lizabeth walked slowly down the hall and turned a corner, intending to rejoin Alexandra, but her knees were shaking so violently that she had to stop and put her hand against the wall to steady herself. Ian Thornton... In a matter of days she would confront Ian Thornton.

His name whirled through her mind, making her head spin with a combination of loathing, humiliation, and dread, and she finally turned and walked into the small salon where she sank down onto the sofa, staring blankly at the bright patch of wallpaper where a painting by Rubens had once hung.

Not for one moment did Elizabeth believe Ian Thornton had ever wanted to marry her, and she could not imagine what possible motive he might now have for accepting her uncle’s outrageous offer. She had been a naive, gullible fool where he was concerned.

Now, as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, she could hardly believe she’d ever been as reckless-or as carefree-as she’d been the weekend she met him. She’d been so certain that her future would be bright, but then, she’d had no reason to think otherwise.

Her parents’ death when she was eleven years old had been a dark time for her, but Robert had been there to comfort her and cheer her and promise her that everything would soon look bright again. Robert was eight years older than she, and although he was actually her half-brother her mother’s son by her first marriage-Elizabeth had loved and relied on him for as long as she could remember. Her parents had been gone so often that they had seemed more like beautiful visitors who flitted in and out of her life three or four times a year, bringing her presents and then vanishing soon after in a wave of gay good-byes.

Except for the loss of her parents, Elizabeth’s childhood had been very pleasant indeed. Her sunny disposition had made her a favorite with all the servants, who doted on her. Cook gave her sweets; the butler taught her to play chess; Aaron, the head coachman, taught her to play whist, and years later he taught her to use a pistol should the occasion ever occur when she needed to protect herself.

But of all her “friends” at Havenhurst, the one with whom Elizabeth spent the most time was Oliver, the head gardener who’d come to Havenhurst when she was eleven. A quiet man with gentle eyes, Oliver labored in Havenhurst’s greenhouse and flowerbeds, talking softly to his cuttings and plants. “Plants need affection,” he’d explained when she surprised him one day in the greenhouse, speaking encouragements to a wilting violet, “just like people. Go ahead,” he’d invited her, nodding toward the drooping violet, “give that pretty violet an encouragin’ word.”

Elizabeth had felt a little foolish, but she had done as instructed, for Oliver’s expertise as a gardener was unquestionable Havenhurst’s gardens had improved dramatically in the months since he’d come there. And so she had leaned toward the violet and earnestly told it. “I hope you are soon completely recovered and your old lovely self again!” Then she had stepped back and waited expectantly for the yellowing drooping leaves to lift toward the sun.

“I’ve given her a dose of my special medicine,” Oliver said as be carefully moved the potted plant to the benches where be kept all his ailing patients. “In a few days, you come back and see if she isn’t anxious to show you how much better she feels.” Oliver, Elizabeth later realized, regarded all flowering plants as “she,” while all others were “he”.

The very next day Elizabeth went to the greenhouse, but the violet looked as miserable as ever. Five days later she’d all but forgotten the plant and had merely gone to the greenhouse to share some tarts with Oliver.

“You’ve a friend over there waiting to see you, missy,” he told her.

Elizabeth had wandered over to the table with the ailing plants and discovered the violet, its delicate flowers standing sturdily on fragile little stems, its leaves perked up. “Oliver!” she’d cried delightedly. “How did you do that?”

“ ‘Twas your kind words and a bit o’ my medicine what pulled her through,” he said, and because he could see the glimmerings of genuine fascination-or perhaps because he wished to distract the newly orphaned girl from her woes he’d taken her through the greenhouse, naming the plants and showing her grafts he was trying to make. Afterward he’d asked if she would like a small garden for her own, and when Elizabeth nodded they’d strolled through the seedlings in the greenhouse, beginning to plan what flowers she ought to plant.

That day marked the beginning of Elizabeth’s enduring love affair with growing things. Working at Oliver’s side, an apron tied around her waist to protect her dress, she learned all he could tell her of his “medicines” and mulches and attempts to graft one plant to another.

And when Oliver had taught her ail he knew, Elizabeth began to teach him, for she had a distinct advantage Elizabeth could read, and Havenhurst’s library had been the pride of her grandfather. Side by side they sat upon the garden bench until twilight made reading impossible, while Elizabeth read to him about ancient and modern methods of helping plants grow stronger and more vibrant. Within five years Elizabeth’s “little” garden encompassed most of the main beds. Wherever she knelt with her small spade, flowers seemed to burst into bloom about her. “They know you love ‘em,” Oliver told her with one of his rare grins as she knelt in a bed of gaily colored pansies one day, “and they’re showin’ you they love you back by givin’ you their very best.”

When Oliver’s health required he go to a warmer clime, Elizabeth missed him greatly and spent even more time in her gardens. There she gave full rein to her own ideas, sketching out planting arrangements and bringing them to life, recruiting footmen and grooms to help her enlarge the beds until they covered a newly terraced section that stretched across the entire back of the house.

In addition to her gardening and the companionship of the servants, Elizabeth took great pleasure in her friendship with Alexandra Lawrence. Alex was the closest neighbor of Elizabeth’s approximate age, and although Alex was older, they shared the same exuberant pleasure in lying in bed at night, telling blood-chilling stories of ghosts until they were giggling with nervous fear, or sitting in Elizabeth’s large tree house, confiding girlish secrets and private dreams.

Even after Alex had married and gone away, Elizabeth never regarded herself as lonely, because she had something else she loved that occupied all her plans and most of her time. She had Havenhurst. Originally a castle, complete with moat and high stone enclosures, Havenhurst had been the dower house of a twelfth-century grandmother of Elizabeth’s. The husband of that particular grandmother had taken advantage of his influence with the king to have several unusual codicils attached to Havenhurst’s entailment-codicils to ensure that it would belong to his wife and their successors for as long as they wished to keep it, be those successors male or female.

As a result, at the age of eleven when her father died, Elizabeth had become the Countess of Havenhurst, and although the title itself meant little to her, Havenhurst, with its colorful history, meant everything. By the time she was seventeen she was as familiar with that history as she was with her own. She knew everything about the sieges it had withstood, complete with the names of the attackers and the strategies the earls and countesses of Havenhurst had employed to keep it safe. She knew all there was to know of its former owners, their accomplishments and their foibles from the first earl, whose daring and skill in battle had made him a legend (but who was secretly terrified of his wife), to his son, who’d had his unfortunate horse shot when the young earl fell off while practicing at the quintain in Havenhurst’s bailer.

The moat had been filled in centuries before, the castle walls removed, and the house itself enlarged and altered until it now looked like a picturesque, rambling country house that bore little or no resemblance to its original self. But even so, Elizabeth knew from parchments and paintings in the library exactly where everything had been, including the moat, the wall, and probably the quintain.

As a result of all that, by the time she was seventeen Elizabeth Cameron was very unlike most well-born young ladies. Extraordinarily well-read, poised, and with a streak of practicality that was evidencing itself more each day, she was already learning from the bailiff about the running of her own estate. Surrounded by trusted adults for all her life, she was naively optimistic that all people must be as nice and as dependable as she and everyone else at Havenhurst.

It was little wonder that on that fateful day when Robert unexpectedly arrived from London, dragged her away from the roses she was pruning, and, grinning broadly, informed her that she was going to make her debut in London in six months, Elizabeth had reacted with pleasure and no concern at all about encountering any difficulties.

“It’s all arranged,” he’d told her excitedly. “Lady Jamison has agreed to sponsor you-out of fondness for our mother’s memory. The thing’s going to cost a bloody fortune, but it’ll be worth it.”

Elizabeth had stared at him in surprise. “You’ve never mentioned the cost of anything before. We aren’t in any sort of financial difficulty, are we, Robert?”

“Not anymore,” he’d lied. “We have a fortune right here, only I didn’t realize it.”

“Where?” Elizabeth asked, completely baffled by everything she was hearing as well as by the uneasy feeling she had.

Laughing, he tugged her over to the mirror, cupped her face in his hands, and made her look at herself.

After casting him a puzzled glance she looked at her face in the mirror, then she laughed. “Why didn’t you just say I had a smudge?” she said, rubbing at the small streak on her cheek with her fingertips.

“Elizabeth,” he chuckled, “is that all you see in that mirror-a smudge on your cheek?”

“No, I see my face,” she answered.

“How does it look to you?” “Like my face,” she replied in amused exasperation. “Elizabeth, that face of yours is our fortune now!” he cried. “I never thought of it until yesterday, when Bertie Krandell told me about the splendid offer his sister just got from Lord Cheverley.”

Elizabeth was stupefied. “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about your marriage,” he explained with his reckless grin. “You’re twice as beautiful as Bertie’s sister. With your face and Havenhurst as your dowry, you’ll be able to make a marriage that will make all England buzz. That marriage will bring you jewels and gowns and beautiful homes, and it will bring me connections that will be worth more than money. Besides,” he teased, “if I run short now and then, I know you’ll throw a few thousand pounds my way from your pin money.”

“We are short of money, aren’t we?” Elizabeth persisted, too concerned about that to care about a London debut. Robert’s gaze dropped from hers, and with a weary sigh he gestured toward the sofa. “We’re in a bit of a fix,” be admitted when she sat down beside him. Elizabeth might have been barely seventeen, but she knew when he was gulling her, and her expression made it clear she suspected he was doing exactly that. “Actually,” he admitted reluctantly, “we’re in a bad fix. Very bad.”

“How can that be?” she asked, and despite the fear beginning to quake through her, she managed to sound calm.

Embarrassment tinted his handsome face with a ruddy hue. “For one thing. Father left behind a staggering amount of debts, some of them from gaming. I’ve accumulated more than a few debts of that sort of my own. I’ve been holding his creditors and mine off for the last several years as best I can, but they’re getting nasty now. And it’s not just that. Havenhurst costs a bloody ransom to run, Elizabeth. Its income doesn’t match its expenses by a long way, and it never has. The end result is that we’re mortgaged up to our ears, you and I both. We’re going to have to mortgage the contents of the house to payoff some of these debts or neither of us will be able to show a face in London, and that’s not the worst of it. Havenhurst is yours, not mine, but if you can’t make a good marriage, it’s going to end up on the auction block, and soon.”

Her voice shook only slightly, but inwardly Elizabeth was a roiling mass of bewilderment and alarm. “You just said a London Season would cost a fortune, and we obviously don’t have it,” she pointed out practically.

“The creditors will back away the minute they see you’re betrothed to a man of means and consequence, and I promise you we won’t have a problem finding one of those.”

Elizabeth thought the whole scheme sounded mercenary and cold, but Robert shook his head. This time he was the practical one: “You’re a female, love, and you have to wed, you know that all women must wed. You’re not going to meet anyone eligible cooped up at Havenhurst. And I’m not suggesting we accept an offer from just anyone. I’ll choose someone you can develop a lasting affection for, and then,” he promised sincerely, “I’ll bargain for a long engagement on the basis of your youth. No respectable man would want to rush a seventeen-year-old girl into matrimony before she was ready for it. It’s the only way,” he warned her when she looked as if she was going to argue.

Sheltered though she’d been, Elizabeth knew he was not being unreasonable about expecting her to wed. Before her parent’s death they’d made it very clear that it was her duty to marry in accordance with her family’s wishes. In this case, her half-brother was in charge of making the selection, and Elizabeth trusted him implicitly.

“Fess up,” Robert teased gently, “haven’t you ever dreamed of wearing beautiful gowns and being courted by handsome beaux?”

“Perhaps a few times,” Elizabeth admitted with an embarrassed sidewise smile, and it was something of an understatement. She was a normal, healthy girl, filled with affection, and she’d read her share of romantic novels. That last part of what Robert said had much appeal. “Very well,” she said with a decisive chuckle. “We’ll give it a try.”

“We’ll have to do more than try. Elizabeth, we’ll have to pull it off, or you’ll end up as a landless governess to someone else’s children instead of a countess or better, with children of your own. I’ll land in debtors’ gaol.” The idea of Robert in a dank cell and herself without Havenhurst was enough to make Elizabeth do almost anything. “Leave everything to me,” he said, and Elizabeth did.

In the next six months Robert set about to overcome every obstacle that might prevent Elizabeth from making a spectacular impression on the London scene. A woman named Mrs. Porter was employed to teach Elizabeth those intricate social skills her mother and former governess had not. From Mrs. Porter Elizabeth learned that she must never betray that she was intelligent, well-read, or the slightest bit interested in horticulture.

An expensive couturier in London was employed to design and make all the gowns Mrs. Porter deemed necessary for the Season.

Miss Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones, former paid companion to several of the ton’s most successful debutantes of prior seasons, came to Havenhurst to fill the position of Elizabeth’s duenna. A woman of fifty with wiry gray hair she scraped back into a bun and the posture of a ramrod, she had a permanently pinched face, as if she smelled something disagreeable but was too well-bred to remark upon it. In addition to the duenna’s daunting physical appearance, Elizabeth observed shortly after their first meeting that Miss Throckmorton-Jones possessed an astonishing ability to sit serenely for hours without twitching so much as a finger.

Elizabeth refused to be put off by her stony demeanor and set about finding a way to thaw her. Teasingly, she called her “Lucy,” and when the casually affectionate nickname won a thunderous frown from the lady, Elizabeth tried to find a different means. She discovered it very soon. A few days after Lucinda came to live at Havenhurst the duenna discovered her curled up in a chair in Havenhurst’s huge library, engrossed in a book. “You enjoy reading? “Lucinda had said gruffly-and with surprise-as she noted the gold embossed title on the volume.

“Yes,” Elizabeth had assured her, smiling. “Do you?” “Have you read Christopher Marlowe?” “Yes, but I prefer Shakespeare.”

Thereafter it became their policy each night after supper to debate the merits of the individual books they’d read. Before long Elizabeth realized that she’d won the duenna’s reluctant respect. It was impossible to be certain she’d won Lucinda’s affection, for the only emotion the lady ever displayed was anger, and that only once, at a miscreant tradesman in the village. Even so, it was a display Elizabeth never forgot. Wielding her ever-present umbrella, Lucinda had advanced on the hapless man, backing him clear around his own shop, while from her lips in an icy voice poured the most amazing torrent of eloquent, biting fury Elizabeth had ever heard.

“My temper,” Lucinda had primly informed her-by way of apology, Elizabeth supposed “is my only shortcoming.”

Privately, Elizabeth thought Lucy must bottle up all her emotions inside herself as she sat perfectly still on sofas and chairs, for years at a time, until it finally exploded like one of those mountains she’d read about that poured forth molten rock when the pressure finally reached a peak.

By the time the Camerons, along with Lucinda and the necessary servants, arrived in London for Elizabeth’s debut, Elizabeth had learned all that Mrs. Porter could teach her, and she felt quite capable of meeting the challenges Mrs. Porter described. Actually, other than memorizing the rules of etiquette she was a little baffled over the huge fuss being made. After all, she’d learned to dance in the six months she was being prepared for her debut, and she’d been conversing since she was three years old, and as closely as she could tell, her only duties as a debutante were to converse politely on trivial subjects only, conceal her intelligent at all costs, and dance.

The day after they settled into their rented town house her sponsor into the ranks of the ton, Lady Jamison, called on Elizabeth and Robert. With her were two daughters, Valerie and Charise. Valerie was a year older than Elizabeth and had made her debut the year before; Charise was five years older the young widow of old Lord Dumont who cocked up his toes a month after the nuptials, leaving his new wife wealthy, relieved, and entirely independent.

In the two weeks before the Season began Elizabeth spent considerable time with the wealthy young debutantes who gathered in the Jamison drawing room to gossip happily about everything and anyone. All of them had come to London with the same noble duty and familial objective: to marry, in accordance with their family’s wishes, the wealthiest possible suitor while at the same time increasing their family’s wealth and social standing.

It was in that drawing room that Elizabeth’s education was continued and completed. She discovered to her shock that Mrs. Porter had been right about name-dropping. She also discovered that it was apparently not considered bad manners among the ton to discuss another person’s financial status particularly the status and prospects of an unmarried gentleman. The very first day it was all she could do not to betray her ignorance with a horrified gasp at the conversation swirling around her: “Lord Peters is an excellent catch. Why, he has an income of £20,000 and every prospect of being named heir to his uncle’s baronetcy if his uncle dies of his heart ailment, which there’s every reason to expect he will,” one of the girls had announced, and the others chimed in: “Shoreham has that splendid estate in Wiltshire, and Mama is living on tenterhooks waiting to see if he’ll declare himself.... Think of it, the Shoreham emeralds! Robelsly is driving a splendid blue barouche, but Papa said he’s up to his ears in debt and that I may on no account consider him.... Elizabeth, wait until you meet Richard Shipley! Do not under any circumstances let his charm fool you; he’s a complete scoundrel, and though he dresses to the nines, he hasn’t a feather to fly with!” That last advice came from Valerie Jamison, whom Elizabeth regarded as her very closest friend among the girls.

Elizabeth had gladly accepted their collective friendship and, outwardly, their advice. However, she felt increasingly uneasy about some of their attitudes toward people they judged as their inferiors which wasn’t surprising from a young lady who regarded her butler and coachman as her equals.

On the other hand, she was in love with London, with its bustling streets, manicured parks, and air of excited expectation, and she adored having friends who, when they weren’t gossiping about someone, were merry companions.

On the night of her first ball, however, much of Elizabeth’s confidence and delight had suddenly vanished. As she walked up the Jamisons’ staircase beside Robert, she felt suddenly more terrified than she’d ever felt in her life. Her head was whirling with all the dos and don’ts she’d not really bothered to memorize, and she was morbidly certain she was going to be the Season’s most notorious wallflower. But when she walked into the ballroom, the sight that greeted her made her forget all her self-conscious terrors and made her eyes shine with wonder. Chandeliers sparkled with hundreds of thousands of candles; handsome men and gorgeously gowned women strolled about in silks and satins.

Oblivious to the young men turning to stare at her, she lifted her shining eyes to her smiling brother. “Robert,” she whispered, her green eyes radiant, “have you ever imagined there were such beautiful people and such grand rooms in the entire world?”

Clad in a filmy, gold-spangled white gauze gown with white roses entwined in her golden hair and her green eyes sparkling, Elizabeth Cameron looked like a fairy-tale princess.

She was enchanted, and her enchantment lent her an almost ethereal glow as she finally recovered herself enough to smile and acknowledge Valerie and her friends.

By the end of the evening Elizabeth felt as if she were in a fairy tale. Young men had flocked around her, begging for introductions and dances and for the opportunity to bring her punch. She smiled and danced, but she never resorted to the flirtatious contrivances used by some of the other girls; instead she listened with genuine interest and a warm smile to the beaux who spoke to her; she made them comfortable and drew them out as they led her to the dance floor. In truth, she was thrilled by the contagious gaiety, beguiled by the wondrous music, dazzled by so much attention, and all those emotions were displayed in her shining eyes and winsome smile. She was a mythical princess at her first ball, bewitching, entrancing, twirling around and around on the dance floor beneath glittering chandeliers, surrounded by charming princes, with no thought that it would ever end. Elizabeth Cameron, with her angelic beauty, golden hair, and shining green eyes, had taken London by storm. She was not a rage. She was the rage.

The callers began arriving at her house the next morning in an endless stream, and it was there, not in the ballrooms, where Elizabeth made her greatest conquests, for she was not merely lovely to look at, she was even easier to be with than she had been at the ball. Within three weeks fourteen gentlemen had offered for her, and London was abuzz with such an unprecedented occurrence. Not even Miss Mary Gladstone, the reigning beauty for two consecutive seasons, had received so many offers as that.

Twelve of Elizabeth’s suitors were young, besotted, and eligible; two were much older and equally besotted. Robert, with great pride and equal lack of tact, boasted of her suitors and ruthlessly rejected them as unsuitable and inadequate. He waited, faithfully keeping his promise to Elizabeth to choose for her an ideal husband with whom she could be happy.

The fifteenth applicant for her hand filled all his requirements. Extremely wealthy, handsome, and personable, Viscount Mondevale, at twenty-five, was unquestionably one of the season’s best catches. Robert knew it, and as he told Elizabeth that evening, he’d been so excited that he had nearly forgotten himself and leapt across his desk to congratulate the young viscount on his impending nuptials.

Elizabeth had been very pleased and touched that the gentleman she had most particularly admired was the very one who had offered for her and been chosen. “Oh, Robert, he’s excessively nice. I-I wasn’t entirely certain he liked me enough to offer for me.”

Robert had pressed an affectionate kiss on her forehead. “Princess,” he’d teased, “any man who takes a look at you loses his head entirely. It’s only a matter of time.”

Elizabeth had given him a brief smile and shrugged. She was heartily sick of people talking about her face as if there were no mind behind it. Moreover, all the frantic activities and brittle gaiety of the season, which had originally enthralled her, were rapidly beginning to pall. In fact, the strongest emotion she felt at Robert’s announcement was relief that her marriage was settled.

“Mondevale plans to call on you this afternoon,” Robert had continued, “but I don’t mean to give him my answer for a week or two. Waiting will only strengthen his resolve, and besides, you deserve another few days of freedom before you become an engaged woman.”

An engaged woman. Elizabeth felt an oddly queasy and distinctly uneasy feeling at the sound of that, though she realized she was being very foolish.

“I confess I dreaded telling him that your dowry is only £5,000, but he didn’t seem to care. Said as much. Said all he wanted was you. Told me he meant to shower you with rubies the size of your palm.”

“That’s... wonderful,” Elizabeth said weakly, trying very hard to feel something more than relief and an inexplicable twinge of apprehension.

“You’re wonderful,” he said, rumpling her hair. “You’ve pulled Father, me, and Havenhurst out of the briars.”

At three o’clock Viscount Mondevale arrived. Elizabeth met with him in the yellow salon. He walked in, glanced around the room, then took her hands in his and smiled warmly into her eyes. “The answer is yes, isn’t it?” he said, but it was more a statement than a question.

“You’ve already spoken to my brother?” Elizabeth said in surprise.

“No, I haven’t.” “Then how do you know the answer is yes?” she asked, smiling and mystified.

“Because,” he said, “the ever-present, eagle-eyed Miss Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones is absent from your side for the first time in a month!” He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, which caught her off-guard, and she blushed. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked.

Elizabeth had a vague idea since everyone was always telling her, and she suppressed a worried impulse to reply, “Do you have any idea how intelligent I am?” It wasn’t that she was an intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, but she did like to read and think and even debate issues, and she wasn’t at all certain he would like that in her. He never expressed an opinion on anything except the most trivial generalities and he never asked for hers.

“You’re enchanting.” he whispered, and Elizabeth wondered, very seriously, why he thought that. He didn’t know how much she loved to fish, or to laugh, or that she could shoot a pistol so well she was almost a marksman. He didn’t know she’d once had chariot races across the yard at Havenhurst, or that flowers seemed to bloom especially well for her. She didn’t even know if he’d like to hear all the wonderful tales of Havenhurst and its colorful former inhabitants. He knew so little of her; she knew even less about him,

She wished she could ask Lucinda’s advice, but Lucinda was ill with a high fever, raw throat, and bad digestion that had kept her in her chamber since the day before.

Elizabeth was still a little worried about all those things late the next afternoon when she left to attend the weekend party that would put her in the way of Ian Thornton and change her life. The party took place at the lovely country house belonging to Valerie’s older sister, Lady Charise Dumont. By the time Elizabeth arrived the grounds of the estate were already filled with guests who were flirting and laughing and drinking liberal quantities of the champagne that gurgled forth from crystal fountains in the garden. By London standards, the gathering at this party was small; no more than one hundred fifty guests were present, and only twenty-five of them, including Elizabeth and her three friends, were actually staying the full weekend. If she hadn’t been so sheltered and so naive, she’d have recognized “the fast set” when she saw it that evening; she’d have realized at a glance that the guests at this party were much older, more experienced, and far more freewheeling than any she’d ever been around. And she’d have left.

Now, as Elizabeth sat in the salon at Havenhurst, reflecting on her disastrous folly that weekend, she marveled at her gullibility and naiveté.

Leaning her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes, swallowing against the painful lump of humiliation that swelled in her throat. Why, she wondered despairingly, did happy memories fade and blur until one could scarcely recall them at all, while horrible memories seemed to retain their blinding clarity and painful sharpness? Even now she could remember that night-see it, hear it, smell it.

Flowers had been blooming riotously in the formal gardens when she walked outside looking for her friends. Roses. Everywhere there had been the intoxicating fragrance of roses. In the ballroom the orchestra was tuning up, and suddenly the opening strains of a lovely waltz drifted into the garden, filling it with music. Twilight was descending, and servants moved about the terraced garden paths lighting gay torches. Not all the paths would be lit, of course-those below the terraced steps would be left in convenient darkness for couples who later wished for intimacy in the hedge maze or the greenhouse, but Elizabeth hadn’t realized that until later.

It had taken her nearly a half hour to find her friends, because they had gathered for a gay gossip at the far end of the garden where they were partially concealed from view by a high, clipped hedge. As she neared the girls she realized they weren’t standing by the hedge, they were peeking through it, chattering excitedly about someone they were watching-someone who seemed to be sending them into raptures of excitement and speculation. “Now that,” Valerie giggled, peering through the hedge, “is what my sister calls ‘manly allure’!” In brief, reverent silence all three of the girls studied this paragon of masculinity who had earned such high praise from Valerie’s gorgeous and very discerning sister, Charise. Elizabeth had just noticed a grass stain on her lavender slipper and was unhappily contemplating the exorbitant cost of a new pair while wondering if it was possible to buy only one shoe. “I still can’t believe it’s him!” Valerie whispered. “Charise said he might be here, but I wouldn’t credit it. Won’t everyone simply die when we return to London and tell them we’ve seen him?” Valerie added, then she noticed Elizabeth and beckoned her to the hedge. “Look, Elizabeth, isn’t he divine’ in a sort of mysterious, wicked way?”

Instead of peering through the hedge Elizabeth glanced around the end of it, scanning the garden, which was filled with gorgeously garbed men and women who were laughing and chatting as they moved languidly toward the ballroom where dancing would take place followed by a late supper. Her gaze drifted idly over the men in pastel satin breeches and colorful waistcoats and jackets which made them resemble bright peacocks and flashy macaws. “Who am I supposed to see?”

“Mr. Ian Thornton, silly! No, wait, you can’t see him now. He moved away from the torches.”

“Who is Ian Thornton?”

“That’s just it; nobody knows, not really!” In the tone of one imparting delicious and startling news she added, “Some say he’s the grandson of the Duke of Stanhope.”

Like all young debutantes, Elizabeth had been required to study Debrett’s Peerage, a book the ton revered with almost as much fervor as a devout Presbyterian felt for his Bible. “The Duke of Stanhope is an old man,” she remarked after thoughtful consideration, “and he has no heir.”

“Yes, everyone knows that. But it’s said Ian Thornton is his “Valerie’s voice dropped to a whisper” illegitimate grandson.”

“You see,” Penelope contributed authoritatively, “the Duke of Stanhope did have a son, but he disowned him years ago. My mama told me all about it was quite a scandal.” At the word “scandal” they all turned inquisitively, and she continued, “The old duke’s son married the daughter of a Scottish peasant who was part Irish to boot! She was a perfectly dreadful person of no consequence whatsoever. So this could be his grandson.”

“People think that’s who he is simply because of his surname,” Georgina provided with typical practicality, “yet it’s a common enough name.”

“I heard he’s so rich,” Valerie put in, “that he wagered £25,000 on a single hand of cards one night at a polite gaming hall in Paris.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Georgina with derision, “ he didn’t do that because he’s rich, he did it because he’s a gambler! My brother knows him, and he said Ian Thornton is a common gambler a person without background, breeding, connections, or wealth!”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Valerie admitted, peering through the hedge. “Look,” she broke off – “you can see him now. Lady Mary Watterly is practically throwing herself at him!”

The girls leaned so far forward they almost fell into the shrubbery.

“I know I’d melt if he looked at me.”

“I’m sure you would not,” Elizabeth said with a wry smile, because she felt she ought to contribute something to the conversation.

“You haven’t seen him yet!” Elizabeth didn’t need to look at him; she knew exactly the sort of handsome young men who made all her friends swoon blond, blue-eyed Corinthians between twenty-one and twenty-four.

“I suppose Elizabeth has too many wealthy beaux of her own to care about a mere mister, no matter how handsome or intriguing he might be,” Valerie said when Elizabeth remained politely aloof, and it seemed to Elizabeth the compliment was coated with a layer of envy and malice. The suspicion was so unpleasant that she quickly rejected it. She’d done nothing to Valerie, or to anyone, to deserve animosity. Not once since she’d come to London had she uttered an unkind word against anyone; in fact, she never took part in gossip that turned malicious or repeated a word of it to anyone else. Even now she was extremely uneasy with some of the things they were saying about the man they were watching. It seemed to Elizabeth that a person had a right to dignity regardless of his rank or lack thereof. That, of course, was a minority opinion that verged on heresy in the ton’s eyes, and so she kept her odd notions to herself.

At the time Elizabeth had felt such thoughts were disloyal to her friends, and, moreover, that she was probably being churlish by not joining in their fun and trying to share their excitement with Mr. Ian Thornton. Trying to throw herself into the spirit of the moment, she smiled at Valerie and said, “I don’t have as many beaux as that, and I’m sure if I could see him, I’d be as intrigued as everyone else.”

For some reason Elizabeth’s words caused Valerie and Penelope to exchange pleased, conspiratorial glances, then Valerie explained the reason for it: “Thank heavens you agree, Elizabeth, because the three of us are in a bit of a coil. We were counting on you to help us out of it.”

“What sort of coil?” “Well, you see,” Valerie explained with a breathless exuberance that Elizabeth blamed on the glasses of heady wine the servants had been pressing on all the guests, including them, “I had to wheedle forever before Charise would agree to let us be here this weekend.”

Since she already knew that, Elizabeth nodded and waited.

“The thing is, when Charise said earlier today that Ian Thornton was really going to be here, we were all up in the boughs about it. But she said he wouldn’t pay any of us the slightest notice, because we’re too young and not at all in his style-”

“She’s probably correct,” Elizabeth said with an unconcerned smile.

“Oh, but he must!” Glancing at the other girls as if for reinforcement, Valerie finished eagerly, “He absolutely must, because the three of us wagered our entire quarter’s allowance with Charise that he would ask one of us to dance tonight. And he’s not likely to do that unless his interest is piqued beforehand.”

“Your entire allowance?” Elizabeth said, horrified at such an extravagant gamble. “But you were planning to use it to buy those amethysts you saw at the jeweler’s on Westpool Street.”

“And I intended to use mine,” Penelope added as she turned to peer through the hedge again, “to buy that marvelous little mare Papa has refused me.”

“I-I could probably withdraw from the wager,” Georgina put in, looking acutely uneasy about more than the money. “I don’t think-” she started, but Penelope burst out eagerly, “He’s starting across the garden in this direction, and he’s alone! There’ll never be a better opportunity to try to attract his notice than right now, if he doesn’t change direction.”

Suddenly the outrageous wager did seem like forbidden fun, and Elizabeth chuckled. “In that case, I nominate Valerie for the task of piquing his interest, since it was her idea and she particularly admires him.”

“We nominate you,” Valerie said in a giddy, determined voice.

“Me? Why should it be me?”

“Because you’re the one who’s already received fourteen offers, so it’s perfectly obvious you’re the most likely to succeed. Besides,” she added when Elizabeth balked, “Viscount Mondevale cannot help but be impressed when he hears that Ian Thornton a mysterious older man at whom Mary Jane Morrison flung herself last year to no avail asked you to dance and paid you particular’ attention. As soon as Mondevale hears about it he’ll come up to scratch in a trice!”

In accordance with the dictates of Polite Society, Elizabeth had never allowed herself to show the slightest partiality for the viscount, and she was startled to learn that her friends had guessed her secret feelings. Of course, they couldn’t know that the handsome young man had already made his offer and was about to be accepted.

“Make up your mind quickly, he’s nearly here.” Penelope implored amid a chorus of nervous giggles from Georgina,

“Well, will you do it?’ Valerie demanded urgently as the other two girls began backing away and turning toward the house.

Elizabeth took her first swallow of the wine she’d been given as soon as she stepped from the house into the garden. She hesitated. “Very well, I suppose so,” she said, flashing a smile at her friend.

“Excellent. Don’t forget he has to dance with you tonight or we’ll lose our allowances!” Laughing, she gave Elizabeth a light, encouraging shove, then turned on her satin-shod heels and fled after their laughing friends.

The clipped hedge the girls had been peering around and through blocked Elizabeth from view as she hastily walked down two wide brick steps onto the grass and glanced around, trying to decide whether to stand where she was or be seated upon the little white stone bench to her left. She darted to the bench and sat down just as booted heels struck the steps, once-twice, and there he was.

Oblivious to her presence for the moment, Ian Thornton walked forward another pace, then stopped near a lighted torch and withdrew a thin cheroot from his jacket pocket. Elizabeth watched him, suffused with trepidation and an unfamiliar, tingling excitement that was due as much to his appearance as to her secret assignment. He was nothing like she’d expected him to be. Besides being older than she’d imagined-she guessed him to be at least twenty-seven-he was startlingly tall, more than six feet, with powerful shoulders and long, muscular legs. His thick hair was not blond, but a rich brown-black that looked as if it had a tendency to curl. Instead of wearing the customary bright satin coat and white breeches that the other men wore he was clad in raven black from head to foot, with the exception of his snowy shirt and neckcloth, which were so white they seemed to gleam against the stark black of his jacket and waistcoat. Elizabeth had the uneasy thought that Ian Thornton was like a large, predatory hawk in the midst of a gathering of tame, colorful peacocks. As she studied him he lit the cheroot, bending his dark head and cupping his hands over the flame. White cuffs peeped from beneath his black jacket, and in the bright orange glow of the flame she saw that his hands and face were deeply tanned.

Elizabeth expelled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been bolding, and the tiny sound made him glance up sharply. His eyes narrowed in surprise or displeasure Elizabeth wasn’t certain. Caught in the act of lurking in the shadows and staring at him. Elizabeth blurted the first idiotic thing that came to mind. “I’ve never seen a man smoke a cigar before. It-they always retire to another room.”

His dark brows lifted a fraction in bland inquiry. “Do you mind?” he asked as he finished lighting the cigar.

Two things hit Elizabeth at once: His piercing eyes were the strange color of gleaming amber, while his voice was richly textured and deep; the combination sent a peculiar warmth up her spine. “Mind?” she repeated stupidly.

“The cigar,” he said.

“Oh-no. No, I don’t,” she hastily assured him, but she had the oddest impression that he had come here seeking privacy and to enjoy a cigar, and that if she had said yes, she did mind, he would have turned around abruptly and left rather than extinguish his cigar so that he could remain in her presence. Fifty yards away, at the far end of the long, narrow grassy ledge on which they stood, girlish laughter sounded, and Elizabeth turned involuntarily, catching a glimpse in the torchlight of Valerie’s pink gown and Georgina’s yellow one before they darted around the hedge and were blocked from sight.

A flush stained her cheeks at the embarrassing way her friends were acting, and when she turned back she found her companion studying her, his hands shoved into his pockets, the cigar clamped between teeth as white as his shirt. With an imperceptible inclination of his head he indicated the place the girls had been. “Friends of yours?” he asked, and Elizabeth had the horrible, guilty feeling that he somehow knew the whole thing had been plotted in advance.

She considered telling a small fib, but she didn’t like to lie, and those disturbing eyes of his were leveled on hers. “Yes, they are.” Pausing to arrange her lavender skirts to their best advantage, she raised her face to his and smiled tentatively. It occurred to her that they hadn’t been introduced, and since there was no one about to do the thing properly, she hastily and uneasily remedied the matter herself. “I am Elizabeth Cameron,” she announced.

Inclining his head in the merest mockery of a bow, he acknowledged her by saying simply, “Miss Cameron.”

Left with no other choice, Elizabeth prodded, “And you are?”

“Ian Thornton.”

“How do you do, Mr. Thornton,” she replied, and she extended her hand to him as was proper. The gesture made him smile suddenly, a slow, startlingly glamorous white smile as he did the only thing he could do-which was to step forward and take her hand. “A pleasure,” he said, but his voice was lightly tinged with mockery.

Already beginning to regret ever agreeing to this plan, Elizabeth racked her brain for an opening, which in the past she’d left to the besotted boys who desperately wanted to engage her in conversation. The subject of whom one knew was always appropriate among the ton and Elizabeth seized on that with relief. Gesturing with her fan toward the place they’d last seen her friends, she said, “The young lady in the pink gown was Miss Valerie Jamison, and Miss Georgina Granger was in the yellow one.” When he showed no sign of recognition, she provided helpfully, “Miss Jamison is the daughter of Lord and Lady Jamison.” When he merely continued to watch her with mild interest. Elizabeth added a little desperately, “They are the Herfordshire Jamisons. You know-the earl and countess.”

“Really?” he responded with amused indulgence.

“Yes indeed,” Elizabeth rambled, feeling more ill at ease by the second, “and Miss Granger is the daughter of the Wiltshire Grangers-the Baron and Baroness of Grangerley.”

“Really?” he mocked, watching her in speculative silence. It hit her then, what the girls had said about his questionable parentage, and she felt faint with shame for thoughtlessly speaking of titles to someone who might have been cheated of his own. The palms of her hands grew damp; she rubbed them against her knees, realized what she was doing and hastily stopped. Then she cleared her throat fanning herself vigorously. “We are all here for the Season,” she finished lamely.

The cool amber eyes warmed suddenly with a mixture of amusement and sympathy, and there was a smile in his deep voice as he asked, “And are you enjoying yourselves?”

“Yes, very much,” Elizabeth said with a sigh of relief that he was finally participating a little in the conversation. “Miss Granger, though you couldn’t see her at all well from here, is excessively pretty, with the sweetest manners imaginable. She has dozens of beaux.”

“All titled, I imagine?”

Still thinking be might be longing for a ducal title he’d missed having, Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded in sublime discomfort. “I’m afraid so,” she admitted abjectly, and to her astonishment, that made him grin-a slow, dazzling smile swept across his bronzed features, and its effect on his face was almost as dramatic as its effect on Elizabeth’s nervous system. Her heart gave a hard bump, and she suddenly stood up, feeling unaccountably jumpy. “Miss Jamison is lovely also,” she said, reverting to the discussion of her friends and smiling uncertainly at him.

“How many contenders have there been for her hand?” Elizabeth finally realized he was teasing and his irreverent view of what everyone else regarded as a matter of the utmost gravity startled an irrepressible, relieved chuckle from her. “I have it on the best authority,” she replied, trying to match his grave, teasing tone, “that her beaux have paraded to her papa in record numbers.”

His eyes warmed with laughter, and as she stood there, smiling back at him, her tension and nervousness evaporated. Suddenly and inexplicably she felt quite as if they were old friends sharing the same secret irreverence-only he was bold enough to admit his feelings, while she still tried to repress her own,

“And what about you?” “What about me?”

“How many offers have you had?”

A bubble of startled laughter escaped her, and she shook her head. To have told him proudly about her friends’ achievements was acceptable, but to boast about her own was beyond all bounds, and she had no doubt he knew it. “Now that.” she admonished with laughing severity, “was really too bad of you.”

“I apologize,” he said. inclining his head in a mocking little bow; the smile still lurking at his mouth.

Darkness had fallen over the garden, and Elizabeth realized she ought to go inside, yet she lingered, somehow reluctant to leave the enveloping intimacy of the garden. Clasping her hands lightly behind her back, she gazed up at the stars beginning to twinkle in the night sky. “This is my favorite time of day,” she admitted softly. She glanced sideways at him to see if he was bored with the topic, but he’d turned slightly and was looking up at the sky as if he, too, found something of interest there.

She searched for the Big Dipper and located it. “Look,” she said, nodding toward a particularly bright light in the sky. “There’s Venus. Or is it Jupiter? I’m never completely certain.”

“It’s Jupiter. Over there is Ursa Major.”

Elizabeth chuckled and shook her head, pulling her gaze from the sky and sending him a wry, sideways glance. “It may look like the Great Bear to you and everyone else, but to me all the constellations just look like a big bunch of scattered stars. In the spring I can find Cassiopeia, but not because it looks like a lion to me, and in the autumn I can pick out Arcturus, but how they ever saw an archer in all that clutter is quite beyond my comprehension. Do you suppose there are people up there anywhere?”

He turned his head, regarding her with fascinated amusement. “What do you think?”

“I think there are. In fact, I think it’s rather arrogant to assume that out of all those thousands of stars and planets up there, we are the only ones who exist. It seems as arrogant as the old belief that the earth is the center of the entire universe and everything revolves around us. Although people didn’t exactly thank Galileo for disproving it, did they? Imagine being hauled before the Inquisition and forced to renounce what you absolutely knew-and could prove was right!”

“When did debutantes start studying astronomy?” he asked as Elizabeth stepped over to the bench to retrieve her wineglass.

“I’ve had years and years to read,” she admitted ingenuously. Unaware of the searching intensity of his gaze, she picked up her wineglass and turned back to him. “I really must go inside now and change for the evening.”

He nodded in silence, and Elizabeth started to walk forward and step past him. Then she changed her mind and hesitated, remembering her friends’ wagers and how much they were counting on her. “I have a rather odd request a favor to ask of you,” she said slowly, praying that he felt, as she did, that they’d enjoyed a very brief and very pleasant sort of friendship out there. Smiling uncertainly into his inscrutable eyes, she said, “Could you possibly for reasons I can’t explain...” she trailed off, suddenly and acutely embarrassed.

“What is the favor?”

Elizabeth expelled her breath in a rush. “Could you possibly ask me to dance this evening?” He looked neither shocked nor tattered by her bold request and she watched his firmly molded lips form his answer.

“No.”

Elizabeth was mortified and shocked by his refusal, but she was even more stunned by the unmistakable regret she’d heard in his voice and glimpsed on his face. For a long moment she searched his shuttered features, and then the sound of laughing voices from somewhere nearby broke the spell. Trying to retreat from a predicament into which she should never have put herself in the first place, Elizabeth picked up her skirts, intending to leave. Making a conscious effort to keep all emotion from her voice, she said with calm dignity, “Good evening, Mr. Thornton.”

He flipped the cheroot away and nodded. “Good evening, Miss Cameron.” And then he left.

The rest of her friends had gone upstairs to change their gowns for the evening’s dancing, but the moment Elizabeth entered the rooms set aside for them the conversation and laughter stopped abruptly leaving Elizabeth with a fleeting, uneasy feeling that they had been laughing and talking about her.

“Well?” Penelope asked with an expectant laugh. “Don’t keep us in suspense. Did you make an impression?”

The uneasy sensation of being the brunt of some secret joke left Elizabeth as she looked about at their smiling, open faces. Only Valerie looked a little cool and aloof.

“I made an impression, to be sure,” Elizabeth said with an embarrassed smile, “but ‘twas not a particularly favorable one.”

“He remained by your side for ever so long,” another girl prodded her. “We were watching from the far end of the garden. What did you talk about?”

Elizabeth felt a warmth creep through her veins and steal up her cheeks as she remembered his handsome, tanned face and the way his smile had glinted and softened his features as he looked at her. “I don’t actually remember what we spoke of.” That much was true. All she could remember was the odd way her knees had shaken and her heart had beaten when he looked at her.

“Well, what was he like?”

“Handsome,” Elizabeth said a little dreamily before she could catch herself. “Charming. He has a beautiful voice.”

“And, no doubt,” Valerie said with a thread of sarcasm, “he’s even now trying to discover your brother’s whereabouts so that he can dash over there and apply for your hand.”

That notion was so absurd that Elizabeth would have burst out laughing if she weren’t so embarrassed and oddly let down by the way he’d left her in the garden. “My brother’s evening is safe from any interruption in that quarter, I can promise you. In fact,” she added with a rueful smile, “I fear you’ve all lost your quarterly allowances as well, for there isn’t the slightest chance he’ll ask me to dance.” With an apologetic wave she left to change her gown for the ball that was already underway on the third floor.

Once Elizabeth had gained the privacy of her bedchamber, however, the breezy smile she’d worn in front of the other girls faded to an expression of thoughtful bewilderment. Wandering over to the bed, she sat down, idly tracing the golden threads of the rose brocade coverlet with the tip of her finger, trying to understand the feelings she’d experienced in the presence of Ian Thornton.

Standing with him in the garden, she’d felt frightened and exhilarated at the same time-drawn to him against her very will by a compelling magnetism that he seemed to radiate. Out there she’d felt almost driven to win his approval, alarmed when she’d failed, joyous when she’d succeeded. Even now, just the memory of the way he smiled, of the intimacy of his heavy-lidded gaze, made her feel hot and cold all over.

Music drifted from the ballroom on another floor, and Elizabeth finally shook herself from her reverie and rang for Berta to help her dress.

“What do you think?” she asked Berta a half hour later as she pirouetted before the mirror for the inspection of her nursemaid-turned-lady’s maid.

Berta twisted her plump hands as she stood back, nervously surveying her glowing young mistress’s more sophisticated appearance, unable to suppress her affectionate smile. Elizabeth’s hair had been caught up into an elegant chignon at the crown with soft tendrils framing her face, and her mother’s sapphire and diamond eardrops sparkled at her ears.

Unlike Elizabeth’s other gowns, which were nearly all pastel and high-waisted, this one was a sapphire blue, by far the most unusual and alluring of them all. Panels of blue silk drifted from a flattened bow upon her left shoulder and fell straight to the floor, leaving her other shoulder bare. Despite the fact that the gown was little more than a straight tube of silk, it flattered her figure, emphasizing her breasts and hinting at the narrow waist beneath. “I think,” Berta said finally, “it’s a wonder Mrs. Porter ordered such a gown for you. It’s not a bit like your others.”

Elizabeth tossed her a jaunty, conspiratorial smile as she pulled on the sapphire gloves that encased her arms to above the elbows. “It’s the only one Mrs. Porter didn’t choose,” she admitted. “And Lucinda hasn’t seen it either.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Elizabeth turned back to the mirror, frowning as she surveyed her appearance. “The other girls are barely seventeen, but I’ll be eighteen in a few months. Besides,” she explained, picking up her mother’s sapphire and diamond bracelet and fastening it over the glove on her left wrist, ‘‘as I tried to tell Mrs. Porter, it’s a great waste to spend so much for gowns that won’t be at all suitable for me next year or the year after. I’ll be able to wear this one even when I’m twenty.”

Berta rolled her eyes and shook her head, setting the streamers on her cap bobbing. “I doubt your Viscount Mondevale will want you wearin’ the same gown more’n twice, let alone until you wear it out,” she said as she bent over to straighten the hem on the blue gown.