of that time."

"I am sorry," he said. "I liked the other Nell."

And after that exchange, he found, they really had nothing to say to each other. There was so much he wanted to say. He did not for a moment believe that she had really changed so much in such a short time. But he was not adept with words. He was not accomplished at communicating with people. If only he had been Robert Denning at that moment, he thought. Robert would have known exactly how to keep his good humor and how to get her talking. There would not be this almost unbearable tension. What would Robert do right now? What would he say to break down the barriers between them? He tried desperately to answer his own questions. But it was as it always had been with him. The more he tried to think of what to say, the more he found himself tongue-tied.

It was quite a relief to see the Hetheringtons approaching in an open phaeton. He had not been expecting such a reprieve. He had heard Elizabeth say that driving in the park was too funny to be borne. People went there, she claimed, only to show off their new clothes and hairdos and to gather enough gossip to give themselves food for conversation during the coming evening.

She was smiling broadly when the two vehicles drew abreast. "Good afternoon, Lady Helen, William," she called gaily. "Robert and I have decided to join the squeeze this afternoon, too, as you see. It is really far too nice a day to remain indoors, and where else does one go in London if one wants an outing?"

"To tell the real truth," Hetherington added, smiling mischievously at his wife, "Elizabeth has a new bonnet and she had to come here to be quite sure that it is far more bang up to the minute than any other lady's."

"Robert!" she scolded. "You will put me to the blush. There is really not a word of truth in what he says, Lady Helen. Do you not agree with me that it would be so much more pleasant today to be in the country galloping a horse across a wide field?"

"No," Helen said, staring expressionless at the smiling marchioness. "I am much happier just where I am."

"You look very fetching, I must say," Hetherington said, filling the little gap of awkwardness that Helen's reply had caused. "Just like an autumn leaf."

"Mr. Mainwaring said the same thing to me earlier," Helen said. "I suppose it must be true."

Her tone sounded utterly bored. Mainwaring was acutely embarrassed. "I believe we are holding up traffic," he said. "I shall see you tomorrow morning, Robert?"

"Yes, indeed," his friend replied. "The park is much more to my liking in the morning, when it is less crowded. Good day to you, Lady Helen."

Helen nodded stiffly to the pair of them while Mainwaring took a warmer farewell. They drove on in a silence that was even more tense than it had been before their meeting with the Hetheringtons. William Mainwaring broke it.

"I understand that you are angry with me," he said curtly. "I know that you have taken me in disgust for several reasons. I can excuse you for not speaking or behaving as most young ladies would when out driving with a gentleman. But I wish you would reserve that behavior for me. I do not take kindly to your treating my friends in an ill-mannered way. They have done nothing to offend you, Nell. On the contrary, they always go out of their way to make other people feel comfortable in their presence."

Helen did not immediately reply. When he turned to look at her, Mainwaring saw that she was rigid with anger. He stared out over his horses' heads again and waited for her to reply.

"How dare you!" she said finally. Her voice was very quiet, shaking with fury. "You have no possible right, sir, to lecture me on correct behavior. You of all people! I cannot believe that you can have the effrontery to set yourself up as an authority on good manners."

"You know as well as I do that you were deliberately rude to the Marquess of Hetherington and his wife," he said calmly. "I do not doubt that it was done to embarrass me. And you succeeded admirably. But you also embarrassed two people who have in no way deserved your scorn. Vent your contempt on me if you must, Nell. I have at least partly deserved it."

She turned to him and looked full into his face. "Mr. Mainwaring," she said, "when I refused to dance or converse with you at the marquess's ball, I believed I had made it clear that I had no wish to renew our acquaintance. And when you came to me with your insulting offer of marriage, I am sure I made it abundantly obvious that I both hate and despise you. Yet you have pursued me. I had no wish to see you last night, and I had no wish to drive with you this afternoon. I should be happy never to see you again. If I must be rude to your friends in order to be rid of you, then I shall be rude. But I will not be called to task by such as you. I will not."

Mainwaring had paled, but he had had the presence of mind to turn his curricle away from the main promenade so that their quarrel would not be conducted in such a glaringly public setting. He turned to look at her now, pain in his eyes. "Nell," he said, "there is so much I want to say to you. I have behaved badly, I will admit, but there is much you do not understand. I would like to have the chance to talk to you. There were no barriers between us when we first met. Yet now it is as if a stone wall had been erected between us."

"I wish it had!" she retorted. "I have nothing to say to you, sir, not now or ever. I wish to go home."

"Nell…"he said.

She turned on him, angry again. "And I have told you before," she said, "that that is not my name. I wish you to stop this curricle immediately, sir, and set me down. I find that I would prefer to walk home than have to remain in your company a moment longer."

"That will not be necessary," he said. "I shall take you home."

"Set me down," she commanded. "I wish to walk."

"No, I cannot do that," he replied. "I have brought you out with your parents' knowledge, and it is my responsibility to see you safely home again."

"Yes," she said, "and I am so safe with you, am I not, William? You will protect me from all the horrors that might face me if I were on foot and alone. Who knows? Some unprincipled man might even consider abducting me."

"That is unfair," he said, his face still pale and set into stern lines. "You know that what happened between us, Nell, was no abduction. You were as willing and as eager as I."

"Yes," she agreed, "to my everlasting shame. Take me home, sir, at once, and I charge you as a gentleman to leave me alone in the future. I might have to see you again in the coming weeks, but I have no wish to talk to you again. Or to your friends," she added.

They drove back to Charles Street in silence. Mainwaring did not enter the house, but lifted Helen to the ground, bowed, and turned back to his curricle as soon as a footman opened the door.

Chapter 12

Elizabeth Denning was in the nursery, bouncing her son on her knee. Most of the time he watched her solemnly, drooling wetly from an open mouth. Occasionally he would delight her with a wide smile. It was definitely a smile, she had decided. It was no longer just wind. Somehow he had got into his fist the ribbon that tied her dress below her breasts and was trying to direct it into his mouth.

"No, no, lambkin," she said, gently wresting the ribbon from his fingers. "I cannot walk around for the rest of the morning with a damp and bedraggled ribbon hanging down my front, you know. Shall we find a toy for you?"

She lifted him high in the air as she stood up, and he smiled his toothless smile again. "Just like Papa, lambkin," she said, laughing up at him, "except that you do not yet have his lovely white teeth."

"And a good thing too," a cheerful voice said from the doorway. "Even a toothless son is giving me quite enough competition for my wife's affections. I gather that you have finally admitted, my love, that John really can smile. Quite an accomplished little mite, is he not? But then, how could he avoid being so when he has two such parents?" He bent and kissed the baby on top of his blond curls and his wife on the lips.

"It is your modesty, you know, Robert, that has always attracted me to you," Elizabeth said, lifting her head and kissing him in return.

He grinned. "Here is a strange invitation," he said, raising a card that he held in one hand. "I thought I had better find you out and see what you think before replying."

"Oh?" she prompted.

"Harding is organizing a party to take out to his Richmond home for a couple of days," he said. "He feels that the distance is far enough that his guests should stay overnight. He wants us to make two of the group."

"Really?" Elizabeth said. "We hardly know him, do we? To what do we owe the honor? It really is an honor, you know, Robert. Lord Harding hardly ever entertains. I do not believe many people have seen his home."

"I have been thinking about it," Hetherington said. "Harding has been paying court to that eldest daughter of Claymore's. I imagine the matter must be serious. His name has not been linked with that of any woman since the death of his wife years ago. The outing is probably for her benefit."

"And you think our connection with the earl and his family is the reason why we have been invited?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well," he replied, "William was almost the only person they knew when they arrived here, and we must have been among their earliest acquaintances. If Harding wishes to please the girl, he has probably been careful to invite people she knows."

"Then William will also have been invited?" she said.

"Probably," he replied. "Do you think we should accept, Elizabeth?"

"I hate to think of leaving John for a whole day and a night," Elizabeth said hesitantly. "But it is tempting, Robert. I must confess a curiosity to see Lord Harding's home. And it would be ill-mannered to refuse, would it not?"

"I shall return an acceptance then," he said. "Perhaps we will be needed to rescue William from the lions' den."

"Oh, Robert," she said, "you do not think that perfectly horrid sister will be there, do you? But of course, it is highly probable. I had not thought of that. She will be bound to ruin the whole outing and I shall be very hard put to it to be civil to her."

He laughed. "My love," he said, "I do not believe you could be rude to anyone if you tried. Although, when I think about the matter, I can remember some pretty blistering insults you once let fry in my direction."

"Why did William take her driving yesterday?" Elizabeth asked. "I still cannot understand it, although we talked and talked about it yesterday."

"I believe it is as I said then," Hetherington replied. "William feels sorry for her and is trying to coax her out of the dismals. He has a kind heart, you know."

"Yes," she agreed, "but there should be limits to the amount of sacrifice one is prepared to make for an ungrateful person. Oh, I hope she does not come, Robert. We shall have to protect William from her if she does."

Hetherington grinned broadly. "You are quite irresistible, you know, Elizabeth, when you are angry," he said. He swept the baby into his arms and placed him down on the floor, where a blanket was spread with toys. "I am sorry, John, my boy, but I have a pressing need to hug your mama."

"Robert!" she scolded as he took her into his arms. "Do have a care. Nurse may be back at any moment."

"And would have an immediate heart seizure to find me holding and kissing my own wife," he said, smothering any further protests with his mouth.

All three of the Earl of Claymore's daughters had been invited to accompany Lord Harding to his home and to stay there for one night. Emily was clearly gratified. She had already confided to her mama that if he were to offer for her, she would accept. He was considerably older than she, of course, but he had all the dignity, position, and consequence that she looked for in a husband. And there was no denying that he was a handsome man despite the fact that he was more than forty years old. His invitation suggested that he was seriously considering making her an offer. One did not invite a casual acquaintance to one's home.

Melissa too looked forward to the visit. She had not taken very well with the ton thus far. She had had her fair share of partners at the two balls they had attended, and she had even been sent a few bouquets after those entertainments. But no gentleman had yet singled her out for marked attention. She was somewhat disappointed that Mr. Mainwaring had shown no inclination to renew the attachment that had seemed to be budding between them during the summer. Not that she had intended being friendly with him, but it was provoking to be denied the opportunity to set him down. If Emmy could only become betrothed to Lord Harding, she felt, her own position could only be enhanced. It was likely too that he had invited guests other than themselves to his home. Perhaps some of them would be interesting people.

Helen accepted the invitation and even showed mild enthusiasm about it in the presence of her family. But she did not want to go. She did not want to go anywhere, in fact. The depression that had been heavy on her since their arrival in London and, indeed, before that had not lifted at all. It was impossible for it to be lifted, in fact, but she supposed she had been looking for some miracle to happen. Her gloom had only deepened. How much longer would she be able to go on like this, in a state of indecision and inaction?

Try as she would, she could not shake William Mainwaring from her mind. Why, oh why, had he had to decide to come to London at the same time as they? It was impossible to avoid him, utterly painful to see him. And he made it worse by going out of his way to be close to her and speak to her.

He had wanted to explain his past behavior when they had driven together in the park. Should she have listened? It might have been interesting to hear the story he had made up. But it would have hurt beyond anything to have heard him lie on top of everything else. And there could be no real explanation of what he had done.

It would not be so hard to bear if she could only stop loving him, she thought, or if it were possible to blot out the past and begin life afresh. But neither action was possible. She had only fully admitted to herself that she still loved him after that drive together. It was no good trying to pretend she did not. She would never deceive herself. But she did not want to love him. He was guilty of behavior that she could never forgive. Had he had the courage to come to her during the summer to explain that he was going away because he could never marry a girl of a different class, she might at least respect him for honesty. But as it was, she could afford him no respect at all.

So it seemed she was doomed to love and hate William. She would not have thought it possible to feel both emotions at once, but it was. And she could not continue to see him. What if he persisted in noticing her? She would really lose her temper at some time and disgrace not only herself but also her whole family. Funny to think of disgracing them by merely losing one's temper! As it was, she had behaved very badly. She did not care about the way she had spoken to him both at the ball and in the park. But she knew she had been rude to the Hetheringtons, without any cause whatsoever except that they were his friends. William had been quite right about that. It was probably that fact that had made her so angry with him.

She even wondered if she owed an apology to the marquess and his wife. But it was hard to apologize when the offense had not been a really open one. And she did not feel like apologizing. She really did dislike them. But why? Just because they were William's friends? If she was totally honest with herself, she would have to admit that there was more to it than that. They were such an attractive couple, good-looking and vibrant with life, while she felt so dull and so lackluster, especially now. And they were so clearly happy with each other. They were not two individuals, but a couple, it seemed. She had to admit to jealousy, a burning envy. Much as she had tried to convince herself to the contrary, she would have liked a marriage like that. But it was impossible now.

She would go with Emmy and Melly to Lord Harding's house, Helen decided, but after that she would have to do something, make some decision about her future. She could not go on much longer like this. Until then she would block all her problems from her mind.

Lord Harding had all his guests gather at his London home so that they might travel to Richmond together. It was a beautiful day, one of those crisp days of autumn when the sun shines and the air is still and one feels that summer is heavy and lifeless in comparison. He was in a good mood. Lady Emily Wade and her two sisters had accepted his invitation; his courtship of the former was progressing quite satisfactorily. Once he had seen her in the setting of his favorite home and assured himself that she suited it, he would pay a call on her father and make arrangements for the nuptials. He had no doubt that she would accept him.

As for his other guests, all had accepted and had arrived on time for a morning start. There were his sister, Sophie Lane, and Sir Rupert Davies; young Timothy; his sister's friend, Miss Janet Ashley, and her brother, Mr. Rodney Ashley; Mr. William Mainwaring; and the Marquess and Marchioness of Hetherington. He was not closely acquainted with any of the last three, but they were apparently friends of Lady Emily's, and he wished her to feel comfortable during the outing.

William Mainwaring had guessed that Helen would be one of the party. The purpose of the visit was an open secret. If Harding were planning to make the eldest girl his bride, it stood to reason that the other two sisters would be among his guests. He was not quite sure how he felt about the situation. Since his drive in the park with Nell, he had not been at all sure that it was possible to break through the barrier she had erected between them. If he was to talk to her again, he would have much preferred a more private setting than they were likely to find during these two days.

He did not trust her, either, to confine her disapproval to him. He could have faced with some resignation the prospect of her singling him out for a public setdown. But he feared that she would again treat Robert and Elizabeth with less than good manners. Perhaps she would even go beyond that. He would have to try to avoid such a situation if he possibly could. Perhaps he could ignore her completely.

Could he do so, though? He was not sure that it was possible. He could not see her without feeling a strong attraction to her. This, despite the fact that she made no effort to look her best or to behave in a pleasing manner. Seeing her sullen, ill-mannered, and obviously unhappy made his heart ache. She had been such a vibrant yet dreamy little thing when he first knew her. She had seemed a part of the beauty and innocence of the woods around her. And the weight of responsibility was heavy on him. Had he caused the change in her?

He feared there was no doubt that he had. She had given herself to him without thought or conscious decision there in the woods. It had been an unreal atmosphere, in which she had been unable to apply the codes that her upbringing must have instilled in her. And clearly she was bitterly regretting what had happened. She felt herself ruined, no doubt, unable to throw herself wholeheartedly into the life of the ton, unable to encourage any other man. Yet she would not accept his offer. She saw him as her seducer and hated him for it. She would not marry him even for the sake of restoring respectability to her life. Dear Nell! She was high-principled, after all.

The ladies rode in two carriages, while the men rode close to them. Helen and Elizabeth had each made an effort to be in different carriages. Neither felt comfortable at the prospect of being thrown into company with the other for almost two whole days. Helen, in fact, was badly shaken. She had not known who Lord Harding's guests were to be. It had never once crossed her mind that perhaps William and the marquess and marchioness would be of their number. She knew of no friendship between her sister's suitor and them. It took her a while to realize that it was her sister's connection to them that had caused them to be invited. Of course. Lord Harding was clearly trying to fix his interest with Emmy. He had invited those three because they were her earliest acquaintances in London.

Helen felt utterly trapped. It was a relatively small party. It would be impossible to avoid them for all the hours that lay ahead. And it was too late by the time she knew the truth to find a way out of going herself. She was already at Lord Harding's London house. So she sat in the carriage, listening halfheartedly to the animated conversation between Sophie Lane and Janet Ashley, sitting side by side on the seat opposite. Emmy and Melly were in the other carriage with the marchioness. Helen was suffocatingly aware of William, tall and handsome and grim on his horse outside, in view almost every time she looked out of the window, though he did not approach the carriage once during the journey.

The afternoon and the formal dinner passed agreeably for almost everyone. A late luncheon was awaiting them when they arrived, and afterward the ladies retired to the rooms that had been prepared for them to rest after the journey. Later Lord Harding took some of his guests on a walk around his very large garden, while the less energetic stayed in the house to play billiards or merely to converse around the cozy fire that had been lit in the drawing room. They all retired again before dinner in order to rest and get ready for the evening.

Lord Harding was feeling pleased with himself by the time dinner was over. Lady Emily Wade had behaved with the modest self-assurance that he desired in a wife. She had admired his home and his garden, yet with a restraint that did not suggest a greed to make them her own. She had sat to his right at both luncheon and dinner and had conversed sensibly with both him and her near neighbors. Perhaps, if the opportunity presented itself, he thought, he would talk to her later in the evening. She was, after all, of age, and talking to her father was a formality rather than a strict necessity.

Melissa was feeling moderately contented. She had succeeded in singling Mr. Rodney Ashley out from the rest of the group that had gone walking earlier and found him to be an agreeable young man, even if not a particularly forceful character. She had made a point of being close to him when dinner was announced, and he had led her in and seated himself next to her. At least she was showing Mr. Mainwaring that she was in no way pining for his attentions.

William Mainwaring himself was beginning to breathe more easily. So far he had succeeded in keeping both himself and the Hetheringtons away from Nell. All three of them had chosen to remain at the house during the afternoon. He was not sure if Elizabeth and Robert, like him, had deliberately stayed back when it became clear that Nell intended to go. It hurt him more than he would admit to feel that perhaps his friends were deliberately avoiding her, but it was nevertheless a relief. She was very quiet today. He had hardly heard her voice, even at the dinner table, when she was sitting two seats removed from his. But it was not a contented quiet, he felt. Her face was pale and rigidly set. He did not wish to provoke any unpleasantness in public.

It had been a nightmare of a day for Helen. She had held grimly to her self-control, but she felt like an animal caught in a trap. She felt suffocated for air. If only she could get away! She had thought of pleading illness and returning home, but doing so would attract too much attention. She had flirted desperately with Mr. Simms over luncheon but had realized with dismay that he was very responsive. She must not deliberately capture the poor man's heart when she knew she might leave him hurt. She knew too well what such treatment felt like.

Unfortunately, Mr. Simms had stayed close to her all through the afternoon, and he had led her in to dinner and talked to her throughout. Perhaps it was a good thing. At least his presence gave her good reason to stay away from the three people she wished to avoid. But now she had the added problem of being civil to him while not in any way encouraging his advances. And she could not avoid watching the Hetheringtons in the drawing room before dinner, her arm linked through his, conversing with perfect amiability to all around them, but occasionally glancing at each other with open affection. And she was forced to watch William cross the room to Janet Ashley and offer her his arm in to dinner, and to listen to his voice as he talked to her during the meal.

Yet, by the time dinner was over, she was at least pleased that there had been no confrontation. If they could just get through the evening as they had the day, they could all go home in the morning and breathe easily again. Emmy at least looked happy. It was clearly only a matter of time before she was betrothed to Lord Harding. He was a thoroughly dry old stick in Helen's estimation and not without a large sense of his own importance. But he would, undoubtedly, be a good catch for Emmy. Life as Lady Harding would suit her down to the ground.

Sophie had risen from the table, and Helen took her cue, as did the other ladies, to leave the gentlemen to their port. She followed the others to the drawing room. Most of them immediately clustered around the pianoforte. Helen would have sat down close to the fire had not the marchioness done so first. Helen had no desire for a t?te-a-t?te with that lady. She lingered close to the others while it was decided that Melly should play first and Emmy sing.

They were still arranged thus when the gentlemen joined them. Mr. Simms immediately singled out Helen.

"Do you play?" he asked. "I am sure we would all like to hear you."

"Yes," she said, "I do play, but only for my own amusement, sir."

Lord Harding was standing close, having approached the instrument to congratulate Emily on the song she had just finished. "I'll wager you are being too modest, Lady Helen," he said. "Your sisters are both accomplished musicians. I would expect that you are in no way inferior. Please favor us with a piece."

"I would rather not," she said. "Really, I have not been used to playing in public as my sisters have."

"Then sing for us at least," Mr. Simms persisted. "I am sure you must have a sweet voice. Your sister will remain at the pianoforte and accompany you, I am sure." He smiled at Melissa, who still occupied the stool.

Helen's hands were opening and closing at her sides. She was trying hard to maintain her control, though she felt as if the nightmare of the day were reaching a climax. "I don't sing," she said.

"Perhaps a duet," he suggested. "I sing a little myself. Surely we can find a song that we both know. You can play while I sing."

Her hands were clenched into fists now, her knuckles white against the sides of her gown. "I think not," she said, forcing a smile. She could feel her control slipping.

Mr. Simms smiled back and opened his mouth to continue his persuasions.

A hand grasped Helen lightly by the arm. "Lady Helen is tired, I believe," William Mainwaring said. "It has been a long and busy day." He turned to smile down at her. "Perhaps you are ready for that walk in the garden we talked about earlier? Or are you too tired?" He would allow her a way out if she wanted it.

She looked blankly back at him for a moment, but he felt the muscles of her arms relax as she unclenched her hands. "No, I am not too tired," she said. "Fresh air and a walk are just what I need."

"Go and fetch your cloak, then," he said. "It will be chilly outside, I think."

She went from the room in a daze.

Chapter 13

He held the front door open for her, waving aside the footman who jumped forward for the purpose. It was not a dark night. The sky was still as clear as it had been all day, and the nearly full moon and the stars gave enough light that they did not need to stay on the terrace that circled the house. When they had descended the stone steps to the cobbled courtyard before it, William Mainwaring took Helen's arm and linked it through his.

She felt herself grow tense. He had touched her briefly before, when they were introduced at the ball and when he had helped her into and out of his curricle the afternoon they had driven together. But those had not been prolonged contacts. Now she could feel the muscles of his arm through the thickness of his greatcoat, and her shoulder rested against his upper arm. She felt small and fragile again, as she had when they had become lovers. And she wanted above everything else to close her eyes and lay her head against his shoulder and trust to his strength to bear all her burdens.

She had very nearly cracked back there in the drawing room. One moment more and she would have been screaming with fury at poor Mr. Simms and Lord Harding. And over what? Just a small matter of playing the pianoforte and singing. It was too ghastly a thought to bear contemplation. She would have horribly embarrassed both herself and everyone else present. But more serious than that, she might have jeopardized Emily's chances with Lord Harding. He might not want a bride with a sister who could so lose all sense of propriety. Though soon enough he would know anyway. William had saved her on this occasion. There could be no doubt that he had sensed her mood and had done what he could to avert trouble. She had to feel some gratitude.

They walked in silence for several minutes, threading their way slowly among the graveled walks of the formal gardens that stretched for several hundred yards before the house. He was the first to speak.

"What is it, Nell?" he said quietly. "What is it that is making you so very miserable?"

She wanted to give him a tart answer. She opened her mouth to do so. But the words would not come. The fight had gone completely out of her for the present. She hung her head and said nothing.

"Is it me?" he asked. "Have I caused all this change? I can hardly recognize in you the carefree little wood nymph that I once knew."

"Don't," she murmured.

"What?"

"Don't," she repeated. "Don't, don't!" She tried to pull her hand free of his arm, but he would not let her go-

"Nell, you are not crying, are you?" he asked, turning to her and trying to see into her face.

"No," she said, but her voice came out on such a quaver that she gulped and made matters worse.

"You are crying!" he said, aghast, and he finally let go of her arm and drew her into his arms, cradling her head against the capes of his coat. "Don't. Oh please, don't. Tell me what I can do, Nell. I know I have hurt you dreadfully, but I do not know what I can do to make amends."

"There is nothing," she said into the cloth of his coat. He had to bend his ear closer to hear the words between her sobs. "There is nothing you can do for me, William. Neither of us is quite the person I thought, and it is too late now to change that. There is nothing you can do. Take me back, please."

"You are in such pain," he said, laying his cheek against the top of her head. "And you have been like this since I met you here. I have to do something, Nell. I cannot see you destroy yourself like this. Will it help if I tell you something about myself and why I left you as I did in the summer?"

"No, it would not help at all," she said, pulling her head away from his coat, though he still held her firmly against him. "I do not want to talk about that."

"Would you believe me if I told you that I was planning to leave for Yorkshire to find you and ask you to be my wife before ever I met you here and discovered who you really were?"

"Oh, no," she said wildly. "Don't say that. Don't lie, William. I have little enough to admire you for as it is."

"You have cast me in the part of the villain, I see," he said sadly, "and I can say nothing to redeem myself in your eyes, Nell." He reached up a hand and put behind her ear a lock of wayward hair that had worked loose from her braids. "We were friends once."

She stared back at him, feeling more miserable than she could ever remember feeling. He could be so convincing when one was close to him. She was suffocated by regrets for what might have been.

And then he was kissing her. And she was quite powerless to resist him. She was too tired and too weak to do anything but put one arm up on his broad and strong shoulder and thread the fingers of the other hand through his wind-ruffled hair. And she relaxed her body full against his and surrendered to his embrace. He was so much bigger than she, so much stronger. His hand on the back of her head was warm and steady. His mouth covered hers with firm assurance, and his tongue gently caressed her lips before taking warm possession of her mouth. In a moment she would begin to think… in a moment she would push away from him.

"Nell," he said, his lips against her throat, "let us put the past behind us. Let it be as if we met but today. We will start anew and I shall court you as I should. Let us forgive and forget. Shall we?"

The words were hypnotic. More than anything else in the world she wanted to agree with him, to look up and abandon herself to her love for him. But she could not, dared not trust him again. He could not love her. He wanted to do what was proper because she was Lady Helen Wade. She hardened her heart.

Helen pulled her head back from him so that they were looking into each other's eyes. Hers were clear again. Gone was the languor of a few moments before. "The past is with us whether we wish it to be or not, William," she said. "I at least can never be free of it. And I can neither forgive nor forget. I did not meet you today. I met you several months ago and I know too much about you to wish for any courtship."

He took a deep breath. "I see you are inflexible," he said. "You want someone perfect, Nell, and perfection does not exist in this life. Can you not make allowances for my weakness when you have been weak yourself?"

Her eyes flashed. "My only weakness was to be deceived by a man like you," she said.

"No," he said. They were standing facing each other now, no longer touching. "Your upbringing must have taught you that even to be alone with a man without your parents' close chaperonage was unacceptable behavior. Yet you did not avoid a second private meeting with me. You did not try to prevent me from kissing you, and when I gave you the chance to avoid lying with me, you did not take it. You quite knowingly gave me your virginity, Nell. You did wrong according to the code by which our society lives. A serious wrong. Can you not, then, have more sympathy with me?"

"How dare you stand there and point out my transgressions!" Helen said, her eyes blazing. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides again. "You sinned equally, sir. You sought me out a second time and you chose to kiss me. You chose to come back yet again and… and m-make love to me. I believe we are equal on that score. It is not for that that I have come to hate you. What I cannot forgive is your dishonesty and cowardice. You could not face me and tell me that you had grown tired of me, that you felt no responsibility for a girl of my apparent station in life."

"Dishonesty!" he said. His face was very grim. "I do not believe I have any monopoly on dishonesty, ma'am. I do not believe I am too hard of understanding, but it seems to me that you spoke not one word to suggest your real identity. Indeed, I am convinced that you deliberately set out to deceive me. Even your voice was different. You did not speak there as you do here, in the voice of an educated and cultured woman. How could you have allowed me to go on believing a lie when we had become lovers? I felt close to you. I thought there were no barriers between us."

"Obviously there were," she said. "You did not know I was living a lie, and I did not know that you were merely using me because you thought me a girl of no account."

He made an impatient gesture. "Do you know," he said, "I am glad now that you did not accept my offer. I do not think I would want a wife who believes only she has the right to err, and who has no tolerance at all for the failings of others. I would not want such a woman to be the mother of my children."

"Ohhh!" she cried. It came out on a long wail. "Oh, how could you? How could you!" She began to sob again, loud uncontrolled sobs, which sounded almost as if they were tearing her apart.

Mainwaring reached out for her. She was clearly beside herself. But she slapped his hands away and turned from him.

"Nell," he said.

"Leave me alone!" she cried. "Oh, how could you! I'll kill myself. I swear I'll kill myself."

He reached for her again, in real alarm this time. But she tore her arm out of his grasp and started to run toward the house. She stumbled once, but she picked herself up before she fell completely to the ground, and continued to run. Mainwaring stayed where he was, watching her panicked departure and listening to her sobs. Finally, as she disappeared through the door, he began to hurry and then to run after her.

Two tables had been set up for cards in the drawing room. The only guests who were not playing were Elizabeth Denning and Mr. Simms. The latter was seated at the pianoforte, playing apparently for his own amusement. Elizabeth was standing behind her husband's chair, looking at his hand of cards, when William Mainwaring entered the room. He crossed to the tea tray, which was still set on a table close to the fireplace, and looked speakingly at her.

She smiled and walked toward him. "Are you ready for tea, William?" she asked. But when she looked more closely, she could see that his face was pale and his hair disheveled from the outdoors. "What is wrong?"

"Elizabeth," he said, placing himself so that his back was to the company, "go to her, please. She is probably in her room and she is very upset. She may need you."

"Lady Helen?" she asked, her eyes large with surprise. "Oh, no, William. I am not the person to speak with her. If there is something seriously amiss, one of her sisters should be sent up to her. Shall I call Lady Emily?"

"Elizabeth, please," he said. "Her sisters will not do at all. You have a much better way with people. You will be able to calm her."

"I cannot," she said, her hand creeping up to her throat. "She does not like me, William. I could have no influence with the girl at all. What has happened?"

His eyes were wild, she noticed now. "Go to her, please!" he said. "For my sake, Elizabeth? I love her!"

She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment longer, then turned without another word and hurried from the room. Mainwaring looked after her, the horrible, nightmare suspicion growing in his mind.

No one answered the door to Elizabeth's knock, and the room, she saw when she opened the door hesitantly, was in darkness. But she looked along the corridor, saw that there was a branched candlestick on a table close by, and picked it up. By its light she could see that the room was indeed occupied. Lady Helen was lying facedown diagonally across the bed. She still wore the cloak that she had put on for her walk with William. Her hands were clenched in loose fists on either side of her head. Elizabeth put the candlestick down on a dresser and quietly closed the door.

"Can I be of any help, Lady Helen?" she asked.

There was no answer.

"Will you not speak to me?" Elizabeth said. "I would like to help if I may."

"Go away!" the girl's voice said, muffled by the bedclothes.

Elizabeth sighed. "No," she said, "I will not do that. I can see that something has happened to upset you greatly, and I believe you need company even if you will not admit it. I shall sit here quietly if you do not wish to talk immediately. Shall I take your cloak?" She reached out gently to ease it away from the girl's shoulders.

Helen whirled around on the bed and slapped at Elizabeth's hands. "Leave me alone," she said. "Go away! I do not need you or anybody."

Her eyes were so full of hatred that Elizabeth straightened up and moved back a step. "What have I done to you?" she asked gently. "I cannot recall anything that might have offended or hurt you. But you have always disliked me. I want to be your friend. I believe you need one, Helen. I doubt if I have ever known anyone as unhappy as you."

"What do you know of unhappiness?" Helen asked passionately. She jumped to her feet, tore off her cloak, and flung it at a chair. "For some people life is always perfect, is it not? You have beauty and position. You have a husband who dotes on you and whom you adore. You have a son. You have a home and money and security and… and…"

"Is that what has bothered you?" Elizabeth asked, and she reached out a hand and touched Helen's arm. The girl tensed and pulled away. "I was wrong a moment ago when I said I had never known anyone as unhappy as you. I have known someone. Myself, Helen."

Helen made an impatient gesture and turned away to sit at the end of the bed.

"I have been married for seven years," Elizabeth said, "and only the first two days of that time and the last year have been spent with my husband."

Helen turned her head to look at her, but she said nothing.

"We were separated by the wickedness of two men and by a terrible misunderstanding," Elizabeth continued. "If we had not met again quite by accident little more than a year ago, we might never have learned the truth. Even then, it is miraculous that the truth became known. We were both so bitter by that time, each blaming the other for the separation, that we were reluctant to talk. I still shudder to think that at this moment I might be in Yorkshire, a governess, and Robert might be in London or at Hetherington Manor, alone. You see, Helen, most people suffer to a greater or lesser degree at some time during their lives. Those of us who are very fortunate also know a great deal of happiness. I am fortunate. The last year has healed many of the wounds of the previous six years."

"I did not know," Helen said tonelessly. "I am sorry."

"You need not be," Elizabeth said. "You are quite right. At present I have all the blessings in life that any person could want. Clearly you do not. But my own sufferings have made me sympathetic to those of other people, Helen, and I am a good listener. Will you not confide in me? Sometimes it is far easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend or a relative."

"No, there is nothing," Helen said, shaking her head, "nothing to tell. I am sorry if I have spoiled the evening for everyone. Truly sorry. We will all go home tomorrow and I shall not embarrass anyone with my company again."

"But, my dear," Elizabeth said, "you cannot shut yourself away from all company. You are young and you should be enjoying yourself, meeting other people of your age. Can you not put your unhappiness behind you and start afresh?"

"No," Helen said.

"I see," said Elizabeth. She hesitated. "Is it William, Helen? Has something happened between you two?"

"I said I did not wish to talk!" Helen said sharply. "I hate Mr. Mainwaring."

Elizabeth looked at the girl's sullen face for a few moments in silence. "I am sorry I cannot help you," she said. "If there is anything I can do for you tonight or tomorrow, will you send for me?" When Helen did not answer, she turned and crossed to the door.

"Oh," Helen wailed, "help me. Please help me!" Her hands covered her face when Elizabeth turned, and she doubled over to put her head in her lap.

Elizabeth knelt in front of her and put her own hands over the back of the girl's head. "Oh, what is it, Helen?" she said.

The girl's sobs were so convulsive that she could say nothing for a while. "What am I to do?" she managed to gasp out eventually. "What am I to do? Oh, what am I to do?"

Elizabeth held the girl cradled in her arms. She rocked her, without saying a word.

Helen looked up at last, her eyes filled with tears and horror. "I am increasing," she said. "I am with child."

Elizabeth closed her eyes. "Oh, God," she said.

"I do not know what to do," Helen said, "or where to go. I keep expecting to wake up and find it all a dream. But my dresses are beginning to tighten already. I shall not be able to keep it a secret much longer. Oh, what am I to do?"

"Were you ravished?" Elizabeth asked. "Helen, if it is true, you must have the courage to go to your parents. The man must be brought to justice. You cannot be blamed."

"No," the girl said. "It was not like that. I loved him. Oh, God help me, I loved him. I gave myself willingly. And he left me." Her hands were over her face again.

Elizabeth looked at her and held her breath as she asked the question. "Not William, Helen?"

"Yes," she said.

Elizabeth stood up. "I can hardly believe it," she said, dazed. "William! I cannot imagine him behaving so dishonorably. To ruin you and then to abandon you! And does he now refuse to marry you?" But he had just said he loved the girl, her mind recalled.

"No," Helen said, "he offered for me soon after we came to London. I refused him."

"But why, Helen? It is the only solution, is it not?"

"I cannot marry him," the girl replied. "He thought me a mere servant girl when he knew me in Yorkshire. Yet as soon as he discovered my true identity here, he positively rushed to Papa so that he might do the proper thing. I could not marry a man who offered for all the wrong reasons."

"But there is the baby to think about too," Elizabeth said. "William must feel that he owes your child a name."

"I have not told him," Helen said.

"He does not know?"

"No."

Elizabeth sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to order her whirling thoughts. She could not quite believe the things she was hearing about her friend, whom she had always considered the soul of propriety and honor. But digesting those facts would have to wait awhile. At present the frightened girl beside her was in desperate need of help.

"You will have to leave London immediately," she said. "I shall take you to Hetherington Manor, shall I? It is in Sussex, not very far away. If we were to leave tomorrow as soon as possible after returning from here, we would have to spend only one night on the road."

"I could not ask that of you," Helen said tonelessly.

"I think you have very little choice," Elizabeth said very gently. "You will need a place where you can come to terms with what is happening to you, and Hetherington is a very private place. You need not worry that you will be taking me away from the social whirl. London life is something I can take or leave with equal cheerfulness. I shall be happy to take John back to the country."

"I cannot impose upon you after the shabby way I have treated you," Helen said.

"Nonsense!" Elizabeth said briskly. "Now that I understand your behavior, I can quite easily forget it. I shall ask your mama if you may accompany me to the country for a visit. Will you tell her the truth before we leave, Helen? She will have to know soon, you know."

"I know." Helen's hand was over her mouth. "Oh, but I cannot. I cannot say it to her. I have imagined myself doing so many times in the last few months when I am in her presence. And I know I just cannot do it."

"Then you must write to her as soon as we reach Hetherington," Elizabeth said, "and then the worst will be over. You will be able to relax. It is important, you know, that you be as tranquil as possible during the next few months, and that you rest and eat well. Your child is in no way to blame for anything that has happened. He must be given a good start in life."

"Why are you willing to do this for me?" Helen asked. "I have done nothing to deserve your concern. Indeed, I would have thought you must dislike me intensely."

Elizabeth smiled. "I have recently become a mother myself," she said. "Perhaps it is just that my maternal instincts are working to excess at the present. Will you tell William too, Helen? He has a right to know."

"No!" Helen said sharply. "I do not wish him to know. He will be forever pestering me if he finds out the truth. He would not have cared that much"-she snapped her fingers in the air-"if I had been a mere tenant's daughter or a servant. For all I know, the country may be littered with his illegitimate offspring."

"I think you do him some injustice," Elizabeth said gently. "But, I know. Sometimes we are inclined to think far worse of those we love most than we are of anyone else. We expect perfection in our loved ones, I suppose."

Helen looked up. "He said that just now," she said.

"You do love him, do you not?"

"Yes."

"I shall leave you now," Elizabeth continued. "Will you be all right? Do try to rest. Tomorrow if all is well we shall set out for the country and there you will be able to relax and prepare for the future. You will be safe with me, Helen. I shall look after you."

"Only promise me one thing," Helen said as Elizabeth rose to leave. "Promise me that you will say nothing to him."

"Of course I will not," Elizabeth assured her. "That information must come from you when you are ready. But remember, Helen, that he should know. Your child is his too. Good night."

"Good night," Helen said. "Thank you, your ladyship."

" 'Elizabeth,' " that lady said, smiling warmly at the girl as she left the room.

"If you and John are going to Hetherington tomorrow, then of course I must come too," Robert Denning was saying an hour later when he and Elizabeth were in their room together.

"No," she said. "I think it is important that I be alone with her for a while. She is very frightened and very bewildered, Robert. I think your presence would merely distress her more."

He caught her arm and pulled her against him. "We have not been apart since last year," he said. "I am afraid to be without you again, Elizabeth."

She put her arms up around his neck. "You are being absurd," she said. "Do you imagine that if we part again, someone or something will keep us apart as they did seven years ago? It will not happen again, darling, you know that. I hate the thought of being away from you too. I am not even sure I shall be able to sleep without your shoulder to lay my head on. But that poor girl is in dreadful trouble, Robert. I cannot leave her to face it alone. You should have seen the look of utter desperation in her eyes just before she told me."

"Can it really be true?" he asked, frowning down into her upturned face. "It just does not seem like William at all. To tell you the truth, I thought he had never had anything to do with women. I am sure he had not when I knew him in London."

"I really do not know the full story," she said, "but I do know that those two love each other. And they are worlds apart, Robert. Sometimes one feels so helpless."

He hugged her to him and laid his cheek against hers. "It seems I have no choice but to let you go," he said. "But not for long, Elizabeth. A week is the longest I can give you. I shall come to you then. Will that be long enough?"

"Yes," she said. "John and I cannot possibly live without you any longer than that."

He moved his head back from hers and grinned down at her. "If this is to be our last night together for a whole week, darling," he said, "I do not know why we are wasting time standing here fully clothed. Do you?"

"I really cannot imagine," she agreed, "unless it is that you are remarkably slow." |

"Minx!" he said, his hands at her back. "I never have broken you of the habit of wearing these dresses with the scores of buttons down the back, have I?"

Chapter 14

Helen was gazing through the window of the Marquess of Hetherington's very comfortable traveling carriage. Although this was their second day of travel, she felt quite free of the aches and pains that had made the journey from Yorkshire a torment a few weeks before. She felt relaxed for the first time in several months. Not happy, it was true. But it was an enormous relief to be at least partly free of the burden of her secret.

She looked across to the seat opposite, where Elizabeth was smiling down at her baby. He was gazing back up at her, his eyes fixed and occasionally drooping. He would be asleep very soon. Helen could still not imagine why her companion had chosen to be so kind. They were barely acquainted and Helen had not done anything to endear herself to either of the Hetheringtons. Quite the opposite, in fact. Yet here she was on her way to a safe haven in Sussex, safe until after the birth of her child if she wished, Elizabeth had said.

She had seriously misjudged both husband and wife, Helen thought ruefully, returning her attention to the passing scenery. Elizabeth had mentioned the day before, laughingly, not at all in reproach, that she and the marquess had not been away from each other at all since their reunion the year before. Yet clearly he must have permitted her to leave, and she had chosen to do so, all for the sake of a stranger who had committed an unpardonable indiscretion and who had always treated them in an ill-mannered way.

It was just one more sin to add to the many. She really had made a terrible mess of her life, and there was no real chance that she would ever be able to live normally again. There was always the chance, of course, that she could find a foster-home for the child without anyone finding out what had happened. She was sure her father would be only too eager to pay for the child's keep. But she knew tbat she would not be able to turn to that solution. Despite everything, now that her pregnancy was an accomplished fact, she wanted the child. She felt a fierce love of it, a determination to devote her life to its upbringing. And heaven knew, the child would need as much love as she had to give. The stigma of bastardy was not easily shaken.

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?"

"Me? A self-confessed kidnapper?" Hetherington said. "If you ask me, I would say that the girl is probably pining for you, William, my lad. And nothing can be gained with the ladies, I am convinced, if one listens to what they say they want."

William Mainwaring smiled as he watched his friend ride out through the gates of Hyde Park and into the already busy traffic of the street beyond. Robert had given a lift to his spirits. If only he could be certain that the situation with Nell could be so easily solved. But there had to be more to her strange, sullen behavior than unhappiness in the city and anger with him. If that had been all, surely the evening in the garden at Richmond would have solved all. She had responded to him there, he knew. For the space of maybe two minutes she had given herself into his hands again. She had held him and kissed him. She had wanted him.

Yet she had pulled away from him once more, and she had totally rejected his suggestion that they start all over again, forget the improprieties and the misunderstandings of the past. It had been a bitter quarrel. He could never remember feeling so angry with anyone as he had felt with her on that evening, and he knew certainly that he had never lost his temper with anyone before. He had never said things deliberately to hurt as he had done with her. He had succeeded more than he could possibly have hoped, even during the height of his anger. He was still appalled to remember her reaction. He had almost believed her when she had cried out that she would kill herself.

Yes, there was more to her strange mood. And had a terrible, sinking feeling that he knew what it was. He had made love to her on two separate occasions during the summer, to a girl as naive and inexperienced in such matters as he. It was a measure of his naivete that it had not once struck him either at the time or since that children were sometimes the result of such couplings.

Was Nell with child? The possibility hardly bore thinking about. He tried to imagine the terror she must have gone through if it were true-first the suspicion, then the gradually dying hope, and finally the certain knowledge. She would have to break the knowledge to her family, face the consequences somehow. And all alone! He had doomed her to face it all alone.

Although he still tried to convince himself that it could not be so, in his heart Mainwaring knew that it was. It was the only explanation that fit all the facts. How would a girl feel if she still nursed to herself such a secret? Surely she would be moody and sullen, given to bursts of temper. She would probably lose some of her physical bloom. She would start to put on weight even before the pregnancy showed in the most obvious place-perhaps on the face. And she would surely feel bitter anger and contempt against the man who had impregnated and then abandoned her.

Mainwaring was hardly even aware that he had spurred his horse to a gallop. Only the sight of a couple of maidservants walking ahead of him, one leading a massive dog by a lead, caused him to ease back on the reins and resume the brisk canter that was safer in the park.

The only fact that had seemed at first not to fit the theory was her refusal to accept his proposal. Surely if she were carrying his child, she would accept with relief the chance to marry him. But he could no longer comfort himself with this thought. Nell was not like other girls. She did not always take a practical attitude to life, he knew. He did not believe that she would have given in so easily to his wooing if she had. She had had very little to gain really from their liaison. It must have been only love that had prompted her to give everything.

Given that attitude, and given her very righteous anger against him for abandoning her without a word, it was not really surprising that she had refused to take the easy road out of her difficulties and accept his offer. In fact, it was very much in character that she would refuse. Poor, dear, stubborn Nell! How could he ever have doubted that he loved her? He had been thoroughly enchanted by her from the moment when he first saw her propped in such an unconventional attitude on the bank of the stream and she had turned to him and told him that she was learning water. If he had not fallen in love with her then, it must have happened very soon afterward.

If only he had realized it at the time! They might have been safely married by now and no one would ever be certain whether the child-if there really were a child-had been conceived before or after the nuptials. But he had been caught up in his long period of mourning for the loss of Elizabeth. He was not belittling that emotion now. He truly had loved her, he believed. But he might have recovered sooner. His grief had been thoroughly self-indulgent. He had known that Elizabeth really belonged with Robert. He had liked the picture of himself as the lovelorn, rejected lover, he supposed. Had he not been so caught up in this romantic image of himself, he surely would have known the obvious before it was too late. He had always loved Nell, no matter who she was.

Was it too late now? He had no doubt that his little wood nymph was in reality a tough-minded female who would not be easily persuaded. She would not be easily governed even if she did finally consent to be his wife. Her parents seemed to have little control over her. But he must try. Even if there were no child, he must try. He could not leave her alone, knowing that he was to some extent responsible for her misery. And if there were a child, then she must be persuaded to marry him. He could not possibly allow her to face all the ignominy of bearing an illegitimate child alone. Anyway, it was his child she would bear. His child and Nell's. She had to listen. Even if he had to kidnap her as Robert had done Elizabeth.

Mainwaring grinned suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Only Robert Denning would conceive of doing such a thing. To Elizabeth of all people. She was such a beautiful, dignified, independent woman-or at least she had been that way when he had known her. Most people loved her and respected her, but most also stood somewhat in awe of her. Yet Robert had had the audacity to kidnap her. How Mainwaring would have liked to witness her reaction! That whole story, in fact, would be fascinating to hear.

What had Nell told Elizabeth? he wondered. Elizabeth, of course, and Robert were like a shield when he had questioned them. He could draw nothing from either, except what Hetherington had repeated earlier. But surely there must have been more. Elizabeth had had no intention of going into the country, despite what Robert had said, and there was certainly no reason why she would have chosen Nell for a companion if she had. Nell had not treated his friends with much courtesy. Again the evidence pointed all in one direction. Elizabeth was the sort of person who would turn all her plans upside down and overlook all personal feelings if she felt she could help a fellow creature in trouble.

Well, he would go with Robert the following week, even though he did risk at best a very cool welcome from the two women. It was a temptation to go immediately, in fact, but he thought it best to curb the urge. Nell had been very upset. He should give her a few days alone in the country with the soothing company of Elizabeth before renewing his campaign.

Yes, she had been upset. And what had caused her finally to break? His cruel-and quite untrue-declaration that he would not want a woman like her to be the mother of his children!

Chapter 15

Elizabeth found after a couple of days at Hetherington Manor that she was pleasantly surprised by Helen. She had felt great compassion for the girl earlier, so much so, in fact, that she had inconvenienced herself and her husband a great deal in order to help her. And of course she had been willing to give the girl a chance for William's sake, though it puzzled her to understand what he could see to love in her. But she had not really expected to like Helen. She was willing to concede that the sullenness and the rudeness that had so set her against the girl at first were easily explained now that she knew the truth. But still, she expected to find her guest humorless and not overly intelligent or interesting. She had been wondering how she would entertain her.

Yet the first thing that had happened when they entered the house was indicative of what was to happen for the coming days. In the large hallway of Hetherington Manor, displayed on the wall facing the main door was a painting by Joseph Turner. It was Robert's pride and joy, a picture of sunset on a turbulent ocean. Most visitors commented on it. There was nothing unusual, then, in Helen's stopping to do so. But the intensity of her reaction was unusual.

She had dropped the one hatbox that she carried, just inside the door, without even noticing that a footman stood with hand outstretched to take it. She had not stopped to remove her heavy cloak and bonnet as Elizabeth had done. She had walked forward, almost like a sleepwalker, her lips parted.

"Oh!" was all she had said at first.

Elizabeth had smiled and joined the girl after handing her things to the footman. The nurse, who had been traveling in the baggage coach behind them, had already taken the baby upstairs to the warmth of the nursery.

"Do you like it?" she had asked.

Helen had not immediately replied. "Who did it?" she had asked at last without withdrawing her eyes from the painting.

"Mr. Turner," Elizabeth had said. "Have you seen any of his other paintings?"

"Oh, no," Helen had replied. "There are more? How I envy him!"

Elizabeth had laughed. "Do you paint?" she asked.

"I thought I did," Helen had said, "but I see now that I only dabble. Oh, I have tried and tried to be like this. But everything is of the surface. I cannot get beneath the surface to the real life. This man has done so. Look! He has become part of that sunset. He has been into it and into that ocean. He has painted it from the inside out. Oh, how envious I am."

Elizabeth had looked at the girl, startled. "You take painting seriously, I see," she had said.

"Oh, I did," the girl had replied. "But I can never be this good. What a failure I am."

"And what a foolish thing to say," said Elizabeth. "If you love painting, Helen, and if you have an earnest desire to reach perfection, then you are a failure only if you give up. That would mean that you do not have the courage to try."

Helen had seemed to be aware of her presence for the first time. She had given her hostess a look of bright interest. "Of course you are right," she had said. "Self-pity has become such a habit with me lately that I am afraid I have become overindulgent. You do understand too, do you not? My family has always ridiculed my paintings. Papa says they look more as if I had attacked the paper than painted on it." She had laughed suddenly. "Perhaps you will agree with them if you ever see any of my work."

"We shall have to put it to the test," Elizabeth had said. "And it is fine for you to be standing here talking, Helen. You are still wearing your cloak. I am feeling decidedly chilly. Let us go up to the drawing room. I have been told that tea and scones await us there."

On the following day, when Elizabeth was in the sitting room writing a lengthy letter to Robert, Helen had come into the room carrying a roll of paper. Elizabeth had smiled at her.

"I thought you might like to see one of my drawings," she had said. "I did not bring any of my paintings. This one is not good. It is the only portrait I have ever attempted. And it does not really look like him. But I like the picture anyway." She had unrolled the picture almost apologetically and turned it for Elizabeth to see.

Elizabeth had been almost speechless, as she wrote to Robert afterward. "Oh, Helen," she had said, "how did you know? How could you know him so well? Yes, that is William; that is his very essence. I don't think I even knew it myself until this moment."

Helen had looked doubtful. "But do you not think," she had said, "that I should have sketched him with a serious expression? He is far more often serious than smiling."

"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth, "but this is the real William. All his inner kindness and gentleness show through here. This is as he should look always, Helen. And this is how he was when you knew him?"

"Yes," Helen had said, "but it is not a good portrait, after all. I was deceived. I loved him, you see."

"And love him still," Elizabeth had stated gently. "It will not do to deny the truth, you know, Helen. Do you carry this picture around with you only because it is a good work of art? I do not know the truth of last summer, but I do know William Mainwaring. For all the evidence to the contrary, I cannot believe him to be the heartless villain you consider him to be. Don't suppress your bitterness. Face it and think about it. Perhaps you will find a different answer than the one you have accepted so far."

Helen had rolled the portrait in her hands. She had looked sullen again. "I want to forget," she had said. "I want to think only of my child and how I can best prepare to give him a good life."

"I am sorry!" Elizabeth had leaned forward and placed a hand over one of Helen's. "I do not mean to preach at you or be forever handing out unsolicited advice. I shall never refer to the matter again, Helen. Let us be friends and try to make each other happy here, shall we? I must finish writing to Robert and then I must visit John for a while-I have seen him only briefly this morning. After that, shall we go for a walk? It looks overcast and cold out there, but the fresh air will do us good. And the land around here is very picturesque. Perhaps you will get some ideas for painting again. If it is true that you have done none since leaving Yorkshire, I suspect that it is high time you got back to it."

And that is exactly what had happened, Elizabeth reflected rather ruefully a few days later. Helen had not actually done any painting yet, but she had made copious preparations. She had been hardly indoors, but had trudged around the grounds, sketchpad in hand, staring and touching, trying to get behind the outer surfaces to the reality within, she told a fascinated Elizabeth. The latter felt very much alone without her husband and without any companionship except that of her baby and the occasional meeting with her guest.

But she was pleased, nevertheless. Helen was clearly not the insipid, moody little girl that she had expected. In fact, Elizabeth suspected that she was a highly intelligent and artistic girl, whose talents had never been either appreciated or encouraged. And the change of scene was obviously doing her a great deal of good. There was a new sparkle in her eyes, fresh color in her cheeks, and a welcome intensity in her expression. Elizabeth was beginning to like her and she was beginning to understand why William had fallen in love with her. She even felt she had a glimmering of understanding of how those two had come to flout convention to such a shocking degree as to have created a child outside marriage.

She longed for the arrival of Robert at the end of the first week. She wanted to share her discoveries with him, and she wanted to discuss with him how they might best bring together again these two people who so clearly loved and needed each other.

Helen had indeed become absorbed again in her painting, but not quite to the extent that Elizabeth believed. She was enchanted by the scenery of the Hetherington grounds. There were no formal gardens, and Helen was glad. She could admire formality, but she could not love it. It seemed almost sacrilegious to take nature and try to subdue it to man's idea of beauty and symmetry. Nature was perfect in itself. Man could not improve on it. There seemed to her almost an absurdity about constructing little hedgerows, all carefully cut and shaped so that they lacked any spontaneity, and flower gardens, where flowers were given strict instructions to grow a uniform color and a uniform height. And marble statues of Greek gods or cherubs always seemed to her totally inappropriate in an English countryside. The rains and the temperate climate of England produced vegetation enough and color enough that it did not need embellishment. It was not that the Hetherington grounds were uncared for. She had discovered that the gardener had four helpers and that all five of them were constantly busy. But their efforts were used to aid nature rather than to distort it.

At this time of the year most people would have found the gardens drab. Most of the trees were already bare. There were no flowers remaining. Only greens and browns, Helen noted with satisfaction. The shadings of those two colors were almost infinite. One could spend days noticing the contrasts, undistracted by the gaudier colors of summer. She wandered, drinking in the late-autumn beauty of it all, forgetting for long stretches of time the cold, her obligations to her hostess, her pregnancy, and the uncertainty of her future. Soon she would beg paper and paints from Elizabeth and try to paint some of her feelings out of herself. She was almost ready.

But she was not always absorbed by such thoughts. Just as frequently, as she wandered over the lawns and among the trees, her eyes alone saw them. Her mind was wholly taken by the picture of a different landscape, of tall old trees and wild, untended undergrowth, of a dilapidated hut and a meandering stream. And of herself there, caught up in a dream world, unaware of the realities of life

As she leaned against an oak tree in the Hetherington grounds, her hands tracing the contours of its trunk, in her mind she felt the old oak tree by the stream, its bark older and rougher. And she felt William's hands above hers, William behind her. And in her imagination she turned to him as she had turned in reality several months before. She relived his kiss, his lovemaking. She relived each of their three meetings, remembering every look, word, and touch that had passed between them.

For the first days she refused to recall what had followed. She had resolved when she came here to put the pain behind her. For the sake of her unborn child she needed to achieve some sort of tranquility, and brooding on the wrongs that she had done and those that had been done her was not a way to achieve that aim. She concentrated wholly on those three afternoons, when she had fallen in love and when she had given her love freely without a thought of the consequences.

On one of those afternoons her child had been conceived. And for the first time Helen was fiercely glad that it had happened. Even if she had the choice now, she would not have things differently, she believed. For the rest of her life she would have her son or her daughter to remind her that at one time she had found her ideal. She had always wanted perfection in her life. Well, she had it once-a perfect love. She could never love William again as she had then, and she could certainly never trust him again, but once, for the space of a few days, she had loved. And she was glad that there would be a permanent and perfect memento of those days. What could be more perfect than a child? A child who would be part of him, who perhaps would look like him?

The shining eyes and the glowing cheeks that so pleased Elizabeth were due as much to this acceptance of the past as they were to the renewal of her determination to paint.

Although Helen sometimes forgot that she was a guest and that she should spend more time with her hostess, she did enjoy Elizabeth's company when they were together. She had been grateful to her for the invitation to Hetherington, but she had not really expected to like her hostess. Despite what Elizabeth had said to her about her own sufferings, Helen had labeled her as one of the privileged in this life, as one who had not really been made to face the harshness of life as most other people had.

She was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to find that Elizabeth had a warm personality and a keen intelligence. Her love for her husband and son were no affectation. She wrote to the marquess daily, though he was planning to come a week after their own arrival. She spent a large portion of each day with her son instead of abandoning his upbringing to the nurse. And her love was not confined to her own family. She told Helen about her brother John and his wife, Louise; and the affection she felt for them and their growing family-two children, soon to be three-was very obvious.

She talked sometimes with enthusiasm and amusement about her come-out Season in London, when she had met the marquess and when his eccentric grandmother had aided and abetted their growing love and their eventual elopement. And she spoke of the people of the village of Granby where she had lived for the six years of her separation from her husband, as a governess and companion. There was no bitterness in any of these stories, but there was a great deal of affection for the people she had known. And, of course, Helen could never forget that the marchioness had saved her from a nightmare situation.

Elizabeth could also talk intelligently about books and about art. She had a great deal more knowledge than Helen, in fact, and the younger girl learned eagerly from her. The marchioness understood too that art in all its forms was more than a pretty ornament to life. Helen was playing the pianoforte in the music room one evening while Elizabeth was upstairs putting the baby to sleep. When she finally emerged from her absorption in a Bach fugue, it was to find that her hostess was sitting quietly in a chair close to the door.

"You have mastered the feeling of the music," she said. "I have heard Bach played so many times as if he wrote merely that the painist might exercise his fingers and impress his listeners. But I think you are a trifle heavy, Helen. Bach was meant to be played on a harpsichord, I believe. There should be a crispness and a brilliance about his music as well as emotion. Do try it again, but this time do not press so heavily on your fingers."

She stood behind Helen, every inch the teacher that she had been for five years. And Helen obediently played the piece again, trying to improve her technique according to the advice she had been given. It was good advice. It came obviously from someone who knew what she was talking about and who cared deeply for music.

Before many days had passed Helen was beginning to like Elizabeth Denning very much indeed.

She was also beginning to open her mind again to the events of the past few months. She had determined to avoid thinking about the painful things that had happened, but of course it is impossible to blank thoughts from the mind merely by the effort of will. When she eventually began to paint, taking all her equipment out-of-doors despite the coldness of the weather, she found she could no longer keep her feelings repressed. If she was to show feeling in her paints, she had to be willing to release all that was inside her. And the pain was with her again.

Had she been totally unreasonable? she asked herself at last. She had refused even to listen to William when he had wanted to explain why he had left her in the summer. It seemed impossible, of course, that he could have a good reason for what he had done. But then surely it would seem to almost anyone that she could not have had a good reason for allowing herself to be violated before she was married. Papa had said as much, in fact. He refused to write to her, refused to acknowledge her as his daughter or have her name mentioned in his house, her mother reported in a letter. To him there could be no possible excuse for the disgrace she had brought on herself and on his family. Papa would relent, of course, but he would never understand her behavior, she knew.

Was she being equally insensitive in refusing even to listen to William? Did she not at least owe him a hearing? After all, he was the father of the child inside her, and he had offered to do the honorable thing and marry her, even without knowing about the child's existence. His words and behavior at Richmond had even suggested that he might still care for her in some way.

What was it he had said? He had said that she behaved as if she were the only one allowed to err. She demanded perfection, he had said, and had not realized that perfection in another human being was impossible to find. Was she really being so unreasonable and so immature? She knew herself to be far from perfect. Her present condition was proof positive of that. And she had done him wrong. She had led him to believe that she was an uneducated girl of easy virtue. Certainly he had not raped her. He had, in fact, given her every opportunity to avoid his possession. She had deceived him. She should at least have told him who she was so that he could have made a free decision as she had. Was it time she admitted her guilt to someone other than just herself?

By the time she had completed her first, unsatisfactory painting of the grove of trees at the foot of the lower lawn, Helen was seeing the past few weeks in a totally new perspective. And she was no longer satisfied with her own part in those events. She really had behaved like a spoiled brat who had to make everyone else suffer because life was not going her way. She must have upset her family with her sullen ways, and she had behaved with horribly bad manners to the Hetheringtons. Even her treatment of William had been inexcusable. She was equally guilty for the turn of events during the past summer, yet she had behaved as if she were the wronged angel and he the blackest villain.

She finally came to these conclusions on the morning of the day when the Marquess of Hetherington was expected. Elizabeth had been bright with repressed excitement when Helen left with her easel and paints and paper. She must return to the house, she decided, and write a letter to William. It would be extremely difficult to write. She must apologize for her part in the predicament in which they found themselves and for her refusal to listen to his explanations. And Helen was not good at apologizing.

But who was? she thought philosophically. She packed away her painting things with a sigh. The picture was terrible. It was neither pretty nor meaningful. She would have to write, Only then, perhaps, would her conscience be salved enough that she could produce the picture that she knew was somewhere inside her. She walked back to the house to join a restless Elizabeth for luncheon.

They were in the drawing room later in the afternoon. Elizabeth was bent over her embroidery, though her mind was not really on what she was doing. It was a shame, she felt, that John had chosen to sleep longer than usual this afternoon. Playing with him would have been a distraction. Helen was seated at the farther end of the room at the escritoire, writing a letter. Whoever she was writing to, she was not finding the task easy. The surface of the desk was littered with papers that had been crumped into little balls, and she seemed to be staring at the wall ahead of her, stroking her chin with the feather of her quill pen every time Elizabeth glanced at her.

Finally, when she was beginning to convince herself with the greatest of good sense that Robert would not come today after all, but would surely come on the morrow, she heard the unmistakable sound of horses' hooves on the cobbles outside the main doors. Embroidery was dumped unceremoniously beside her, and Elizabeth was on her feet in a moment.

"That must be Robert," she said. "I should wait here, should I not, Helen? The servants will think me a mistress of scant dignity if I rush to meet him. Anyway, it is only a week since I last saw him. Is my hair tidy? The water here is so much softer than that in London. My hair just refuses to keep its chignon."

Helen turned on her chair and smiled at her hostess. It was an unusual sight to see Elizabeth agitated. "There is not a hair out of place," she said, "and I think probably servants like to serve people who show affection for each other."

Elizabeth laughed. "Your encouragement is all I needed," she said. "Helen, you are having a terrible influence on me."

And she was out of the room and flying down the staircase and across the wide hallway without a second thought to her dignity. An expressionless footman was already holding open the door at the approach of his master. Elizabeth went rushing past him and down the first six steps. Two arms reached out and lifted her over the remaining two and swung her in a wide circle.

"Hoyden!" the Marquess of Hetherington said with a wide grin. "Are you not afraid of what the servants will think, Elizabeth?"

And he was seeking out her mouth and kissing her thoroughly right there in front of the footman and the butler hovering in the background, and the groom who was holding his horse's head, and William, who was standing on the cobbles still holding the reins of his own horse.

She flushed and pushed at her husband's shoulders. "William!" she said breathlessly. "You have come too? I am delighted to see you." She held out a hand to him. "But I am not at all sure that you have done the right thing to come here. Helen will be upset, you know."

He accepted her hand and bowed over it unsmilingly. "I am afraid I invited myself quite unashamedly," he said. "How is she, Elizabeth? I had to make one more attempt to speak to her. If I can see after a day or two that it is no good or that I upset her too much, I shall leave without having to be told to do so, I assure you."

"I did sound inhospitable, did I not?" she said contritely. She linked an arm through his and led him toward the door. "You must be tired if you have ridden all the way from London. Do come up and have some refreshment."

"It seems that having my wife rush from the house like a schoolboy was welcome enough for me," Hetherington grumbled cheerfully, following them into the house and up the stairs to the drawing room.

Helen was still seated at the escritoire, the pile of discarded papers now spilled over onto the floor. She turned as the door opened, the beginnings of a polite smile on her face. When she saw Mainwaring, she scrambled to her feet, brushing yet more papers to the floor.

"Oh," was all she could think of to say.

He hurried across the room, took a nerveless hand from her side, and raised it to his lips. "Nell," he said, searching her eyes with his, "how are you?"

She stared back without a word for a few moments, during which time the room seemed curiously quiet. "Oh," she said again. And then, loudly, accusingly, "Oh, someone has told you!"

And she brushed past him, ran the length of the room, and pushed her way with lowered eyes past a silent Elizabeth and Robert and out into the hallway.

Chapter 16

“What do you think will happen?" Elizabeth asked.

"I believe he will fall asleep at any moment," Hetherington said, brushing a cheek against the soft curls of his son, who had become very quiet against his shoulder, except for the sounds he made as he sucked on one fist. "And it is not before time. I am near exhaustion from playing so hard."

"I did not mean with John, silly," she said, smiling at him from her perch on the window seat. "And he would have fallen asleep long ago if you had not persisted so long in tickling him and getting him overexcited. I meant with Helen and William. It has been dreadful since yesterday' afternoon, has it not?"

"I did not find last night half-bad," Hetherington said, ogling her over the baby's head and grinning broadly when she blushed. "But, yes, you are right. Last evening was most uncomfortable with that little chit with her nose in the air, quite ostentatiously talking to none of us, and William his most gloomy, taciturn self."

"This morning was awful too," Elizabeth said. "All four of us seem to have had the same idea-to breakfast early before the others were down. And there we all were again, you and I making polite conversation to two deaf-mutes."

"If they had been deaf-mutes, all would have been well," Hetherington said. "We might have carried on a cozy, personal conversation. The situation is going to be impossible for you, Elizabeth. Are you really intending to stay with this girl until after the birth of her child? She must have six months to go at least. She is the most morose little brat it has ever been my misfortune to meet."

"Oh no," she said hastily. "That is really a misconception, Robert. I have got to know her in the past week, and really she is a very vital and a very interesting girl. Very intelligent, I think, and artistic. She was beginning to settle down and relax. I have come to like her very much. I cannot help feeling that William mistimed his visit quite dreadfully. She needs time, Robert, and a great deal of it. Now she is right back to the state she was in when I brought her here."

"Yet I must sympathize with William," Hetherington said. "He really does dote on her, you know. I have been feeling sorry for him, but from what you say, perhaps he has not made such an unwise choice. But really, he has got himself into a dreadful mess. The girl wants nothing to do with him, and he obviously knows that she is with child."

"Yes, was that not dreadful?" Elizabeth said. "Helen still believes, I think, that we have told him. And then when she left the room yesterday, he asked us what it was he was supposed to have been told. You could just tell that he knew very well, but he was afraid to put it into words just in case he was wrong. And of course we could not say anything."

Hetherington sighed loudly. "Elizabeth, is this little tyke asleep yet?" he asked, turning so that she could see the child's face. "I am sure he must be. There are no longer loud sucking noises assailing my ear, anyway."

"Yes, he is," she said, getting to her feet. "Put him down in his crib."

They both stood gazing down fondly at the sleeping baby. "Do you think he has gone to find her?" Elizabeth asked.

" 'He' being William, I suppose," Hetherington said. "I would think it very probable. She disappeared with painting equipment right after breakfast and has not been seen since. He disappeared soon after luncheon and has not reappeared. I would imagine that somewhere on our grounds, my love, there are two people either glowering at each other in sullen silence – that seems the most likely possibility with those two -or having a battle royal. I hope for the latter. It is more likely to accomplish something."

"Oh, I do hope so too," she said. "Hope that something is accomplished, that is. They should be together, Robert. Not just for the sake of the child, but for their own sakes. They are a rather odd couple, but in a strange sort of way I think they suit admirably."

Hetherington wound an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. "Do you know," he said, "much as I am fond of William, I am mortally tired of talking about his love life. I would much prefer to talk about my own."

"You have problems too?" she asked, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Yes, certainly," he agreed. "I am feeling in dire need of making love to my wife, and yet I find myself in a room that is likely to be entered by a nurse at any moment."

"Let us go to our room, by all means," Elizabeth said, "and I shall see if I can think of a solution on the way."

He nudged her head away from his shoulder and grinned down at her. "I expected shocked protests about what the servants would think if we disappeared to our bedchamber together in the middle of the afternoon," he said.

"Will they know, do you think?" she asked, coloring. "It is just that a week was such a long time, Robert."

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. "You proved that to me last night, darling," he said. "Come and show me again. Take my arm, ma'am, so that we will present a respectable appearance to any servants who happen to be lurking about."

Helen had left the house as soon as she could after breakfast. She had hastily gathered together her painting materials, donned a warm cloak, and fled to the grove below the lower lawn, out of sight of the house. She was horribly embarrassed and confused. She wished she might never have to go back to the house. She did momentarily consider the idea of dropping her supplies and keeping on walking or running, but it was a stupid urge, of course. She had nowhere to go, and neither belongings nor money with her. Anyway, she had run or avoided her problems for too long.

She might have known that William would come with the marquess. It had probably been planned all along. But she felt betrayed to think that Elizabeth had said nothing to her, and even more so to think that the Hetheringtons must have told him about her condition. She had been inclined at first to judge them very harshly. But she was tired of always thinking the worst of people. They had doubtless thought that they were acting for the best. William was their friend and they must have concluded that he had a right to know the truth. And indeed he did. She had been wrong to keep it from him for so long.

But these thoughts did not make the awkwardness of the situation any the more bearable. She had hardly been able to look at William since his arrival. That letter had been proving hard enough to write. But to meet him face-to-face, knowing that he knew, was proving to be an impossible situation, especially when the marquess and his wife were always present too. She had found herself unable to utter a word to any of them since the afternoon before, or even to look at them.

William was not helping matters at all, either. It was true that he had spoken to her, even come close to her and touched her, when he arrived. But that had been the wrong time. She had been so surprised that she had been quite unable to respond. Since then he had said nothing. He had been almost as silent as she during dinner the evening before, and during breakfast this morning. Was he regretting his decision to come? Was his silence proof that he had come only out of a sense of obligation, knowing that she was with child?

Now she did not know what to do. There was no longer any point in trying to write to him. Yet she could not imagine herself summoning enough courage to approach him and talk to him. It was just too hard a problem to solve.

An hour after she had arrived in the chosen spot, Helen began to paint. Fortunately, it was not a very cold day. The sun shone from a clear sky, bringing the suggestion of warmth even if not the reality. She huddled inside her cloak for a while, but later she threw it back over her shoulders so that she could have greater freedom to use her brush. She had resolved that she would not think for several hours, at least, and soon she had succeeded in becoming quite absorbed in the process of creating with paint what she had seen with her eyes and felt in her heart.

William Mainwaring had left the house after luncheon. He was feeling deuced embarrassed and not at all sure that he had done the right thing to come. He had hoped that a week in the country would have calmed Nell down, made her better prepared to receive him and listen to him. Yet she had appeared to be very angry both when she saw him and since. He must talk to her, of course, and alone. He had waited for her to come back during the morning. He had intended to ask her to walk outside with him, and somehow force her to communicate. But she had not returned, even for luncheon. Finally he could wait no longer. There was no point in having come if he was going to be afraid to approach her. He must go and find her and hope that he could somehow break through the wall of silence that she had set up between them the day before.

He did not know where she had gone; he had not watched her leave the house that morning. But he did know that she had been going to paint. She could not be too far away. It took him a half-hour to find her, but as soon as he saw her through the trees of the grove he knew that he should have guessed she would come among the trees. He walked closer. She must be very absorbed in what she did if she had not heard him, he thought.

He stopped some distance behind her and leaned one shoulder against the trunk of a tree. Yes, she was absorbed in her work. Her cloak had been thrown back over her shoulders so that it could offer warmth to no more than her spine. And the dress she wore underneath, although made of wool, was not heavy enough to protect her from the autumn chill. Yet she seemed quite unaware of any discomfort. She wore no bonnet and her hair was in wild disarray as it had been those times when he had first known her. The ribbon that had held her curls away from her face was lying abandoned on the grass beside her. Her face, which he could see partly in profile, was flushed, whether with the cold or with the intensity of her efforts, he could not tell.

Her dress was not ragged and her feet were not bare, but it was the old Nell, his little wood nymph, who stood there, quite unaware of his presence. He folded his arms and watched her for a long time. He did not want to break the spell of the moment. He did not want her to turn and see him and become again the cold, bitter young woman that she had been since they had met in London.

Finally she made an impatient gesture with head and hand, flinging a lock of hair behind her ear. And in so doing, she turned her head enough that she became aware of his presence behind her. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

"William," she said at last, "how long have you been standing there?"

He pushed his shoulder away from the tree and strolled toward her. "For some time," he said. "I hated to disturb you. You seemed as intent on your painting as you were in studying water when I first met you."

"I have always loved painting more than any other activity," she said. "And I have discovered that painting does not have to be insipid and decorative. That picture in the marquess's house-the one by Mr. Turner in the hallway-is magnificent. It has filled me with despair and with hope."

Mainwaring discovered that he was almost holding his breath. Where was the coldness, the aloofness? It surely would return at any moment. But he wanted to prolong this moment of near-friendliness. He looked at the painting on her easel. And then he gazed at it, transfixed.

"You have missed one detail," he said at last.

"Have I?" she asked doubtfully. "I am sure you are right. What is it?"

"There should be a little wood nymph sitting up in the branches of the oak tree," he said. "This branch, I think." He pointed.

"Oh." Her face relaxed unexpectedly into a smile. "That is ridiculous. Is the water right, William? I am not at all sure."

"I can almost feel it," he said. "Yes, you were quite right. All those colors are necessary. Together they capture the stream exactly as it is. How could you possibly do it all so well from memory?"

"I don't know," she said. "In fact, until this moment I do not believe I even realized that I was not painting the scene before my eyes."

"Nell!" he said, and there was such tenderness in his voice that she looked up at him, startled. There was an awkward moment while they looked full into each other's eyes.

"Nell," he said, "will you listen to me for a while?"

"No!" she said quickly.

"No?"

"No," she said. "I want to say something first." She turned away from him and busied herself cleaning her brushes and packing away her things. "I was writing you a letter when you arrived yesterday. I had not finished it, but it was far easier to write than to speak to you, I think."

"What is it, Nell?" he asked gently. "We should not find it so hard to talk to each other, should we? There was a time not so long ago when we meant everything to each other."

"Oh, I think not," she said breathlessly. "But no matter. The point is, William, that you were right that night in Richmond. My behavior since I have known you has been far from blameless. The worst wrongs I have done you have been to keep secrets from you, facts that you had a right to know. Before we became l-lovers, I should have told you who I was. You had a right to know that and to decide if you still wanted to… to…"

"It should have made no difference," he said quietly.

"But I did wrong," she persisted, "and thus I had no right to refuse to forgive you for what you did to me. I do forgive you, William. I do not know why you did as you did, and I really do not want to know. But it does not matter. It has been a sordid affair from beginning to end, and perhaps we should forgive each other and have an end to the bitterness at least."

"Nell," he said, and he reached out without thinking and put behind her ear the truant lock of hair, which had fallen again across her face.

She pulled away from his hand and turned away from him. "I think it would be better if you went now, William," she said. "I mean away from the house altogether. It is painful for both of us, I believe, to be in each other's company. We do not need to torture each other, do we?"

"I love you," he said.

She turned back to him and smileu rather wanly. "It is kind of you to say so," she said. "You know my pride will not let me accept you unless you can say that, and you feel that you must convince me because of the child. It is not necessary, William. I have had two months to become accustomed to the knowledge that I am increasing. I am no longer bewildered." She had been looking at his hessian boots. She looked now into his face and found it white and set.

"It is true, then," he said. "I was convinced that it must be so, yet it is still a shock to hear you say it."

"Did the Marquess of Hetherington not tell you?" she asked.

"Robert?" he said. "His lips can be firmly buttoned if he feels that honor demands secrecy. No, I did not know for sure until now. Nell, I have caused you so much suffering, and I have let you endure it all alone. You must have been so very frightened. Let me make amends as far as I am able. Let me give you my name and my protection now. Let me care for you."

She shook her head.

"I wanted to marry you," he said. "I wanted you and I needed you, Nell. And I left you because I knew I did not have the willpower to stay away from you as long as I stayed at Graystone. I wanted to marry you but I could not offer for you because I did not believe I could offer you my heart. I fancied myself in love with someone else. And you had said you loved me, Nell. It did not seem fair to marry you when, as it seemed to me, I needed you only to soothe a bruised heart. I did not realize, fool that I was, that my feelings for you were ones of love. It seems incredible to me now that I did not know."

"You loved someone else?" Nell asked, just as if she had not heard anything else.

"It was over long before I met you," he said, "but I had refused to let go. She was a friend as well as the woman I had hoped to marry. But when I saw her again in London, I realized that only the friendship had survived the year of our separation. I had loved you without even realizing the truth. But I had realized it before I met you again, Nell, and I had already decided that I would go back to Yorkshire and find you and see if you would have me."

"Even if I had been a barmaid or a scullery maid?" she asked.

"Even if you had been a duchess," he said with a smile. "Your rank really did not matter to me, Nell. I loved a girl who was unspoiled by life, a girl who could look at the world around her with wonder and awe. And a woman who was unafraid to give herself in love to a man who had promised her nothing in return."

"Oh," she said.

"I am truly sorry for the terror the last few months must have brought you, Nell," he said. "And I will be very sorry if you insist on going through this alone. But I cannot feel as sorry as I should for those afternoons we spent together. I have not known a great deal of love in my life-perhaps that is why I did not recognize it this time. But you have taught me that love is a giving of one self, that it goes beyond the rules and restrictions that our society imposes on us. I am glad that my child will be borne by you, even if you refuse to acknowledge me as the father. He will be fortunate indeed to have you for a mother."

"Oh," Helen said again. She was blinking her eyes, furiously trying to hold back the tears. "I have always been told that I am an ungrateful, unfeeling girl. I have not known a great deal of love either, William."

He smiled. "You will have more than your fair share for the rest of your life, little wood nymph," he said, "whether you accept me or not. You can drive me away but you will never stop me from loving you."

"William…" she said, and stopped, appalled, when she heard how thin and uncontrolled her voice was. She swallowed. "I thought I would die when you did not come and when I heard that you had gone from Graystone."

"Did you, Nell?" he said.

"I have been so lonely," she said.

"Me too, sweetheart."

"You are not saying all this because I am stubborn and bad-tempered and will not agree to let you do the honorable thing?"

"No, Nell."

"Oh," she said.

"Nell," he said, "if I come closer and kiss you, are you likely to start yelling and kicking and punching?"

"No," she said. And she laughed nervously and felt her face crumple up at the same time. "William," she said, and she reached out blindly for him, "I really do not have any courage at all. I have been terrified and I have secretly dreamed that you would come along and sling me over your shoulder and carry me off by force to the nearest preacher. You won't let me go or change your mind, will you?"

He hugged her to him and hid his face against her hair. "I have just had an idea," he said. "If you refuse to marry me of your own free will, I am going to sling you over my shoulder and carry you off by force to the nearest preacher. What do you think of that?"

She laughed and hiccuped at the same moment. "William," she said into the capes of his greatcoat, "I do love you, you know. That has never changed. I am not marrying you because I feel I should."

"I know," he said, and he framed her face with his hands and looked down into her eyes. "I know, Nell. You are wrong, you see. You have a great deal of courage. I know very well that you would not marry me if you felt there was any doubt that either of us loved the other. You will marry me, then?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes."

He lowered his head and kissed her. And then his hands moved away from her head so that he could hold her to him again, and her mouth opened beneath his seeking tongue. Somehow she had unclasped the buttons of his greatcoat and burrowed her way inside its heavy folds. Her hands found their way inside his coat and his waistcoat to the silk shirt at his shoulders. Heat flared between them.

"Enough, sweetheart, enough," he said at last, his lips at her temples and on her closed eyes. "This time I want to treat you properly. We will be wed as soon as may be, and then I shall take you to a warm and clean bed and make love to you for the whole of one night- and for all of the following day, very like. But not on the grass in clandestine manner again. Not until after we are married anyway," he added with a smile.

"Will we stay in London?" she asked. "It is going to be obvious very soon that we did not wait for our wedding."

"No," he said, drawing her face against his neckcloth. "Neither of us belongs in London now, Nell. We shall leave for Scotland, shall we, and stay there until after our confinement. You will like Scotland, I think. It was made for wood nymphs. And there we need not care what society says about us. I never have cared much anyway, but I still would not wish to see you wounded by gossip."

Helen sighed with contentment. "How lovely it is," she said, "to have someone to plan for me. Will you always do so, William? I have always thought I wished for total independence, but now I realize that I have been merely waiting for a man to whom I should be happy to surrender control."

"That sounds dangerously meek, Nell," he said. "I do not for one moment believe you, you know."

She smiled impishly up at him. "I am most awfully hungry, you know," she said. "I forgot all about luncheon. It must have been hours ago, was it?"

He smiled back and leaned down to kiss her on the nose. "Come on," he said. "We might as well go back and face the embarrassment of meeting Elizabeth and Robert. I can just see the I-told-you-so expressions on their faces. I shall carry your things."

"William," she said, twining her arms around his waist just when he would have moved away. Her face was alight, he saw when he looked down at her with a questioning smile. "I felt the baby move for the first time yesterday. He really is there."

He hugged her to him once more and kissed her hard on the lips. "I should hope so, you absurd little wood nymph!" he said.