A Day for Love by Mary Balogh (3)

The Substitute Guest

Lady Florence Carver set the letter down beside her plate and frowned at the toast rack, which was standing inoffensively in the middle of the breakfast table. If she could just get her hands about Hetty’s neck at this precise moment, she thought, she would happily squeeze. Drat the woman! Though she herself was most to blame, she supposed. She might have guessed that Hetty would develop one of her frequent ailments at the last moment and cry off from the house party she had agreed to attend.

Hetty’s defection meant that only ten guests would arrive on the morrow, six gentlemen and four ladies, five counting Lady Florence—a disgusting and quite impossible imbalance of numbers.

Tomorrow! There was no point in frantically scouring her mind for another lady to invite, Lady Florence thought, though she found herself doing just that. It was far too late. Everyone was arriving the next day. St. Valentine’s Day was only four days off. Even if someone could be invited in a hurry and could arrive in time for the day of the festival, it would be too late. For St. Valentine’s Day was to be merely the culmination of the events she had planned.

Lady Florence picked up the letter and crumpled it viciously in her right hand, winning for herself a nervous glance from her butler. Damn Hetty! She hoped the woman really had the migraines this time and was not merely imagining them as she usually did.

What could she do? Lady Florence drew a deep breath and forced her mind to calmness. This was no time to give in to the vapors. Stop one of the gentlemen from coming? Tell him that she had been forced to cancel the party for some reason? Percy Mullins lived only twelve miles away. But of course he would find out soon enough that she had lied to him. And Percy had a nasty gossiping tongue and would spread the word far and wide. No, she could not do that.

What about ladies within ten or twelve miles? Were there any worthy of the rest of the company she had invited? Any that would accept an invitation from her on such short notice? Any of suitable age and character? She immediately thought of Susan Dover, elder daughter of Sir Hector Dover. But Sir Hector and his wife would never allow it. Besides, the girl was probably no more than twenty.

There was Claire Ward, of course. She was the right age—she must be very much closer to thirty than to twenty, and her eldest brother, though a commoner, had a considerable estate and fortune. She lived with him and his family no more than eight miles away. But Miss Ward was a confirmed spinster and a prude. She would not do at all.

And then there was . . . There had to be someone, Lady Florence thought, her mind a blank. Ah, there was Edna Johnson, a widow like herself and amiable enough. But Mrs. Johnson, she remembered now as she thought about it, was in the north of England visiting relatives of her late husband.

Well, she thought ten minutes later, having wandered through to the morning room from the breakfast room and stared out on a damp and gloomy morning, there was no one. No one at all. And everything was going to be ruined. Everything that she had so carefully planned in order to bring herself some amusement after a winter of nothing but dullness. London had been dull without the crowds that the spring Season would bring, and Christmas at the Byngs had been insipid.

It was going to be worse than ruined, in fact. It was going to be a total disaster. How did one entertain six gentlemen and five ladies—including oneself—for a Valentine’s party? Assign two gentlemen to one of the ladies? The idea had interesting possibilities, but would probably be far more appealing to the fortunate lady than to either of the two gentlemen.

She rapped her fingernails impatiently on the windowsill. She was going to have to try Miss Ward. The woman would stick out in the company rather like a sore thumb, and some poor gentleman would doubtless return home less than satisfied after the party was over. And the chances were strong that Miss Ward would refuse the invitation. Very strong. But there really was no alternative. She must be tried.

Lady Florence crossed the room to the escritoire and looked down at the blank sheets of paper and the quill pen and inkwell set out there fresh that morning as they were each day. It was going to have to be a very carefully worded invitation if it was to be accepted. How did one persuade a prudish spinster to attend a house party at the home of a wealthy widow who had acquired something of a reputation for wildness since the demise of her husband two years before?

She seated herself and tested the nib of the pen with one finger. Well, the words would have to be found somehow. She dipped the pen in the inkwell with more confidence than she felt.

She might have decided differently, Claire Ward thought later that evening as she puzzled over what clothes and other belongings should be packed inside the empty trunk open on the floor of her dressing room, if only the Reverend Clarkwell had not been visiting when the invitation arrived. In fact, without a doubt she would have decided differently. But he had been and she had not and there was an end of the matter.

Should she pack any of her lace caps? she wondered, and she glanced into the looking glass at the one she wore on her smooth brown hair. She looked like a plain and placid spinster—which was exactly what she was. No, she thought, caps would doubtless be inappropriate at a house party. She would leave them at home. Truth to tell, she did not know what was appropriate for a house party, the only ones she had attended having been family affairs, for Christmas or birthdays or christenings. This was to be a party of strangers—“a select group of the most prominent and respected members of society,” as Lady Florence Carver had phrased it in her letter.

Why had she been invited? Claire wondered as she had wondered when the invitation arrived soon after luncheon. But the answer was as obvious now as it had been then. Someone had let Lady Florence down and she had had to make up numbers at a moment’s notice. There could be no other possible reason.

She really ought not to have accepted the invitation. She had had no inclination to do so even at the start. Had she been alone when it had arrived, there would have been no decision to make. She would simply have penned a polite refusal and sent Lady Florence’s messenger on his way. But she had not been alone. And when Myrtle, her sister-in-law, had asked her what the unexpected letter was all about, she had answered truthfully.

“Lady Florence Carver?” Myrtle had said, her usual breathless little-girl voice sounding shocked. “Oh, Claire, love, she is very fast.” And she had colored up as if she had just used one of the worst obscenities one of the stablehands might have uttered.

“Her guests are to be a select group,” Claire had said. “The most prominent and respected members of society.” But neither Myrtle nor the Reverend Clarkwell had recognized the gleam of amusement in her eyes as Roderick, her brother, would have done.

“I do believe, my dear Miss Ward,” the vicar had said, “if you will excuse me for voicing my opinion, which I make bold to do only because I am your pastor and you one of my flock, my dear ma’am. I do believe that for the sake of propriety and your reputation you should return the most formal of refusals. I only lament the fact that Lady Florence is one of the lost sheep of my flock and that any kindly words to point out the error of her ways would only fall on dry ground.”

“They cannot be respectable, Claire, if they are to be Lady Florence’s guests,” Myrtle had said. “Indeed, I do believe it is an insult that she has invited you, and I am sure that Roderick will agree. I wonder why she did so. But of course, you will take the Reverend Clarkwell’s advice. Indeed, love, we will excuse you now so that you may write your reply immediately. I believe you may mention that Roderick disapproves of such country parties.”

“May I?” Claire had asked. “Without his permission, Myrtle?”

“It is quite seemly, my dear Miss Ward,” the vicar had said, “for a dutiful sister and wife to use the name of the gentleman of the house in his absence under such circumstances, especially when they have the advice of a sincere man of the cloth such as myself, if I may so call myself without losing my humility.”

“It is settled, then,” Myrtle had said, looking and sounding relieved.

“Is it?” Claire had tapped the invitation against one palm. “I am rather inclined to accept. I am curious to know what such a party will be like and who the select and respected members of society are.”

Myrtle had had to ask the Reverend Clarkwell to ring for her maid so that her vinaigrette might be brought to revive her. And that gentleman had launched into a speech that almost rivaled one of his Sunday sermons for length and moral rectitude and dullness.

And so she had accepted her invitation, Claire thought with a sigh, drawing her best blue silk out of the wardrobe and trying to remember when was the last time she had worn it. How could she have resisted? And if the truth were known, she had really felt that twinge of curiosity she had pretended to. What did happen at such parties? What were such people like? What sort of people associated with the widow of a baron and daughter of an earl, a woman who was known as “fast”?

Her life had been so bounded by respectability and duty, Claire thought. And it was not an exciting life, she had to admit. Those people who had assured her during the years she had devoted to her ailing father when she might have been getting married and starting a family that she would one day receive her reward had been merely mouthing platitudes. The truth was that she had been left on the shelf and that being forced to live with a brother and sister-in-law and their two children, however kind and affectionate they were to her, was nothing like any reward she might have imagined.

She was twenty-eight years old and had never done anything remotely out of the ordinary or exciting. Perhaps after all it was a good thing that the pomposity of the vicar and the timidity of her sister-in-law had tempted her into being rash for once in her life.

She was to spend four nights at Carver Hall and three and a half days. With total strangers. Even with Lady Florence herself she had only a nodding acquaintance. Oh, dear, Claire thought, her hand stilling on her russet velvet riding habit, what had she done? Twenty-eight seemed a very advanced age at which to decide to be impetuous and adventurous.

But there was nothing much she could do about it now. She dragged the habit from its hanger. She had already weathered the vicar’s lengthy sermon and Myrtle’s vapors and Roderick’s frowns. It would be just too anticlimactic if she were to change her mind now. Besides, she had written an acceptance of the invitation.

“An adult party,” the Duke of Langford said, following his hostess upstairs to the room that had been allotted as his bedchamber. Lady Florence Carver would not do anything as formal and proper as having one of her servants show him there. “The emphasis you put on the word adult, Florence, would suggest that you mean more than that we need not expect nursery infants to be chasing between our legs.” 

“There is not a guest below the age of six-and-twenty,” she said, leading the way into a large, square chamber and crossing the room to throw back the heavy curtains a little wider. “And not one who does not know a thing or two about life, Gerard.” 

“Interesting,” he said, his hand toying with the ribbon of his quizzing glass, though he did not raise it to his eye. Lady Florence had crossed to the bed and was fussing with the bedhangings, though they were already looped back quite firmly.

“I can recall your saying just this past winter,” she said, “that you were bored with all the sweet young things fresh every year on the marriage market. Your very words, I believe, Gerard.”

“Oh, very probably,” he agreed. “Not that I have any quarrel with sweet young things as such, Florence, but only with their eagerness despite everything—or more accurately, the eagerness of their mamas—to believe that I am shopping.”

“Then I believe that this will be just your kind of party,” Lady Florence said, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling at him. “And it is a Valentine’s party, Gerard. Did I mention that? It is a party for love and merriment and—love.” She smiled archly at him.

“Intriguing,” he said. “Depending, I suppose, on the guest list?” He lifted his eyebrows and ignored the invitation of her hand, which was patting the bed beside her as if unconsciously.

“Lady Pollard is coming,” she said. “Mildred always livens any party. And Frances Tate. Her husband is busy as always at the Foreign Office. She finds life in town quite tedious. And Lucy Sterns and Olga Garnett. Oh, and Claire Ward.”

The duke pursed his lips. “And yourself, Florence,” he said. “An interesting guest list. Who is Claire Ward?”

“A neighbor,” she said. “Hetty let me down at the very last minute, the tiresome woman. The migraines again. I invited Miss Ward to take her place.”

“Ah,” he said, strolling to the window and glancing out at the park that stretched to the front of the house, “your tone is dismissive, Florence. I gather Miss Ward is the weak link in this chain of delight that you have forged for yourself and your guests.” 

“No matter,” she said. “Tomorrow I will have everyone paired, Gerard. An old Valentine’s game, you know. I shall see that she is paired with Percy Mullins. I was obliged to invite him because he considers himself a neighbor and would have pouted for a year if I had omitted him from my guest list and would have gossiped viciously about me at the gentlemen’s clubs for five.” She got up from the bed and strolled toward him. “I shall leave you to freshen up if you do not need me,” she said, setting a hand on his arm.

“Everything seems to be in perfect readiness,” the duke said, turning from the window and surveying the room through his quizzing glass. “No, I think I have no further need of you for the present, Florence. And doubtless your other guests are beginning to spill downstairs. I was not the first arrival, you said?”

Left alone a short time later, he lowered his glass and looked about the room again. An adult party. A guest list that included two widows, a married lady whose infidelities to her husband were an open secret, and two unmarried ladies who had one foot each in the demimonde and one in the world of respectability. He had not asked about the other male guests.

And a Valentine’s party. One intended for love and—love, according to Florence. He did not doubt that she would ensure that it was just that, though perhaps love was a euphemism for what she really had in mind.

Well. He shrugged. It might be interesting. All five of the ladies with whom he was acquainted would make amusing companions for three days. Probably a good deal more than amusing too. As for Miss Claire Ward ... He shrugged again. Florence seemed to have everything organized so that he would not have to concern himself with the substitute guest.

He wandered through to the adjoining dressing room, where his valet had already laid out a change of clothes for him. Steam was rising from the water in the basin on the washstand.

Let the party begin, the duke thought.

One thing at least she could feel relieved about, Claire thought at dinner that evening. She was not to be the grandmother of the gathering, as she had rather feared—though, of course, she had known that Lady Florence was older than she. Indeed, it was quite possible, Claire thought, that she was the youngest guest present. It was good to know that she was not going to feel uncomfortably elderly.

There was little else to be relieved about. Everyone else was acquainted. Only she knew no one. And though Lady Florence was graciously condescending and a few of the other guests courteous, she felt uncomfortable. They all talked about London and common acquaintances and appeared to derive a great deal of amusement out of being nasty about the latter.

She wondered if the three remaining days would creep past at snail’s pace and if she would soon regret more than she already did that the Reverend Clarkwell’s visit had coincided with the arrival of Lady Florence’s invitation.

“Ladies,” Lady Florence said, rising from her place and smiling about the table, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port? Make the most of it, gentlemen. This will be the only evening we will allow you such an indulgence.”

While the other ladies laughed and some of the gentlemen protested, Claire got hastily to her feet and followed her hostess from the room. She should have worn her best blue silk, she thought, looking at the very fashionable gowns worn by the other ladies and aware that her own must look almost shabby in contrast. But then if she had worn it tonight, she would have had nothing suitable to wear for the Valentine’s party Lady Florence had planned for the final evening.

“Do let us have some music,” Lady Florence said, wafting a careless hand in the direction of the pianoforte in a far corner of the drawing room. “Who plays? Lucy?”

“Not since my come-out year when it was obligatory to play and sing in order to impress the gentlemen,” Miss Sterns said with a laugh. “Not me, Florence.”

It seemed that the other ladies had similar objections to playing.

“Miss Ward,” Lady Florence said, “you play. I am quite sure you do, being a lady who has cultivated all the country virtues. Do play for us.”

“Yes, do, Miss Ward,” Lady Pollard said, smiling charmingly.

And yet when Claire obliged and seated herself at the pianoforte, no one paid either her or her music the slightest heed until she finished her piece and rose to her feet. Then the ladies interrupted their gossiping about the fire.

“That was quite divine, Miss Ward,” Miss Garnett said.

“Oh, do play on, Miss Ward,” Lady Florence urged her. “You have a quite superior touch.”

Claire played on, smiling inwardly as the ladies resumed their conversation. She did not mind playing or being ignored. Indeed, she felt far more comfortable where she was, especially after the gentlemen came in from the dining room. And safer. She was a little overawed by the presence of so many strangers and despised herself for being so. One of the gentlemen was even a duke—the Duke of Langford.

Why she should feel suddenly fearful of playing a wrong note just because she had remembered that there was a duke present in the room she did not know. He was no more human than she, she told herself firmly. Besides, no one was listening to her music and so there was no reason for nervousness.

And yet when she glanced up and across the room to assure herself that in truth she was being ignored, it was to find herself looking straight across into the dark, hooded eyes of his grace. Claire looked down hastily and indeed played a wrong note. She grimaced and played on.

She rather thought that the man might make her nervous even without the exalted title. But then perhaps it was the title that gave him his remote, haughty air. His dark good looks merely enhanced it—though the silver hair at his temples proclaimed him to be a man well past the first flush of youth. He regarded the world from lazy dark eyes and occasionally from a quizzing glass. Claire suddenly had a panicked feeling and looked up to find the quizzing glass trained on her. She played on, unaware of whether her fingers had faltered again or not.

He had not spoken a great deal either at tea or at dinner. And yet he was clearly a favorite with all the ladies. And they made no secret of the fact, something that had rather shocked Claire. She had lived such a sheltered life, she realized. She knew nothing about the manners of polite society.

“Miss Ward.” Lady Florence’s voice stopped Claire’s hands on the keyboard. “Of course you must join us before I tell everyone what is planned for this Valentine’s party. I was so enjoying your music that I almost forgot to call you over until Gerard reminded me.”

Claire was not sure which of the gentlemen was Gerard. But she felt instant regret after all that she had been persuaded to play the pianoforte. All eyes watched her as she rose from the stool and crossed the room to take an empty chair close to the fire. She felt like a gauche girl, she thought in some annoyance, her movements jerky and self-conscious.

Lady Florence stood before the fire, looking as if she was thoroughly enjoying herself. Her red silk evening gown complemented the color in her cheeks. Claire looked at the latter in some fascination. Was the color natural?

“Tomorrow morning,” their hostess said, “we are going to observe the custom of the gentlemen drawing lots for valentines.”

“Two days early, Florence?” Lord Mingay asked.

“Why wait?” she said. “I have six identical valentines ready. Tomorrow each lady will write her name on the front of one and place it facedown on a table. Each gentleman will pick one, add his name to the lady’s, pin it to her bosom, and take her for his valentine for what remains of the party.”

Claire’s cheeks felt as if they were on fire. She must be sitting too close to the heat.

“I say,” Mr. Tucker said, looking about him. “A random choice, Florence? The whole thing is to be left to chance? No cheating?”

“Now, why do you ask, Rufus?” Lady Pollard asked, rapping him sharply on the knuckles with her fan. “Are there any of us ladies whom you would hope to avoid?”

“Or anyone you particularly favor, Rufus?” Miss Garnett asked.

Rufus Tucker looked about slowly at the ladies. “Not I,” he said. “No to both questions. So after tomorrow morning, Florence, we are to be in couples?”

“What a splendid idea, Florence,” Mrs. Tate said. “For three whole days we will each have the undivided attention of a gentleman? What a treat that will be.”

“I have plenty of activities planned to keep everyone entertained for three days,” Lady Florence said.

“Oh, bother,” Lucy Sterns said with a laugh.

Lady Florence held up one hand. “With plenty of opportunity for private tête-à-têtes,” she added.

“Ah, this is better,” Lucy Sterns said.

Sir Charles Horsefield seated himself on the arm of Lady Pollard’s chair. “Your servants are like to benefit too, Florence,” he said. “Six fewer beds to make up each morning after tonight.”

“Charles, you naughty man,” Lady Pollard said, slapping him on the knee while there was general laughter from the rest of the company. “You are quite putting me to the blush.”

“Then I am doing something no one else has accomplished these ten years past, Mildred,” he said, and there was another general burst of laughter while she shrieked again.

In addition to being too close to the heat, Claire thought, she was too far away from the door. Too far away from air. She was having difficulty breathing. Could she possibly be misunderstanding what she was hearing? But of course she must be. Everyone was laughing and in the best of good humor. They were joking. The jokes were in the poorest of taste by her standards, but she knew nothing of London standards. The truth was that Lady Florence had tried to organize a party that would be romantic in the true spirit of St. Valentine’s Day, and her friends were making lighthearted fun of her plans.

And yet, Claire thought, it would be unutterably embarrassing. Tomorrow morning she would be chosen to be one of these gentlemen’s valentine for three whole days. One of the gentlemen was going to find himself with a dreadfully dull companion. She was quite out of her depth in this company. She did not know how to laugh and talk wittily as these people did. Which gentleman would it be? she wondered. Her heart was racing and she felt more breathless than ever. And she did not know if the cause was panic or excitement.

She glanced up at the Duke of Langford, who was still standing and lounging against one corner of the mantel. He was looking back at her from those heavy-lidded eyes and idly swinging his quizzing glass on its ribbon. Claire licked her lips and looked back down again.

“But how annoying of you to make us wait until tomorrow morning, Florence,” Mrs. Tate was saying. “How are we to sleep tonight? This is almost like being a child at Christmastime again.”

“Ah, but, Frances,” Mr. Shrimpton said, winking, “Florence is kindly giving us the chance to have one last good night’s sleep.”

There was that general laughter again, but Claire found herself as unable to join in as she had before. There could be no mistaking Mr. Shrimpton’s meaning. But surely he must be merely joking. Oh, surely. Lady Florence Carver had a reputation for fastness. Claire knew that. But surely being fast did not mean being quite so unprincipled. Surely it meant just this— talking in rather a vulgar and suggestive manner.

Claire wondered as everyone stirred when the door opened to admit two servants with the tea tray whether it would be possible to return home the following morning. It would mean sending for Roderick’s carriage, which was not supposed to come for her until the fifteenth. It would not arrive until the afternoon even if she sent early.

But she would not go, she knew. She would not be able to bear having Roderick and Myrtle—and doubtless the Reverend Clarkwell too—tell her that they had told her so. Besides, she was curious. More curious now than she had been before she came. Curious about this totally different world that she seemed to have landed in at the grand age of twenty-eight. And a little excited too. Yes, she had to admit it, however reluctantly.

She had never been anyone’s valentine. Certainly not for three whole days.

The Duke of Langford had had the advantage of the other guests, if advantage it were. Lady Florence had divulged a part of her plan to him on his arrival. He had known that on the morrow she and her guests were to be paired. It would be interesting, he had thought at the time. A companion and a bed partner for a few days without any effort on his part either to entice or to hold at bay. February was a dull month of the year—not quite winter, not quite spring, Christmas festivities well in the past, the Season still in the future. Valentine’s Day had been a brilliant invention of someone who had known something about boredom.

He had spent the latter part of the afternoon and dinner surveying the possibilities—not that the choice would be his. It was to be by lottery. He was not actually averse to any of the ladies except Miss Claire Ward, of course. She was the country mouse Florence had led him to expect. Florence herself would be a voluptuous armful and had much experience with the art of love, if gossip had the right of it. Mildred, Lady Pollard, had an earthy sort of humor and a certain beauty of her own. Lucy Sterns was on the loose after a stint as Lord Hendrickson’s mistress. Olga Garnett was without a doubt the most beautiful of the ladies with her blond tresses and creamy complexion. Frances Tate—well, he hoped he would not pick up her valentine. He had always avoided bedding other men’s wives, however desirable they might be.

The duke found himself mildly interested in the possibilities of the following days without in any way being excited by them. The trouble with any of the four unattached ladies, he could almost predict, was that they would assume that a short liaison in the country would blossom into a longer liaison in town. It would mean his having to be absent from London just at a time when events were leading up to the Season.

Perhaps, he thought idly during dinner, there would after all be more to look forward to if he were landed with Hetty’s substitute. It might be amusing—it would certainly be a new experience—to try seducing a country mouse. And for the first time he really looked at Miss Claire Ward.

Slim, straight-backed—her spine did not once touch the back of her chair—disciplined: she was the picture of an aging spinster. Which she was except that she must be seven or eight years younger than his own thirty-four years and except that she would be pretty if she once relaxed and smiled and if she wore her hair in a less severe style.

She scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He did not once hear her voice. And yet she appeared calm and unflustered. His look became especially keen when twice he thought he detected a gleam of amusement in her eyes as someone made particularly spiteful remarks about “friends.” Miss Ward might be a prude, he thought—indeed, he did not doubt that she was—but he suspected that she might be an intelligent one.

He watched her again in the drawing room after dinner, at first sitting apart playing the pianoforte, which she had been asked to do, according to Florence, though no one was listening to her. She looked unabashed by the fact. She actually looked as if she was enjoying herself—and she played extremely well— until she looked up and caught his eye and looked down in confusion.

A virgin if ever he had seen one, he thought. And he watched her a little later contain her shock and dismay as Florence explained her plan for their Valentine’s entertainment and everyone added comments, several of them risqué. It was all enough to give a virgin spinster a fit of the vapors severe enough to last a month, he thought. And yet Miss Ward sat straight-backed and silent and calm—and scarlet-cheeked. Even without the relaxation and the smile and the more becoming style of hair she looked pretty.

The Duke of Langford swung his quizzing glass pendulum-fashion from its ribbon and declined tea. He had an idea, one that might bring more amusement than any of the five experienced flirts and respectable courtesans would bring.

He walked upstairs later with Lady Florence. It was not difficult to arrange since both of them seemed intent on maneuvering it. “Er,” he said, “your lottery is to be a random thing tomorrow, Florence? And yet you are to arrange it that Mullins gets Miss Ward?”

She flashed him a brilliant smile. “It is fitting, don’t you think, Gerard?” she asked. “He is dreadfully dull. I should hate to feel that he might draw my valentine. And she, of course, is impossible. I would not have dreamed of inviting her if the alternative had not been having uneven numbers.”

“Then it is wise to pair them together,” he said. “But how, pray, is it to be done if there is to be no cheating?”

Her smile deepened. “Perhaps just a little manipulation, Gerard,” she said. “I shall see to it that Miss Ward’s valentine is at the bottom left of the table— as far from mine as it can possibly be, in fact. And I shall warn each of the gentlemen except Percy that that is where it will be.”

“I see,” he said. “And I take it that Mullins is to be the last to choose?”

“But of course,” she said, widening her eyes at him. “And you are to be first, a tribute to your superior rank.”

“Ah,” he said.

She smiled. They had passed his room and had come to a stop outside hers. “Three days and three nights,” she said. “Of course, for one couple it could be three days and four nights.”

“Ah,” he said again, “but that would be unfair to the other participants in this party, Florence. Don’t you agree?” He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

She pulled a face. “What does fairness have to say to anything?” she asked him.

“Everything.” He bowed over her hand before releasing it. “To a man of honor, that is.”

She smiled as he turned away. He heard her bedchamber door open and close again before he reached his own room.

The valentines were red silk hearts trimmed with a double layer of white lace. They were exquisite, all the ladies agreed. There was a heightened air of excitement in the morning room as each in turn wrote her name carefully on one heart, leaving room below for a gentleman’s name. The gentlemen were still in the breakfast room.

Claire wished more than ever that she had sent for the carriage. A night of restless tossing and turning and bizarre dreams had not convinced her that innocent romance was the object of Lady Florence’s party. And think as she would of the six gentlemen, any one of whom might be her valentine, she could not imagine one with whom she might be comfortable—or one who would be pleased to draw her name.

Lady Florence gathered up the six hearts when they had all finished and the ink had dried. “Now, over to the fire all of you,” she said, laughing, “and no peeping. I shall arrange the hearts on the table so that none of you will know which is your own. That way there can be no cheating, no secret signals to a favored gentleman.”

The ladies laughed merrily and moved obediently to the fireplace.

“But indeed,” Mrs. Tate confided to Claire, “I have no favorite. Well, perhaps one, but then who would not favor him in any company? But Florence has chosen her gentlemen guests well, would you not agree, Miss Ward? They are all personable.”

“Yes,” Claire said.

“One can only hope,” Miss Garnett said with a titter, “that the gentlemen feel the same way about us, Frances.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Mrs. Tate said, looking about at the group. “I do believe Florence has chosen us carefully too, if I may be pardoned for the vanity.”

“Poor Hetty,” Lady Pollard said. “It is a shame she had to cry off at the last moment. She would have enjoyed nothing better than Florence’s little entertainment.” Then she glanced at Claire and looked uncomfortable. She spread her heavily ringed hands to the blaze. “There is nothing as cozy as a large fire in a morning room, is there?”

Claire smiled to herself. So she was poor Hetty’s substitute, was she? Well, she had known it, or all but the name of the absent guest anyway. But Lady Florence had sent a servant to summon the gentlemen. There was no time to dwell on the fact. Claire’s heart began to thump, just as if she were fresh out of the schoolroom and meeting gentlemen for the first time in her life, she thought in disgust.

“You are each in turn to choose a valentine from the table,” Lady Florence told the gentlemen after they had arrived. Her cheeks were glowing and she had her hands clasped to her bosom. She was throughly enjoying herself. “You must not turn it over until everyone has chosen. Then you will all turn over the valentines together, add your own name beneath the lady’s, and pin the valentine to her bosom, as I explained last night. There are pins on the table. Are there any questions?”

There were not. Claire seated herself on the chair just vacated by Lady Pollard. She wished heartily that she could fade out of sight altogether.

“Very well, then,” Lady Florence said. “Gerard, will you make the first choice?”

“Me first?” he said in the rather bored drawl Claire had noticed the night before during the few occasions when he had spoken. “Ah, the choice is overwhelming, Florence. And all quite identical?”

“But not the ladies whose names are written beneath, Gerard,” Lady Pollard said.

He stood at one corner of the table for a long time—all the gentlemen did when their turn came except Mr. Mullins, who was last and had no choice at all—before finally picking up the heart closest to him. It must have taken ten minutes for all the hearts to be chosen, though why it took so long Claire did not know. Since the hearts were identical and there was no knowing which belonged to whom, there seemed little point in pondering the choice. She could only conclude that the gentlemen were enjoying and savoring the game as the ladies clearly were. Her own heart was beating in her chest like a hammer.

“Now,” Lady Florence said, her voice so bereft of the gay excitement with which she had set the game in motion ten minutes before that Claire looked at her in some surprise, “you may turn your hearts over, gentlemen, and discover the identity of your valentine. Add your own names, please.”

Not one of the gentlemen as he read the name of his valentine either looked at her or spoke her name. Another five minutes passed—or it seemed like five to Claire, though perhaps it was not quite so long— before Percival Mullins, the first to use the pen, picked up a pin and crossed the room to Lady Florence.

“Ah, Percy,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, “how charming.”

“My pleasure, Florence,” he said. “I hope I do not prick you with the pin.” Lady Florence had an ample bosom.

And then Sir Charles Horsefield was bowing before Olga Garnett and Lord Mingay was approaching Frances Tate. Rufus Tucker had some difficulty writing on silk with the quill pen. There was a delay before he turned to locate Lady Pollard with a smile.

Claire felt quite sick. She and Lucy Sterns were left. The Duke of Langford was bent over the table, the pen in his hand. Maurice Shrimpton waited behind him.

“The suspense is killing,” Miss Sterns murmured, leaning toward Claire. Claire could only swallow.

And then the Duke of Langford straightened up, handed the pen to the remaining gentleman, took what seemed like half a minute to pick up a pin, and turned to walk toward the fireplace. Lucy Sterns smiled. But his eyes were directed downward to the chair when he came up to them and he reached out a hand to Claire.

No, there is some mistake, she almost said foolishly. Miss Sterns is standing beside me. But she did not say it. Instead she set her hand in his—she did not realize until his closed about it how cold her own was—and raised her eyes to his. He was looking at her steadily from beneath lazy eyelids. She got to her feet.

“Ah, Maurice,” Miss Sterns was saying beside her with warm enthusiasm. “How wonderful.”

In fact, the whole room was buzzing with exclamations and laughter. And yet it all seemed to Claire to come from a long distance away. She was wearing a high-necked wool dress. She watched as he pinned the heart just above her left breast, felt the heat of his fingers burn through to her flesh—they were long, well-manicured fingers—and read his name upside down as it had been scrawled in bold strokes beneath the small neatness of her own name. “Langford,” he had written.

She looked up when he had finished to find his eyes gazing directly into hers—keen dark eyes despite the sleepy eyelids. She was too close to the fire again, too far from air, she thought. His eyes were not smiling or his close-pressed lips either. He was displeased, she thought. Of course he was displeased. She fought back the impulse to apologize to him.

And then someone took her right hand in a warm clasp—but of course, she thought in some confusion as her hand was raised between them, who else would have taken it? He touched his lips to the backs of her fingers, and Claire felt the sensation of their touch all along her arm and down into her breasts and all the way down to her toes.

“Well,” someone said heartily—it was Mr. Tucker, Claire realized with a start—and laughed, “may the party now begin, Florence?”

The party was to begin with a ride to Chelmsford Castle, six miles away.

“We will all ride together,” Lady Florence said. “There is a remarkably well-preserved castle to explore and a river before and a forest behind. I am sure that we will find six separate ways to go.” She smiled about at the company.

But not at him, the Duke of Langford noticed. Florence was displeased. Furiously angry if he was not mistaken. He would be willing to wager that in the private word she had had with the other gentlemen, Mullins excepted, she had mentioned only the fact that the valentine at the bottom left of the table belonged to Miss Ward. He did not doubt that only he had been favored with the seemingly unconscious remark that Miss Ward’s valentine was as far from her own as it was possible to be.

He would have to think of something to say to her to smooth her ruffled feathers. Especially since by some chance her own valentine had been the last to be chosen—by the last gentleman to choose.

He was still wondering by what folly he had chosen Miss Ward as his valentine and how soon he would actively regret his decision. Tonight, perhaps, when everyone else retired to bed in couples? He doubted that he and Miss Ward would be retiring to a shared bed quite that soon. Perhaps the next night. More probably the next. Perhaps not at all. He had no experience whatsoever in seducing virtuous spinsters. Indeed, he had no experience in seducing any female, having found seduction quite unnecessary since his eighteenth year. After succeeding to his title at the age of twenty-four he had found himself more often than not having to ward off unwelcome advances, rather as he had done with Florence. Not that hers should have been unwelcome exactly. She was attractive enough. Perhaps it was just that he had a perverse preference for choosing rather than being chosen.

Miss Ward was dressed in a russet-colored velvet habit for the ride, a matching hat with a black feather on her smooth brown hair. She looked slim and lithe, the duke thought, his eyes moving over her critically as he drew closer to her to help her into the saddle. She looked as if she probably spent more time outdoors than in. Lucy Sterns, on the other hand, was having to be lifted into the saddle by Shrimpton and was nervously expressing the hope that Florence had chosen her a quiet mount.

“You ride frequently, Miss Ward?” the duke asked her as they rode out of the stableyard into the freshness of a bright springlike day.

“I live in the country, your grace,” she said.

“And not many miles from here,” he said. “You must know Chelmsford Castle. Is it worth a visit?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is a favorite picnic spot in the summer. It should be lovely now. There will probably be primroses and snowdrops on the bank of the river.”

She spoke softly, seriously, unsmilingly. It was a long time, he realized suddenly in some surprise, since he had spoken with a lady—with a true lady, that was, not just one whose birth gave her the right to call herself so. Noisy flirting and raucous laughter were going on all about them.

“Then we must pick some,” he said.

“I would prefer to leave them to live out their natural span, your grace,” she said. “And in their natural surroundings.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes, you really are a country dweller, are you not? But if we are to be in each other’s company for three days and if we are to be valentines, I really do not want to be ‘your graced’ every time you address me. My name is Gerard.”

She said nothing.

“And yours is Claire,” he said.

“Yes, your gr—,” she said. “Yes.”

He found it easier after that to ride in near silence, merely commenting on the scenery now and then. She rode well, her back very straight, her hands light on the reins, her body relaxed and graceful. How, he wondered, was he to flirt with such a woman? How was he to seduce her? He should already have been regretting his actions of that morning, he thought, since she was clearly not comfortable when he spoke to her. And yet strangely enough he felt somewhat exhilarated by the near-impossible challenge he seemed to have set himself. There had been so few challenges in life of late.

They dismounted and tethered their horses when they reached the foot of the hill on which the castle was built.

“Unfortunately,” Lady Florence said gaily, “there are only four compass directions and six couples. But I believe we can find six different directions to take, after all. Who wants to take the castle?”

“Claire is going to give me a guided tour,” the duke said. “Are you not, Claire?”

“If you wish,” she said.

They were to have the castle to themselves, it appeared, everyone else having found some other satisfactory destination with Florence’s help. They would all meet in an hour or so’s time and adjourn to a nearby inn for refreshments.

“Have fun!” Lady Florence called gaily, linking her arm through Percival Mullins’s and smiling dazzlingly up at him. “The forest is delightful at this time of the year, Percy. And quite deserted and secluded, of course.”

The duke offered his arm to Claire. “It seems we are to be lord and lady of the castle,” he said. “Is it in as good repair as it looks from here?”

“Not quite,” she said. “The outer walls of castles were always the strongest part. Much of the inside has crumbled away. But there are still two towers that are quite safe to climb, and the battlements are in good repair and give a wonderful view of the surrounding country.”

“Ah, then,” he said, “we must climb. I would guess that you are not one of those ladies who have to pause for breath every ten steps on a staircase, are you, Claire?”

“No,” she said.

They entered the arched gateway into the grassy courtyard and could see the ruined walls of what must have been the kitchen and living quarters.

“The tallest tower is safe?” he asked, pointing to the one opposite them.

“Yes,” she said.

Spiraling stone stairs led steeply upward from the courtyard, the only light provided by the narrow slits of the arrow windows. The climb seemed interminable. The duke amused himself with the sight of Claire’s shapely derriere and neat ankles as she climbed ahead of him. And then they came out onto the open top of the tower, surrounded by a reassuringly high crenellated wall. The clouds scudding by on the blue sky made it appear as if the tower were moving.

“Well, at least,” he said, “we are having our exercise for the day.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I have the feeling,” he said, “that I am to be totally nameless for the next three days. You can no longer call me ‘your grace’ since I have specifically asked you not to, but you find it quite impossible to call me Gerard. Am I right, Claire?”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I am afraid I have always moved in less exalted circles.”

“If you pinch me, you know,” he said, “I say ouch. If you cut me, I bleed. Say Gerard.”

“Gerard.”

“Good,” he said. “That point is settled. Do you like Florence’s Valentine’s idea?”

“It is suited to the occasion,” she said. “She thought to bring some sense of romance to the festival.” 

“Hmm,” he said. “Romance.” The wind was blowing the feather of her hat across her chin. He reached out one hand to move it aside and looked down at her mouth. It was a rather wide mouth that was made to smile, he believed, though he had never seen it do so. “Do you really believe that is her purpose, Claire?”

She licked her lips in a gesture that he guessed was not meant to be provocative. “Yes,” she said. “Valentines chosen by lottery, rides to places of beauty like this.” She gestured at the miles and miles of country visible from the top of the tower.

“I wonder if you believe your own words,” he said, moving his hand to beneath her chin and rubbing his thumb across her lips. “Can you be that naive?”

“It is meant to be more, then?” she asked.

“More, yes,” he said, and he leaned forward and laid his lips against hers for a brief moment. Her own lips remained still. He found her passivity strangely arousing. Perhaps because he was unaccustomed to it, he thought.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” he asked her. “Is a kiss not appropriate between valentines?”

“We are not—” she began.

“Oh, yes, we are,” he reminded her. “You have a lacy heart pinned to your wool dress with both our names on it. I won you by lottery.”

She said nothing but merely looked at him. Her eyes were a mixture of blue and gray, he thought. Rather lovely eyes. He touched the pad of his thumb to the center of her lips.

“Is a kiss sinful between willing adults?” he asked. “I do not insult you by assuming that you have passed your majority, do I?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I have—several years ago.”

“Well, then,” he said. “Are you repulsed by me, Claire?”

“Repulsed?” she said. “Of course not.”

“And neither am I repulsed by you,” he said. “And we are valentines, after all. For three whole days, Claire.” He was going to add and for three whole nights too, but he stopped himself in time.

“Yes,” she said.

“And there is nothing improper about valentines exchanging kisses,” he said. “Not when they are both adults and in no way repulsed by each other.”

“No,” she said.

“Then we have no quarrel,” he said, setting both his hands on her shoulders and drawing her upper body loosely against his before kissing her again, parting his lips in order to do so. Her own stayed closed, though they trembled as her shoulders trembled beneath his hands. He licked her lips from one corner to the other before raising his head and setting her back away from him.

“It is my guess, Miss Claire Ward,” he said, “that you considered flight both last evening and this morning. Am I right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“But you had a little too much courage to give in to the urge,” he said.

“A little too much stubbornness, I think,” she said. “And a little too much curiosity, too.” There was the suggestion of a smile about her lips for a moment.

“Ah,” he said, “stubbornness and curiosity. Qualities I like. Going down the steps of these old towers is far more intimidating than going up, is it not? Would you like me to go first?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

He would have had the vapors from any other female, he thought as he started down into the steep darkness. Or at least shrieks and shrinking pleas for assistance. Claire Ward came steadily and quietly after him. He could see her trim ankles in their black riding boots whenever he turned his head.

He thought of what was probably happening between five other couples down by the river and in the woods and fields about the castle and thought ruefully of his two chaste kisses. And yet he would not, he thought with a wry smile, change places with any of the other five gentlemen. No, not for a thousand pounds.

Claire looked at her mirrored image and wished again that she had more gowns as attractive as her blue silk. She had always liked the yellow one she now wore, but she knew that it was unfashionable by London standards, the neckline conservatively high, the sleeves too narrow, the hem unadorned. She spread her hand for a moment over the valentine heart, which she had removed from her wool dress and pinned to her evening gown. His signature, she saw when she removed her hand and looked at it reversed in the mirror, quite overshadowed her own.

It was time to go down to dinner. But there would be none of the awkwardness and self-consciousness of the evening before when she had known no one. Tonight it was all arranged. The Duke of Langford— Gerard—would be leading her in to the dining room and seating himself beside her.

She was almost ashamed to admit that she was beginning to enjoy herself. There had been the ride, an activity she always liked, and the hour spent exploring Chelmsford Castle and the refreshments at the inn afterward. And the ride home. She was twenty-eight years old. All her adult life she had been alone. Oh, not quite solitary, it was true. But whenever she went anywhere with Roderick and Myrtle, it was always they who were the couple and she who was the single. There was great pleasure, she had discovered that day, in being part of a couple. And a great sense of security.

And he seemed not to be too displeased at having drawn her as his valentine. That was what had worried her most that morning. She had fully expected to be treated with haughty disdain. Instead he had behaved with courtesy—and something more. Her cheeks grew warm and her mirrored image flushed as she remembered that he had kissed her on top of the tower. And had done more than kiss her, too. He had touched her lips with his tongue and sent sensation sizzling through her.

At least now, she thought with a wry smile for her blushing image, she would not have to go through life with the regret that she had never been kissed. She had been and by a duke no less. Now that would be a memory with which to soothe her old age. Her smile became more amused.

Yet she really ought not to be enjoying herself, she thought as she left her room and descended to the drawing room, where she could hear that some people were already assembled prior to dinner. It was not a proper party she was attending. If she had had any doubts, the duke had dispelled them that afternoon. And if any had lingered, they would have disappeared at the inn, where Miss Sterns had sat all through tea with her shoulder pressed to Mr. Shrimpton’s and where Lady Pollard had turned to Mr. Tucker at one point and they had kissed each other. Claire had been very glad at the time that she was not given to the vapors.

But she was enjoying herself. As soon as she stepped into the drawing room he came toward her, his hand stretched out for hers. And he looked quite magnificent in a brown velvet coat and buff-colored knee breeches, with a waistcoat of dull gold and white linen. Oh, yes, she thought, almost smiling at him but holding back in case after all he was less than pleased with the situation—oh, yes, it was all very romantic, whatever the rest of Lady Florence’s guests made of it. To have a valentine for three whole days—and such a very handsome and distinguished valentine—was quite the pinnacle of romance to an aging spinster.

They would play forfeits that evening, Lady Florence announced gaily during dinner and the announcement drew titters and exclamations. '

“Really, Florence?” Sir Charles said. “Forfeits?” 

“Forfeits?” Mrs. Tate said. “Spare my blushes, Florence.”

Yet they all seemed pleased, Claire thought. She played forfeits with her nephews and nieces on occasion, sometimes with small coins, more often with an imposed task to be performed as a forfeit, like a song to be sung. The children always enjoyed it when the adults joined in and showed themselves willing to make themselves look rather foolish.

But it seemed that she was not to have a chance to play that evening. After they had adjourned to the drawing room and drunk their tea—the gentlemen did not remain in the dining room after the ladies left— the Duke of Langford laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke to Lady Florence.

“You will excuse Claire and me for the next hour or two, Florence?” he said in his most bored-sounding drawl. “We feel a pressing need to, ah, view the portraits of your husband’s ancestors and the other paintings in the gallery. Don’t we, Claire?”

Did they? Claire looked up at him, startled. But she did not want to go. She did not want to be alone with him. He could have only one reason for suggesting such a thing. And everyone else must have thought the same thing. There were knowing smiles from the ladies and winks from the gentlemen.

“You naughty man, Gerard,” Lady Pollard said. “Why did we not think of that, Rufus?”

“Well, there is still the conservatory, Mildred,” he said.

“Ah,” she said, “but we would have to miss the forfeits. Are you sure you wish to do so, Gerard?” Claire looked at him hopefully. She should speak up, she knew. But such people always tongue-tied her.

She never knew the right thing to say or when it should be said.

“We have better things to do,” he said, and he lifted his hand away from her shoulder and brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek before extending the hand to help her to her feet.

“Then go,” Lady Florence said with what sounded almost like impatience. “The rest of us are ready to proceed with the fun.”

Carver House had been a Tudor manor before centuries of rebuilding had transformed it. But the long gallery was still on the top floor, running the whole width of the house. They were on their way up the stairs, the duke carrying a branch of candles in one hand, before Claire spoke. By that time she was angry—perhaps more with herself than with him. Was she going to allow herself to be awed into behaving against her nature?

“I don’t think this is a good idea, your grace,” she said. “I don’t think I wish to be so alone with you. It is not proper.”

“Far more proper than being in the drawing room for the next couple of hours is likely to be,” he said.

She looked at him. They had paused on the second landing. “Playing a game in the company of the others?” she said.

“Forfeits,” he said. “Do you have any idea what that means, Claire?”

“I have played it all my life,” she said.

“With articles of your own clothing as the forfeits?” he asked.

She stared back at him, the implications of what he had said dawning on her. She felt heat mount into her cheeks. “No,” she said almost in a whisper. “But surely ...”

“So, my dear Claire,” he said, offering her his arm again, “you and I will go and admire art in the gallery. Shall we?”

She took his arm hesitantly. Had he spoken the truth? Surely even these guests would not behave with such utter—impropriety. Was it all an elaborate ruse to get her alone? Alone in an upper gallery for more than an hour? Surely she should resist. She should plead a headache and retire to her room. Or better still, she should just tell the truth and retire to her room.

But she remembered the titters and the comments at dinner when the game had first been mentioned. Besides, she thought, placing her arm on the duke’s and allowing him to lead her up the final flight of stairs, she wanted to go. And no, she would not feel guilty about it either. Good heavens, she was a woman, not a girl. And she was a woman with feelings and needs—and a longing to be part of the romance of St. Valentine’s Day for once in her life.

They wandered down one side of the gallery and back along the other, looking dutifully at the paintings while he held the candles aloft. They scarcely spoke a word. But Claire deliberately reveled in having her hand on a man’s firm arm, in being alone with him, part of a couple. Whatever might be happening downstairs, and whatever he might be thinking or feeling, she thought, she was going to enjoy this hour. She was going to pretend that they belonged together, that they were more than just valentines for three days.

“Unless we can convince ourselves that we are great devotees of art, Claire,” he said as they stood before the last picture—a painting of a single horse and rider and a crowd of hunting dogs, “we are going to have to find some other way to amuse ourselves for what remains of the evening.”

She stiffened.

“Shall we sit down on the bench beneath the window and exchange life stories?” he asked.

She seated herself obediently and he sat beside her, his knee brushing against hers.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eight-and-twenty,” she said, looking at him, startled. “And why are you twenty-eight years old and unmarried, Claire?” he asked her.

Because no one had asked her, she thought. But she could not say that out loud.

“I have observed no defects of either person or character in you during the past day and a half,” he said. “Indeed, I would have to say that you possess some beauty.”

It was no lavish compliment, but it warmed her to her toes. “My father was an invalid,” she said. “He needed me. He died a year and a half ago.”

“Did he?” he said, and his dark eyes wandered over her face and hair. “So you are one of those too numerous females whose personal happiness is sacrificed at the family altar, are you?”

She said nothing.

“And as a reward you have been taken into the home of relatives, where you will live out your life making yourself useful and always feeling that you do not belong.”

Her hands clenched in her lap. “My brother and my sister-in-law have always been good to me,” she said.

“Of course.” He took one of her hands, unclenched her fingers, and curled them over his. “And so, Claire, you have not been allowed to learn anything of life.”

“I believe my life has been useful,” she said. All the joy of fantasy had gone out of her day. She was back to reality again. There was no romance after all.

“I am sure it has,” he said. “Useful to others. But to yourself?”

“There is satisfaction to be gained from serving others, your grace,” she said, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye. “Probably a great deal more than would be gained from wasting one’s youth in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of polite society in London.”

He set his other hand over the back of hers. “Is that how you have consoled yourself, Claire?” he asked.

It was. But in one sentence, with one question, he had shattered even that illusion, exposing to her view all the yearnings of years that she had ruthlessly reasoned away.

“You should not be here, you know,” he said. “You are about as at home here as I would be at the bottom of the ocean.”

“I know,” she said, her voice unable to hide her bitterness. “Naive spinsters of eight-and-twenty do not belong at a house party with people who know a thing or two about life and the world. I should be at home with my brother and sister-in-law.”

“That was not my meaning,” he said. “You should be in your own home, Claire, with your husband, your children abovestairs in the nursery.”

She pulled her hand free and got to her feet. She took a few steps along the gallery. No. She had closed that yawning empty pit years before. It was not to be, and that was all there was to it.

She had not heard him coming up behind her. She tensed when she felt his hands on her shoulders.

“I am sure even you know what a rake is, Claire,” he said. “Florence has six of them as her guests. I include myself, you see. You have no business being here with me.”

“I can look after myself,” she said. “I am not a helpless innocent.”

“You must know what I have set myself to do since this morning,” he said. “Don’t you?”

She dropped her chin to her chest. Yes, she had known, she supposed. She was not quite as naive as she sometimes pretended even to herself to be.

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.

“I am not the sort of man to be satisfied with kisses for three days,” he said. “And three nights.”

She covered her face with her hands for a moment before turning to look up at him. He had set the candlestick down beside the bench when they sat down earlier. His face was in shadows.

“Perhaps I am not the sort of woman to be satisfied with a few kisses for a lifetime,” she said, hearing the words almost as if someone else were speaking them, but amazing herself with the truth of what she was saying.

She heard him draw breath and expel it slowly.

“I am not used to situations like this, Claire,” he said.

“Neither am I—Gerard.”

He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek as he had done downstairs earlier. “You are offering yourself to me for two days and three nights,” he said. “You are worth more, Claire. Far more.”

“Life has always been bleakest on Valentine’s Day,” she said. And she wondered somewhere far back in her mind when she would feel horror and embarrassment at having so bared her lonely soul.

“Has it?” His hands framed her face gently, his fingers stroking back the hair from her face. “Has it, Claire?”

And then his arms were about her and drawing her against his body and her own were up about his shoulders and neck, and his mouth was on hers, warm, light, open. Without conscious thought she arched herself against him, feeling hard masculine muscles pressed to her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. She sighed with contentment and parted her lips beneath his so that she could taste him too.

He had been wrong. He had been quite certain that it could not be accomplished this first night. Perhaps tomorrow night, he had thought. More probably the last night. Possibly not at all. But he had been wrong.

She was his. His for the taking. He knew it the moment her arms came up about his neck and her body arched to his and her mouth opened beneath his. He knew it as he slid his tongue into her mouth and fondled one of her breasts and felt the taut nipple with his thumb. He knew it as both hands moved down her sides to her small waist and down to her shapely hips and behind to spread themselves over firm buttocks and she neither cringed nor pulled back. She was his.

He returned his hands to her waist and lifted his head. She opened her eyes and looked into his. She was utterly beautiful, he noticed for the first time. Oh, perhaps not in the most obvious of ways. In many ways she was not as lovely as any of the other five ladies belowstairs. But then their beauty was all of the surface. Hers shone from within. Her whole soul looked at him through her eyes.

And he saw Claire. Not just a woman from whom to take his pleasure, a woman on whom to use the sexual expertise of years. He saw a woman whose family and whose own sense of duty had taken her past the usual age of marriage and motherhood. A woman who had compensated outwardly with a quiet dignity. A woman who had allowed him to cut a chink in her armor so that he had glimpsed all the longing and all the loneliness within. A woman who, as he had told her, should have been in her own home at that moment with her own family. But who instead was with him.

She was his, he thought again, with a pang of regret for conscience and for years of life wasted on pleasure and the constant restless search for more pleasure.

“Then we will have to make sure that this is a Valentine’s to remember, will we not?” he said.

“Yes.” She searched his eyes with her soul.

“Romance,” he said. “That is the word, is it not?” It was a word he knew nothing about. “We will avoid the more sordid of Florence’s plans together, you and I, Claire, and seek out romance for two days instead. Shall we?”

She nodded, but she was still looking deeply into his eyes. “Will I be ruining your party?” she asked. “Do you wish to be with the others?” She hesitated. “Do you regret that you picked up my valentine?”

“No,” he said, bending his head to kiss her softly beneath one ear. “No to all of the above.”

“Thank you,” she said, and a smile hovered about her lips for a few moments, so that he found himself inexplicably holding his breath. But she did not allow it to develop.

“It is far too early to go back downstairs,” he said. “We did not get very far in the telling of our life stories, did we? Shall I tell you something of mine? I was my parents’ sole darling for six years before my brother arrived—he is just your age, Claire—and then four sisters in quick succession. I do not believe I have ever recovered my temper.”

He sat down with her again on the bench and took her hand in his, setting it palm down on his thigh and playing with her fingers while he talked. He did not spend much time with his family. He resented their disappointment with his way of life and their occasional reproaches. He hated his eldest sister’s matchmaking schemes, though she had given up her efforts of late. He felt uncomfortable with the fact that they were all married and all parents, even Sarah, the youngest.

However, it was not of his adult estrangement from his family that he talked, but of earlier years when he had been the adored and pestered eldest brother and when he had loved and hated and played and fought with his brother and sisters and felt all the unconscious security of belonging to a large and close family.

“My father died quite unexpectedly,” he said, “when I was only twenty-four. He was the sort of man one would expect to live to a hundred. It was a nasty age to be suddenly saddled with all the responsibilities of a dukedom, Claire, and all those of being head of a family. My mother collapsed emotionally and my brother and sisters resented my authority. And I rebelled.”

“And I suppose,” she said, “that there are those who believe you must be happy because you apparently have everything.”

“Oh, legions of such people,” he said. “You have only the one brother, Claire?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have two other brothers and two sisters. All married, like yours. And all parents. I have eleven nieces and nephews to romp with at Christmas and other family gatherings.”

“And you are the youngest,” he said. “The sacrificial lamb.”

“I loved my father,” she said.

“I am sure you did.” He squeezed her hand.

It seemed strange, he thought as she told him some memories of her childhood, to be having such a conversation with a woman. His conversations with women usually consisted of light repartee and sexual innuendo. His more usual dealings with them were entirely physical. He could not remember ever telling any woman—or man either—about his family and childhood. He could never remember any woman wasting time telling him about hers.

He felt strangely honored to have won the confidence of Claire Ward. She looked relaxed and unselfconscious beside him. And then she shivered. There was no fire in the gallery and it was only February.

“You are cold,” he asked.

“Not really,” she said.

But her arm was cool, he could feel when he set an arm about her and drew her against him. “It is time to go back downstairs,” he said regretfully.

“Yes,” she said.

“I imagine the game will be finished now,” he said as they got to their feet and he picked up the branch of candles and offered her his arm.

They descended the stairs in silence. But she paused at the top of the flight leading down to the drawing room. “I don’t want to go back there tonight,” she said. “Will it be ill-mannered if I do not?”

“Not at all,” he said. “And neither do I, Claire. Let us go straight to bed instead.”

She looked calmly into his eyes as he set down the candles on a small table. She did not quite know his meaning, he thought, any more than he did. But there was acceptance in her eyes. She had made a decision up in the gallery, and she was not going to go back on it. He took her arm through his and led her to the door of her bedchamber.

“Claire,” he said, smoothing back her hair from her face with one hand, cupping her cheek with the other, “it has been a lovely day. Romantic.”

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her softly on the lips and felt her arms come about his waist.

“Let us keep it that way, at least for tonight and tomorrow. Shall we?” he said, looking down into her eyes.

There was a moment’s silence. He watched her swallow. “Yes,” she said.

“Good night, Claire.” He kissed her softly again. “Good night, my valentine.”

“Good night, your gr—” she said. “Good night, Gerard.”

And he opened her door for her and closed it behind her after she had stepped inside. He stood where he was for a while, staring down ruefully at his hand on the doorknob. He could be on the other side of the door with her, he thought. She had been his. That had been very obvious both upstairs and here a few moments ago. And he wanted her badly enough, God knew.

He must be getting soft in the head, he decided, turning away in the direction of his own room. Or perhaps it had just been a fear of the unknown. He had never had a virgin. And he was a total stranger to the sort of tenderness he would need to exercise when bedding Claire. Well, perhaps tomorrow night. Undoubtedly tomorrow night.

Claire came awake with a surge. The sun was shining through the window with all the promise of a beautiful day. But it was not newly risen, she thought, sitting up in some surprise and stretching her arms above her head. She must have slept deeply right through the night when she had expected to lie awake.

She got out of bed and crossed to the window on bare feet, heedless of the coolness of the room. She felt wonderful, and indeed it was going to be a glorious day. There was not a cloud in the sky.

She stretched again. There was not a trace left of the sadness she had felt at first the night before when the door of her bedchamber had closed behind her. She had felt bereft and instantly lonely as she had leaned back against the door with closed eyes. And rejected. He did not want her after all. She was perhaps acceptable to talk with and even to kiss. But not for anything else.

But the moment had passed almost instantly. Good night, my valentine, he had said. He had said no when she had asked if he regretted drawing her name. He had said it had been a lovely day. Romantic, he had said. And he had suggested that they keep it that way.

Oh, yes, she thought now, resting her hands on the windowsill and leaning forward to look through the window, yesterday had been wonderfully romantic. And there was the whole of today to look forward to and the whole of tomorrow. And perhaps tonight. She felt her cheeks flushing. But she wanted it, she realized, as much as the romance. Perhaps more so. She wanted it, brazen and immoral as the wanting was. She had been kissed for the first time the day before and it had been far more wonderful than she could possibly have imagined. She wanted the rest of it too. Oh, yes, she did. She wanted to be able to hug to herself for the rest of her life the secret knowledge that once—at Valentine’s—she had been wanted and had herself wanted and that that desire had been satisfied.

Claire determinedly blocked images of the Reverend Clarkwell and of a lifetime of moral training from her mind. She was in love, she thought as she turned away from the window and considered what to wear. But that was irrelevant to anything. Of course she was in love. Was it surprising that a romance-starved spinster should fall in love with the first man to kiss her? She would suffer from her feelings. She knew that too. Life would be almost unbearable for a while after she went home again. But it did not matter. The suffering would be worthwhile. And there were two whole days to be lived through before the suffering began.

She would wear her favorite pink wool day dress, she decided, shrugging off the wish that she had clothes as fashionable as those of the other ladies. She did not, and that was that. Nothing was going to spoil this day for her.

Although she had feared that she was late for breakfast, Claire found that there were only five people in the breakfast room—Lady Florence and Mr. Mullins, Miss Garnett and Sir Charles Horsefield, and the Duke of Langford. She felt suddenly shy as all heads turned her way and not nearly as confident as she had felt since waking. He looked again the very remote aristocrat. Surely it could not have been about him that she had been weaving such dreams?

But he got to his feet immediately and came across the room to her, his hand outstretched for hers. And his eyes looked far less haughtily lazy than usual as he smiled.

“Claire,” he said, taking her hand. “Good morning. Come and have some breakfast.”

He looked almost like an eager boy, she thought in some wonder, and all her happiness came back in a flood. She smiled radiantly at him. “Good morning, Gerard,” she said, and she looked about the table to include everyone in her greeting. “Is it not a beautiful morning? I do believe spring is here to stay.”

Sir Charles groaned. “Morning, did someone say?” he asked. “Would you not know that I would pick up the valentine of a morning person?” He shook his head at Olga and raised her hand to his lips.

“My dear Miss Ward,” Lady Florence said, “you are looking quite radiant this morning. I wonder why.”

“Ah,” Mr. Mullins said. “Probably because it is Valentine’s Day tomorrow, Florence.”

“And so it is,” she said. “If the weather holds, we will have a drive this afternoon. Everyone is free this morning since we do not seem to have a large number up yet anyway.”

“Ah, freedom,” Sir Charles said. “I do not suppose I can interest you in a little more, ah, relaxation, can I, Olga?”

The Duke of Langford seated Claire beside him after she had filled a plate at the sideboard. “Would you care for a ride?” he asked.

She smiled at him again. She could think of nothing she would love more even if she had had to do it alone. But with him? “More than anything in the world,” she said.

Sir Charles groaned again.

He fell in love with her when she smiled. His stomach felt as if it performed some sort of somersault, which was rather a shameful thing for a man of thirty-four to admit to himself. But the smile utterly transformed her and made nonsense out of all the barriers he had tried to build up about his heart during a largely sleepless night. He had never been in love before. But he was in now—deeply.

With a totally unsuitable woman. He was a rake and had lived a worthless adulthood. He could not think of one worthwhile thing he had done in the past ten years or more—unless it was allowing her to go to bed alone the night before. She had lived a selfless adulthood and was very definitely—despite her behavior of the evening before—a virtuous woman.

Marriage and the raising of a family did not enter his plans at all. Years ago he had decided that his brother and his brother’s sons were quite worthy of taking his place when he died. More worthy than he, in fact. He would take no personal responsibility for the succession. The only use he had for women was that they cater to his pleasure.

Claire Ward was not the type of woman with whom he normally associated. One could think of Claire only in terms of virtue—of spinsterhood or marriage. And marriage seemed to have passed her by. She was not the type of woman with whom he would have chosen to fall in love, if he could have chosen. But then if he could have chosen, he would not have fallen in love at all. He had never either wanted or expected to do so.

But in love he was, he thought, watching her as she ate a hearty breakfast, watching that brightness and radiance that he knew the other occupants of the room were interpreting quite wrongly as having come from a night of sexual activity. He did not care what they thought. All he cared for was that there were two full days left before he would have to face reality and say good-bye to her, knowing that the total difference in their lives necessitated such an ending to their Valentine’s romance.

Romance! He had always laughed at the word and thought it for women only.

She had finished eating. Horsefield and Olga had left the room already, evidently on their way back to bed. Florence and Mullins were impatient to be gone from the table too, perhaps with the same destination in mind.

“How long will you need to change into your riding habit?” he asked Claire, laying a hand over hers on the table.

“Ten minutes.” She smiled into his eyes. There was light in them and color in her cheeks, and he found himself smiling back.

“I shall meet you in the hall,” he said. “In ten minutes’ time.” He rose as she got to her feet and left the room. Any other woman would have demanded at least half an hour, he thought.

“Oh, Gerard,” Lady Florence said. “Do have a care. You will be having Mr. Roderick Ward and the Reverend Hosea Clarkwell paying you a call in town within the week demanding to know your intentions and waving gloves in your face.”

“Will I?” he asked, fingering the handle of his quizzing glass. “That might be an interesting experience.” He strolled from the room.

It was like the middle of spring, they both agreed, but with the added attraction of freshness in the air and pale green grass dotted with primroses and snowdrops. The trees were still bare, but there was all the promise of the coming season in the warmth that radiated through their branches.

They rode and rode for what must have been hours but might as easily have been minutes. They rode the length of the park to the south of the house and through pastures and around hills and even over a low one, along country lanes and through lightly wooded groves. They rode without conscious purpose or direction.

And they smiled and laughed and talked on topics that they would not afterward remember. It did not matter what they talked about. They were together and happy and in love—though that was certainly not one of their topics of conversation—and the next day was St. Valentine’s Day and it was spring and the sun was shining. Was there any reason—any whatsoever— not to be happy?

They came to open pasture after riding slowly through one grove of trees and nudged their horses into a canter by unspoken consent. And then into a gallop. And then into a race. Claire laughed as her mount nosed ahead of the duke’s.

“What a slug!” she called and laughed again. And would have won the race to the gate at the other side of the pasture, she was sure, if she could have stopped herself from laughing. As it was, he beat her by almost a length, and leaned across to take the reins of her horse as she drew level.

“What did you say?” he asked. “Were you referring to my horse or to me, ma’am?”

She laughed.

“I will assume it was my horse,” he said. “But if he is a slug, pray, what does that make yours?”

“Lame in four feet?” she asked, and they both dissolved into fits of laughter far in excess of the humor of the joke.

They passed through the gate and walked their horses through the trees beyond it until they came unexpectedly to an ornamental lake, half covered with lily pads.

“Oh,” she said. “Beautiful.”

“Oh,” he said. “Opportune. I think our horses could use a rest, Claire. I certainly could.” He slid from his horse’s back and lifted her from hers before tethering the animals to a tree under which there was grass for them to graze on.

He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. They strolled together about the small lake, not talking, enjoying the utter peace of the scene. Only the chirping of birds and the occasional snorting of one of the horses broke the silence.

“Well, Claire,” he said when they had completed the walk, “even nature is on our side. Pure romance, is it not?” He smiled at her in some amusement.

She nodded. “I should have known this was here,” she said. “But we have never had many dealings with the Carvers.”

They sat down on the grass facing the lake and lifted their faces to the warmth of the sun.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She turned her head to look at him. “Yes, I did. I knew I had today and tomorrow to look forward to.” She flushed. “Did you?”

“Sleep well?” he said. “Well enough. You asked me if I was sorry I had picked up your valentine. Are you sorry I picked it up? Do you wish it had been someone else? Or do you wish that after all you had gone home?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

He smiled slowly at her. “Ah, Claire,” he said, “you should be sorry. But now is not the time for that, is it? Today and tomorrow are for romance.”

“Yes,” she said.

He was regretting it, she thought. He was wishing he was back at the house with one of the other ladies. Or perhaps wishing he had not come at all. But he was still smiling, and his hand was stroking gently over one of her cheeks, and his head was lowering to hers. And she knew that he was not feeling regret but that he was enjoying the day as much as she. She closed her eyes and parted her lips.

He had agreed to romance, he thought as his mouth met hers and he felt heat flare instantly despite his intention to make it a light and warm embrace. But how could he give her romance when he knew only about physical passion? And how could he toy with her body and her feelings when she was not like those women back at Florence’s house, eager and able to change lovers as they would change their frocks? And for the same reason—that keeping the same one bored them.

And yet the choice, the control over the moment, was not his for long. He lowered her to the grass and kissed her eyes, her temples, her cheeks, her throat, and her mouth again. His hand found its way beneath her velvet jacket to the warm silk of the blouse covering her breasts. Her arms reached up for him and circled his back, drawing him down half on top of her. And she moaned into his mouth.

She was aching, and throbbing with the ache from head to foot. And yet she had never known a pain that was pleasurable, a pain that she wanted to perpetuate. She searched for his mouth when it moved from hers for a moment and sucked inward on his tongue when it slid between her teeth. Thought, rationality, were gone and only feeling was left. Only the pleasure and the pain.

His hand was on her knee. She could feel the cool air against her lower leg, where he had pushed up the velvet skirt of her riding habit. And then his fingers were feathering their way along her upper thigh before stopping and lying still and warm there.

“Oh, please, Gerard,” she said, turning in to his body when his hand did not resume its movement. “Please. Oh, please.”

His mouth found hers again and kissed it warmly while his hand lifted from her leg and lowered her skirt again. She heard herself moaning and did not care.

“Claire,” he murmured against her ear, wrapping both arms around her and drawing her snugly against him. “It is too public a place. We dare not.”

Yet it was not public at all, he knew. He doubted that anyone had been there since the previous summer. There was an overgrown, neglected air to the place despite its beauty. And he knew that if she had been any other woman he would have had her skirt to her waist by now and the buttons of his breeches dispensed with. He would be inside her by now, taking his pleasure of her, bringing her pleasure as payment.

If she were any other woman. Her face was against his neckcloth. She was trembling. He was unsure whether she was crying or not but did not have the courage to shrug her face away from him so that he could see for himself. He settled his cheek against the top of her head and held her tightly until she relaxed. And then for five, perhaps ten minutes longer.

She was warm and comfortable and sorry it had not happened. And perhaps a little relieved as well. To be taken on the hard ground in the outdoors—would there not have been something a little sordid about it? No, there would not have been, she decided. But it did not matter. She was comfortable and he felt wonderful and smelled wonderful. Why was it, she wondered drowsily, that masculine colognes smelled so much more desirable than feminine perfumes? Perhaps because she was female, she thought with an inward smile. This was what it must feel like to sleep in a man’s arms at night, she thought. But the thought threatened to make her sad. She drew back her head.

And they looked deeply into each other’s eyes and smiled slowly.

“I have very little experience with romance, I’m afraid, Claire,” he said.

“And I have none at all,” she said. “We make a fine pair.”

He chuckled. “Does luncheon sound tempting?”

It did not. She did not want to go near civilization for at least the next ten years. “I suppose so,” she said.

He laughed again. “Marvelous enthusiasm,” he said, laying one finger along the length of her nose. “We had better get back and fall in with Florence’s plans for this afternoon, Claire, or we will incur her undying wrath.”

Claire really did not care about Lady Florence’s wrath, undying or otherwise. But she merely smiled.

“Naughty,” he said. “Very naughty. She is our hostess, my dear valentine. On your feet immediately.”

But he was laughing and making no move to get up himself. Another five minutes passed before they rose and mounted their horses again. Five minutes of kissing and smiling and talking nonsense.

But finally they were on their way back—to civilization and a Valentine’s house party.

After luncheon Lady Florence and all her guests drove in three closed carriages all the way to the seashore, almost ten miles distant. Not that there was anything to be seen there, she said, except a few fishermen’s cottages, but there were miles of headland to be walked along and miles of beach for those adventurous enough to descend the precipitous cliff path. And there was a small inn for those who did not enjoy being buffeted by sea breezes, however sunny the day.

“Just a short walk to look down at the sea before coming back here, Gordon,” Mrs. Tate said firmly to Lord Mingay as they all descended from the carriages outside the Crown and Anchor Inn.

“If we are not blown off the cliff, Frances,” he said. “It is considerably more windy here than at Carver Hall.”

“I have seen enough lovely scenery from the carriage windows,” Lady Pollard said. “Do you not agree, Rufus?”

Mr. Tucker put up no argument, and the two of them disappeared inside the inn in search of warmth and refreshments.

Olga Garnett thought that a brisk walk along the clifftop would nicely blow away the morning cobwebs. Sir Charles grimaced and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down over his brow. “Not only a morning person,” he muttered, “but an outdoors one too.”

Lucy Sterns was already strolling away from the inn on the arm of Mr. Shrimpton.

“The beach, Florence?” Mr. Mullins asked. “Do you know the way down? I have never been on this particular stretch of the coastline before, I must confess.”

“There is a perfectly safe path,” she said, “even though it is rather steep.”

The Duke of Langford looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, yes, the beach,” she said. “This is another place where we used to come for picnics in summer. We even used to bathe as children.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “you will have to carry me up this precipitous path afterward. But by all means let us give it a try.”

She laughed and took his arm, and they strode on ahead of the other couple. He let her precede him down the winding dirt path from the clifftop to the large rocks and smaller stones at the top of the sandy beach. She half ran down, tripping along the path rather like a fawn, he thought. If he did not know her and had never seen her face, he would have thought during the descent that she was a mere girl. He smiled and remembered his first impression of the prim Miss Ward just two days before.

“This could be ruinous on Hessian boots, you know,” he said when they were at the bottom and scrambling over the rocks toward the beach. “And I shudder to think what the sand is going to do to them. My valet’s wrath will be a terror to behold, Claire.”

She laughed gaily and he looked up into sparkling eyes and at rosy cheeks and untidy wisps of windblown hair beneath her bonnet. “Then you must set them outside your door and hide from him,” she said.

“Now that would be a fine ducal thing to do,” he said, laughing and catching at her hand to run—actually to run—down the beach with her toward the incoming tide. If she looked like a girl, he thought, then he felt remarkably like a boy.

“We used to stand at the water’s edge,” she said, “seeing how close we could come without getting our shoes wet. Oh, dear, that led to much scolding when we returned to our parents.”

“And I suppose,” he said, “you intend to do it again, Claire. My valet will be handing in his notice. And then what am I to do?”

“Well,” she said, “you might try cleaning your boots yourself.”

He looked at her in mock horror. “What?” he said. “Or more to the point—how?”

Love nonsense—sex nonsense—he was used to murmuring in the beds of courtesans and his mistresses. He was not used to talking nonsense for the mere sake of lightheartedness. But he talked it for a whole hour while he got his boots wet—she stayed back a safe distance, giggling; not laughing, but giggling—and then walked with her along the water’s edge, the wind in their faces, their arms about each other’s waist.

They stopped when they reached the ancient wreck of a boat, almost disappeared into the wet sand.

“It was there even when I was a child,” she said. “I believe it was something as unromantic as a fisherman’s boat that had outlived its seaworthiness, but we used to weave tales of pirates and treasure about it. We used to hunt for that treasure at the foot of the cliffs. We were convinced that there must be a cave there that had always escaped our notice.”

“And I suppose,” he said, “you want to take me cave hunting and treasure hunting?”

“No.” She laughed and turned to him and set her arms up about his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We found it centuries ago and spent every penny of it. It was the treasure of childhood.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, and he had a strange and fleeting image of the small children—her own—to whom she should be telling this story. He could almost see them scampering off to find the treasure for themselves. Her children and h— Her children.

“Gerard.” Her smile softened. “It is beautiful here, is it not? I always feel most the wonder of creation when I am close to the sea. A little fear and a whole lot of awe.”

“It is beautiful,” he agreed, and he circled her waist with his arms and kissed her. And smiled at her. And that was another thing he could not remember doing before, he thought. He could not remember kissing a woman purely for the pleasure of her company, her friendship. But their kiss was no more than that. And no less.

It was a good thing, he thought as she lowered her arms and they turned to stroll back the way they had come, their arms about each other’s waist again, that Florence’s party was not to be a week-long affair or a two-week-long one. Three days of this intense, unreal type of romance were quite long enough. Even now it was going to be difficult . . . But he would not think of that yet. There was the rest of the day to enjoy and all of tomorrow.

“Florence and Mullins were walking off in the opposite direction,” he said. “But there is no sign of them. Do you suppose they have gone back up to the inn already, Claire? What poor-spirited creatures our fellow guests are, are they not?”

“Yes,” she said. “Inside a stuffy inn when they might be out here.”

“Getting cold and windblown,” he said, “and having their complexions and their boots ruined.”

“Very poor-spirited,” she said.

And they were off again, talking nonsense and laughing and finally puffing their way up the cliff path and to the inn, which they would not for worlds have admitted was warm and cozy and welcome.

All ten of the others looked at them, when they came inside still laughing over some nonsense, rather as if they had two heads apiece, the duke thought. Claire’s cheeks, he saw at a glance, were apple-red, as was her nose. Her hair beneath the bonnet looked as if it had not seen a comb for a month. He looked down at his boots and grimaced. At least, that was what he would normally have done. Actually he did not—he grinned instead. And Claire had never looked more adorable.

The evening passed quickly. Indeed, it was not a long evening after the return to Carver Hall, several of the ladies pleading weariness after the afternoon’s excursion and Sir Charles Horsefield declaring quite candidly that he was not averse to going to bed before midnight, though not necessarily to sleep, of course.

But they were not allowed to escape too early. They must all provide some entertainment to set the mood for St. Valentine’s Day on the morrow, Lady Florence insisted. And so there was singing and reciting, one very short story, two off-color jokes, and one solo dance—by Olga Garnett.

Claire played Beethoven and closed her eyes and thought of the sea, not as she had seen it that afternoon, but at nighttime with moonlight across the ripples and a strong arm about her waist and a broad shoulder against which to rest her head. And the Duke of Langford sang one of Robert Burns’ songs— to Claire’s accompaniment. He had an unexpectedly fine tenor voice, she thought, listening to him even as she concentrated on her own part. And Burns had never sounded so romantic.

“Why, Gerard,” Lady Florence said after the applause, “I had no idea you were hiding away such a talent.”

“A relic of boyhood evenings spent en famille, Florence,” he said, his eyes hooded, his hand straying to the ribbon of his quizzing glass. To Claire he sounded a little sheepish. “It was either sing or play the violin. The only time I tried that, my father offered to bring up the cat from the kitchen so that we might play a duet.” He spoke in the languid voice that Claire had not heard all day.

Sir Charles Horsefield yawned loudly. “Well,” he said, “now that we are all in the mood for tomorrow’s festival, Florence, may we retire to sleep on the expectation?”

“You may, Charles,” she said. She tittered. “And so may you, Olga.”

Claire felt uncomfortable again as all about her guests rose in couples and stretched and seemed to feel it necessary to pretend to tiredness, although it must still be earlier than eleven. She did not know if she should rise with them or stay quietly at the pianoforte. It was the first time all day that she had felt awkward, except briefly that morning when she had entered the breakfast room.

“Claire.” The duke was bending over her. “Shall we stroll into the conservatory?”

She smiled up at him gratefully and got to her feet.

But the awkwardness remained even after they had reached the conservatory and wandered among the plants there and looked out into starlit darkness beyond the windows. The day was over—the day of romance—and it was nighttime again.

He set an arm about her waist and turned her against his body. “Claire,” he said, kissing her briefly on the lips, his voice low. “You know what this party is all about. Last night you were willing.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. But she was glad it was out in the open again. The tension had been too great to bear.

“And tonight?” he asked. “You are still willing?”

The silence lasted only a moment. And yet it was the most fateful moment of her life, Claire felt. “Yes.”

“You know what it will mean to you, do you not?” he said. “For you it is a far more momentous decision than it is for me.”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes again and looked up into his. “It is something I want, Gerard. A Valentine’s Day to remember. I want to know what it is to be fully a woman.”

His eyes searched hers in the dim light. Gone were all the gaiety and laughter and teasing of the day. In their place was a hunger almost frightening in its intensity. But Claire did not look away. And her own heart was beating so fast that she could hear it hammering against her eardrums.

He framed her face with his hands, ran one thumb across her lips and circled her cheeks with both. And he kissed her softly on the throat, on the chin, on the mouth.

“Come on then, my valentine,” he said, and his voice was almost unrecognizable in its huskiness. “Let me find somewhere comfortable to lay you down.”

“Yes,” she said.

She hardly knew how she set one foot ahead of the other to walk back into the hall and up the stairs and along the corridor to her bedchamber. Every breath she took, it seemed, was a conscious effort. All the way up the stairs she told herself that she would turn him away at the door, that she would find some excuse, that somehow before it was too late she would shake herself free of the dreadful immorality that she had allowed to rule her for the past two days. But when they reached her room and he opened the door, she stepped inside with his arm about her waist and not one word or gesture of protest. She turned as he closed the door and raised her face for his kiss.

And having passed the point of no return, she abandoned conscience and the moral training of a lifetime and molded her body to his as his hands came to rest on her waist, and opened her mouth to his seeking tongue. She would not allow guilt to spoil her night. Doubtless it would have its way with her in the coming days. But not tonight.

“Claire.” His voice was a murmur against her mouth. His hands were in her hair, withdrawing the pins one by one, sending them tinkling to the floor. And then his fingers were pushing through her hair and it fell in a heavy cloud over her shoulders and down her back. “Claire.”

“Make love to me,” she whispered back into his mouth as his hands came beneath the fabric of her dress to mold her shoulders. Her own hands found their way inside his coat to the satin of his waistcoat. “Please, Gerard. Make love to me.”

And then both his arms came about her and hugged her to him like iron bands. Her face came to rest against the folds of his neckcloth. She could hear him inhaling deeply and exhaling raggedly through his mouth.

“I can’t,” he said at last. “My God, I can’t, Claire.”

She felt frozen. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her eyes were tightly closed.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice against her ear softer, more normal in tone. “Do you not realize what you are doing, Claire? You are becoming part of a Valentine’s orgy arranged for the amusement of twelve bored members of the ton with not a moral principle amongst the lot of them. You are merely a substitute guest to take the place of the twelfth. As soon as you lie down on that bed and allow me the use of your body, you will be catering to the pleasure of perhaps the most bored and the most depraved rake of a select six in this house.”

“No,” she said, but she did not lift her face away from his neckcloth. “It is not like that, Gerard. Not with us. There is romance. Not for long, it is true. But for a short while. There is beauty in it. And you are not like that. I have seen beneath the mask you put on for the benefit of the world. Don’t make this seem sordid.”

“It is sordid,” he said, and he took her arms in an ungentle clasp and put her from him. His face was harsh, his eyes hooded. “We were strangers two days ago, Claire. After tomorrow we will be strangers again for the rest of our lives. But for tonight and tomorrow night we are to lie naked on that bed taking pleasure of each other’s body—in the name of romance? In the name of St. Valentine, whoever he might have been? It is sex, my dear. Sex pure and simple.”

“You don’t want me,” she said, and she could hear petulance in her voice and could seem to do nothing either to change her tone or her words. “I am undesirable. You have been kind and you have tried to make the best of a bad situation. But when it comes to the point I am undesirable.”

She turned sharply away from him as his figure blurred before her eyes. She hated herself. For being undesirable. And for whining about it. She seemed to have left her pride at home with everything else.

She heard him draw breath and release it again. “If you believe that, Claire,” he said, “you are indeed inexperienced. Let’s keep to the romance, shall we? It has been a lovely day, has it not? Let’s not spoil it by doing what we will both regret afterward. You would regret it, Claire, much as you think you would not. Let’s try to make tomorrow as good as today has been, perhaps even better. Shall we?”

She set her hands over her face and could find no words with which to answer him.

“Good night, then,” he said softly at last from behind her.

Her misery was too deep to allow her to return the words. If she opened her mouth she would begin to beg again, she knew. And somehow pride was beginning to return already.

She thought the silence would never be broken. But finally it was. The door of her bedchamber opened quietly and then closed again as softly.

And then at last she allowed the tears to flow between her fingers.

The morning of February the fourteenth was as bright as the morning before had been and the sky was as blue and cloudless. But this time the brightness hurt the eyes as sleep was reluctantly relinquished—it had come only a few hours before. And this time there was nothing to stretch for, nothing to make her want to bound from the bed and over to the window to see what type of day was facing her.

It was St. Valentine’s Day, she thought, her eyes still closed, and she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The day for love and lovers. But she felt alone—more achingly alone than she had ever felt. And she felt dull and unattractive and knew even without having to look in a mirror that she would not look her best. She had controlled last night’s tears after just a few minutes of self-indulgence. She could not be seen belowstairs with red and puffy eyes. But sleeplessness always made her pale and her eyes dark-shadowed. And she was no beauty even when she did look her best.

She wanted to go home, she thought. More than anything she wanted to climb into Roderick’s carriage, draw the curtains across the windows, and know that she was being taken away from it all, away to forgetfulness and the familiar dull routine of her life. She was tempted. It would be so easy to ring for a maid and send the message, to remain in her room until the carriage came. She could plead a headache.

But there was one day left. They would try to make today as good as yesterday had been, he had said. Perhaps better. Claire grimaced and opened her eyes at last and swung her legs determinedly over the side of the bed. At least she must not add cowardice to everything else. She had not behaved in a very admirable manner since her arrival. At least let her face this final day with her chin up. In one month’s time, one year’s time, she knew she would be willing to give all she possessed for just one hour with him. Yet now she had a whole day.

She dressed herself and did her hair without the services of a maid, as she usually did. And she went resolutely downstairs to breakfast. Everyone was there except Mrs. Tate and Lord Mingay. And except him.

“Ah, Miss Ward,” Mr. Shrimpton said. “Looking, ah, as if you could do with another few hours of sleep.”

It was not an insult. Everyone laughed and someone commented on the fact that they all felt that way this morning even if they did not all look it.

“But Gerard could not stay abed so long,” Lady Florence said, a gleam of something like malice in her eyes. “He went galloping off for a ride more than an hour ago. But he will be back, Miss Ward. How could he not be? This is St. Valentine’s Day, after all.”

Lady Florence had wanted the duke for herself, Claire thought. Indeed, it was surprising that she had not found some way of ensuring that it was her own valentine he had picked up. Claire half filled a plate and sat down at the table and felt awkward and selfconscious again. And somewhat relieved too. She did not know how she would face him today, how she would look him in the eye.

He did not return until luncheon was almost over. He strode into the dining room in his riding clothes and apologized to Lady Florence. Claire kept her eyes on her plate, even when he took the empty chair beside her. She had hidden away in the library all morning, looking resolutely at page one hundred and twenty of a book whose title she could not now even remember. She had not wanted to intrude on a houseful of amorous couples. And she had sat through luncheon, eating food that tasted like paper and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her.

“Goodness,” Lady Pollard had said. “Did you and Gerard have a lovers’ quarrel, Miss Ward?”

Claire set her spoon down as soon as he sat down at the table. Her hand was trembling and she would not have anyone else notice. He did not speak to her but conversed with everyone else. He had been so absorbed with the beauties of nature around him, he explained, that he had lost all track of time.

Claire rose from the table with everyone else and hurried from the dining room. She half ran toward the library, as if it were the only haven in the whole wide world. Or as if she had the hounds of hell at her heels. She grabbed a book from a shelf and threw herself down into a deep leather chair, wishing she could be swallowed up by it. The library door opened behind her.

There was a lengthy silence before a pair of Hessian boots and buff-colored pantaloons above them appeared before her and he sat down on a low table.

“Forgive me for being late to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day?” he asked her quietly.

“Of course,” she said, looking up quickly. “There is nothing to forgive.” She had forgotten just how handsome he was, she thought with great absurdity.

“Come walking with me outside?” he asked.

“There is to be a picnic,” she said.

“Hang Florence and her picnic too,” he said uncharitably. “Come walking with me to our lake. Will you, Claire?”

She looked at him and shrugged slightly.

“It is warmer even than yesterday,” he said. He got to his feet and held out a hand for hers. He looked down at the book closed on her lap and smiled. “Do you enjoy reading Greek philosophy?”

She bit her lip as she set the book aside and placed her hand in his.

The ornamental lily pond was not far from the house, they had discovered the day before. They set out for it now on foot, and he took her hand and laced his fingers with hers just as if he had not slapped her in the face, figuratively speaking, the night before. And just as if she had not humiliated herself by begging him to take her. Just as if the romance of the day before could be recaptured. And perhaps it could be. She closed her eyes briefly and willed herself to live for the moment, to enjoy everything that she would remember in the coming days with an ache of longing.

“My valentine is not smiling today,” he said softly.

She shrugged.

He untwined his fingers from hers to set an arm about her shoulders and draw her against him as they walked. “I hurt you, Claire?” he asked her. “I did, didn’t I?”

“It does not matter,” she said.

“It does.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Did you not realize that I could not do it because I like and respect you too much?”

“Respect is a cold lover,” she said.

“And because I love you too much,” he said as they came through the trees to the small lake. The sun was sparkling off the water that was not covered with lily pads.

She laughed, though the sound was not one of amusement.

“I have never before loved a woman,” he said. “And it is many years—far too many—since I have liked and respected one. I could not take you to bed last night, Claire, in a parody of love. Sex is not love. At least, it never yet has been with me.”

“It does not matter,” she said. “You do not need to explain. Today is the last day. Tomorrow we will both be able to return to the lives with which we are familiar.”

“Do you want to?” he asked.

She laughed again and hesitated before seating herself on the cloak he had spread on the grass. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees and stared out over the water.

“I don’t think I do,” he said. “In fact I know I do not, though of course launching out into the unknown is a little frightening too.”

“Men can do something different with their lives anytime they wish to,” she said. “Women cannot.” 

He looked over his shoulder at her. “You can if you wish, Claire,” he said. “If you wish, we can share the terror—and the exhilaration. You can be a duchess if you wish. My duchess. You can discover all you have missed in the last ten years, good and bad. You can have children if you wish and nature cooperates— my children. You can be my valentine for a lifetime if you choose. Will you?”

She merely stared at him. Somehow reality and fantasy had got all mixed up in her head and she was paralyzed with the confusion of it all.

“It is not quite the fairytale situation that many might imagine it to be, Claire,” he said. “I have not lived a good life. I have a deservedly bad reputation and would not be received in any reputable home if it were not for my exalted title. I am almost estranged from the family that sustained me and loved me through my formative years. And I draw revenue from my estates without putting anything into them in exchange. I rarely even visit them. I know nothing about love and tenderness. I know nothing about making myself worthy of a gentle and virtuous woman. When I talk about wanting to step out into the unknown, you see, I speak nothing but the stark truth. For I want to change everything, Claire. But only if you are with me. I am not sure I would have the courage or the sense of purpose otherwise. Will you stoop to my level to raise me up to yours?”

Fantasy had the agonizing ring of truth. She bit her lip and felt pain. “Gerard,” she said. “I am twenty-eight years old. I know nothing. I have been nowhere. I am dreadfully dull.”

“You are beautiful and sweet and wonderful,” he said. “If you are dull, Claire, then it is dullness that I crave. Will you marry me? Please?”

“Oh,” she said.

“Now does that mean yes?” he asked. “May I smile and relax—and kiss you, Claire? I have the blessing of your brother and sister-in-law, you know. More than a blessing from your sister-in-law, in fact. I would not have been surprised to see her eyes pop right out of their sockets. Both she and your brother were very ready to poker up when they knew I had come from Florence’s. I made haste to explain who I was. Your brother, to give him his due, was not satisfied with that alone. He seemed to feel it necessary to have me assure him that I could make you happy or that at least I was eager to try. I believe he is very fond of you, Claire. And rightly so.”

Her eyes had widened. “You have been to see Roderick and Myrtle?”

“This morning,” he said. “Did you think I had abandoned you, my valentine, on the very day when we should most be together?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I thought you had taken me in disgust last night.”

“If you only knew how I wanted you last night,” he said, his eyes kindling. “But it has to be in a marriage bed with you, Claire. Please don’t try seducing me again tonight. Promise? We will be together for the first time in our marriage bed, my love. If there is to be a marriage bed, that is. Is there?”

She felt herself flushing and bit her lip again. And then he moved resolutely closer, set one arm about her shoulders, tipped up her chin with his other hand, and kissed her soundly on the mouth.

“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Say yes, Claire. I shall keep on kissing you until you do. I have decided after all not to play fair. Say yes, my valentine. My love.”

“Yes,” she said.

He drew back his head and grinned at her. “Are you as terrified as I am?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “I think perhaps we had better go in search of Florence’s picnic, don’t you, Claire? For two particular reasons. If we do not, I may be trying to seduce you here or you may be trying to seduce me within the next few minutes. And I am quite determined to hold out until our wedding night, which I insist will be not a moment longer than it takes for the banns to be read and our considerable families to be gathered. And secondly, I have an overwhelming urge to shout out our news to the world. The world not being available at the moment, Florence and the others will have to do.”

“Oh,” she said as he drew her to her feet and kissed her soundly again, “think of the strange chance that has led us to this, Gerard. If that other guest had not become sick, I would not have been invited. And if you had not picked up my valentine by the merest chance, I would be with someone else and so would you.”

“I’ll grant you the first,” he said. “But not the second, Claire. I chose you quite deliberately, my love. I knew your valentine would be at the left-hand corner of the table. Florence had arranged it that way. There was no chance for me in that lottery. No chance at all, in fact, to take the pun to its conclusion.”

“You chose me deliberately?” she asked, amazed. “You did, Gerard? Over all the other ladies? Before you even knew me? But why?”

“I am really not sure,” he said, circling her waist loosely with his arms and gazing down into her eyes, his smile gone. “I rather suspect, Claire, that without anyone’s having noticed it, there must have been a fat and naked little cherub hiding up on the chandelier, a bow and arrow in his hands. And his arrow must have pierced my heart right through the center. He was taking quite a chance. Rumor has had it for several years past that I have no heart at all.”

She smiled slowly at him and he smiled back until for no apparent reason they were touching foreheads and both laughing. And hugging. And kissing. And assuring each other that yes, in just a minute’s time they really would go in search of Lady Florence’s picnic.