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T he Marquis of Stefton paced the cavernous length of the library in Vauden Mansion, the London ancestral home of the Dukes of Vauden.

The house was far too large for a bachelor’s residence, but his mother had pleaded with him to make it his home so as not to displace the servants who’d been with the family for years.

It was typical of her to show concern for even the lowliest of their employees.

It was one of the traits he most admired and loved in his mother, so with affectionate good grace he’d acquiesced to her wishes.

He’d grown used to rattling around the mansion and never gave its size a thought, though he did order most of the furniture to be draped in Holland covers.

Now, however, its emptiness haunted him, grating on his nerves.

He barked at his servants, scowled and sneered, all to no seeming purpose. The worst was that he knew why.

“Fool, fool, fool,” he muttered, continuing his erratic pacing.

“I’ll agree to that,” the Earl of Soothcoor said mildly.

The Marquis looked at his friend, who sat in a wing chair by the fireplace, leaning forward to warm his hands. He laughed mirthlessly. “Alan, you are such a comfort.”

“If it’s comfort you’re truly wanting, I suggest you hie yourself over to Upper Grosvenor Street.”

“No!”

“And why not, may I be asking?” the Earl said, leaning back in the chair, staring sourly at the Marquis.

“Egad, man, you know why. Surely you must.”

“No. That’s exactly what I don’t know.”

The Marquis came toward his friend. “I’m much too old for her. She thinks of me as a meddlesome uncle, no more.”

The Earl snorted.

“It was a game, a way to amuse myself through another boring Season.”

“Aye, just a game,” said the Earl harshly, a flare of anger whitening his knuckles where they gripped the arms of the chair. “You know, you’re not just a fool, you’re a blind fool!”

The Marquis looked at him sharply. “Grant me the intelligence to know I am not the proper mate for Miss Shreveton, even if she possessed any warm feeling for me, which I assure you, she does not.”

“Aye, I’ll grant you intelligence. The intelligence of a sheep. Och, I canna sit here any longer and listen to your drivel.” He rose from the chair. “I think I’ll be off to find Chilberlain. Even though he’s another lovesick dolt, at least he’s honest, which is more’n I can say for you.”

After the door closed behind Soothcoor, Stefton slammed his fist into the chair arm. Damn the man’s impudence! He rose from the chair and crossed to the bell pull. Soothcoor did not know Catherine. Not the way he did.

She deserved a younger man, one not so jaded by society.

Besides, Sir Eugene was correct. He was not at all in her style.

She might feel some affection for him, as one would for an uncle.

He never encouraged her to flirt with him or think his attentions were any more than an obligation to Eugene.

Besides, he steadfastly remained out of her orbit save for their afternoon rides.

When the butler arrived in answer to the bell, he ordered a bottle of brandy to be brought to the library, a full, new bottle.

Noting his employer’s expression, Kennilton hurried down to the cellar and returned quickly with a dusty bottle that he hastily wiped clean, opened, and poured out the first glass before backing out of the room.

He then set off to warn the rest of the household that the Marquis was about to get badly dipped.

Stefton picked up the brandy glass and held it up to the light of a flickering candle. He studied the glass’s contents, absently noting the play of colors off the crystal glass. How could he have fallen in love with the chit?

It was inconceivable. Yet love her he did.

He didn’t know when or how it happened, for he’d always considered himself unable to possess that weighty emotion.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have an appreciation for love.

He did. Perhaps too great an appreciation, for he saw it best expressed in the love his parents bore for each other, almost to his exclusion.

But he knew he loved her when he saw her throw herself at Zephyrus in an attempt to protect the horse from the blows Kirkson rained down upon the animal.

He realized the depth of his feelings when Kirkson leveled the gun at the horse and could so easily have hit her.

Something broke within him at that moment, and he became possessed of a rage he’d never experienced in his life.

He was surprised he’d maintained enough sanity not to rend Kirkson limb from limb and enough intelligence to realize public humiliation would go farther to defeat the man than any public brawl.

He took a sip of the brandy and closed his eyes.

What he had not appreciated about love was the pain it could also bring.

As swiftly as he acknowledged his love for her, he also acknowledged their unsuitability.

His was doomed to be unrequited love. He could accept that. But it hurt like the very devil.

He tossed off the rest of the brandy in the glass and refilled it.

Now all he could wish for was an emotional numbing.

He held up the glass in a silent toast to that attribute of brandy.

Then he laughed harshly, his laughter echoing eerily in the spacious room.

He tossed off the second glass of brandy and again reached for the bottle. It would be a long night.

Sir Philip Kirkson sprawled on the delicate settee in Lady Welville’s parlor, his hair disheveled, his cravat askew, and a wineglass dangling from his long fingers.

“Made a fool of yourself?” Panthea goaded. She sat on a matching settee placed at right angles to the first. A superior smile turned up one corner of her mouth as she considered her unexpected guest.

“Oh, cut line!”

“My, my, aren’t we touchy. The story, you know, is all over London, and quite frankly, you are not in very good odor, my friend.

I swear I must have heard the first tales of it not half an hour after it transpired.

It certainly would appear you’ve lost your heiress, not that I believed you ever had her. ”

“I’ll have my fortune and see that she continues to pay for the rest of her life!” growled Kirkson.

“And just how do you intend to achieve this goal, short of kidnapping?”

He looked up at her and smiled evilly, causing a slight shiver of dread to skim her spine.

“Why must it be short of kidnapping? To my mind, it’s no more than she deserves.

She has humiliated me enough. I’ll see her good and properly compromised first, and then I’ll be generous and bestow my name upon her.

After that, she may stay in Yorkshire if she likes.

I’ll not need her cutting up my peace in London.

On the rare occasions I may venture north, she will be only too happy to service me. ”

Panthea rhythmically tapped a long nail against the table at her side. “So, what do you want of me? I do not believe this is a mere social call.”

“You know Panthea, we deal very well together, you and I. We understand each other. Perhaps after I have snared my heiress and you your Marquis, we should consider establishing a clandestine relationship.”

She shrugged and smiled. “Tell me first what you have planned and what is my role in all this.”

Kirkson rose and slid over next to her, placing one arm around her shoulder, his hand skimming the edge of her low neckline.

His other hand played with the ribbons on her bodice, the palm of his hand casually grazing the peaks of her breasts until they stood out sharply against the fabric.

Quietly he told her his plan, his words interspersed with playful nips on her earlobe and neck.

His sentences became more clipped, and as she covered his lips with hers, further explanations and plans were saved for later.

Lady Orrick absently tucked a wayward silvery blond lock of hair under her lace cap and snuggled into the pale green silk pillows on the Egyptian-style daybed.

Dressed in a gold muslin day gown trimmed with white lace, her plump figure looked extremely youthful and fragile, belying her six-and-forty years.

A colorful, long-fringed, paisley silk shawl draped over her feet, its ends dangling to the shaded green-and-ivory Oriental carpet.

She sighed wistfully, completing the girlish image, and raised her eyes for a moment from the book on her lap in order to grope absently for a glass of Carnation ratafia set among several porcelain Pekingese dogs on the Chinese octagonal table at her elbow.

She took a small sip of the sweet liqueur and turned the page of the leather-bound romance.

She must remember to write Lady Bruckmaster and thank her for recommending the novel to her attention.

Such excitement and the barest hint of the risqué!

It was maddeningly frustrating to know she was more than halfway through the novel and had no notion of how it would end.

She had begun reading the novel before she left London to visit Marianne.

Unfortunately, her daughter’s household was so frenzied, she never had an opportunity to read more than two pages during the entire length of her stay!

The peace and quiet of being once again in her own home was particularly soothing.

Time enough to become embroiled in the final preparations for her sister’s ball.

She chuckled, laying the book in her lap.

And sufficient time, she mused, to unravel the skein of Catherine’s mischief.