HE VOLUPTUOUS BLOND WOMAN lifted up on an elbow and pulled a sheet to her breasts. Frowning slightly, she studied the darkly handsome youth of eighteen who was standing at the window of his bedchamber, his shoulder propped against the window frame, looking out across the back lawns, where a party in honor of his mother's birthday was in progress. "What do you see that interests you more than I?" Lady Catherine Harrington asked as she wrapped the sheet around herself and walked over to the window.

Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende, the future Duke of Hawthorne, seemed not to hear her as he looked out across the grounds of the palatial estate that would, upon his father's death, become his. As he gazed at the hedge maze below, he saw his mother emerge from the shrubbery. Casting a brief, furtive look about her, she straightened the bodice of her dress and smoothed her heavy dark hair into some semblance of order. A moment later Lord Harrington emerged, retying his neckcloth. Their laughter drifted up through Jordan's open window as they linked arms.

Mild cynicism marred the youthful handsomeness of his lean features as Jordan watched his mother and her newest lover cross the lawns and saunter into the arbor. A few moments later, his father emerged from the same hedge maze, looked about him, then retrieved Lady Milborne, his current paramour, from the bushes.

"Evidently my mother has acquired a new lover," Jordan drawled sarcastically.

"Really?" Lady Harrington asked, peering out the window. "Who?"

"Your husband." Turning fully toward her, Jordan studied her lovely face, searching for some sign of surprise. When he saw none, his own features hardened into an ironic mask. "You knew they were in the maze together, and that accounts for your sudden, unprecedented interest in my bed, is that it?"

She nodded, uneasy under the relentless gaze of those cool grey eyes. "I thought," she said, running her hand up his hard chest, "it would be amusing if we were also to… ah… get together. But my interest in your bed isn't sudden, Jordan, I've wanted you for a long time. Now that your mother and my husband are enjoying each other, I saw no reason not to take what I wanted. Where's the harm in that?"

He said nothing and her eyes searched his inscrutable features, her smile coy. "Are you shocked?"

"Hardly," he replied. "I've known about my mother's affairs since I was eight years old, and I doubt I could be shocked by what any woman does. If anything, I'm surprised you didn't contrive for all six of us to meet in the maze for a little 'family' get-together," he finished with deliberate insolence.

She made a muffled sound, part laughter, part horror. "Now you've shocked me. "

Lazily he reached out and tipped her chin up, studying her face with eyes too hard, too knowledgeable for his years. "Somehow I find that impossible to believe."

Suddenly embarrassed, Catherine pulled her hand from his chest and wrapped the sheet more securely around her nakedness. "Really, Jordan, I don't see why you're looking at me as if I'm beneath contempt," she said, her face reflecting honest bewilderment and a little pique. "You aren't married, so you don't realize how insufferably dull life is for all of us. Without dalliance to take one's mind off the tedium, we would all go quite mad."

At the tragic note in her voice, humor softened his features and his firm, sensual lips quirked in a derisive smile. "Poor little Catherine," he said dryly, reaching out and brushing his knuckles against her cheek. "What a miserable lot you women have. From the day you're born, anything you want is yours for the asking, and so you have nothing to work for—and even if you did, you'd never be permitted to work for it. We don't allow you to study and you're forbidden sports, so you cannot exercise your mind or your body. You don't even have honor to cling to, for although a man's honor is his for as long as he wishes, yours is between your legs, and you lose it to the first man who has you. How unjust life is to you!" he finished. "No wonder you're all so bored, amoral, and frivolous."

Catherine hesitated, struck by his words, not certain whether he was ridiculing her, then shrugged. "You're absolutely right."

He looked at her curiously. "Did it ever occur to you to try to change all that?"

"No," she admitted bluntly.

"I applaud your honesty. It's a rare virtue in your sex."

Although he was only eighteen, Jordan Townsende's potent attraction for women was already a topic of much scintillating feminine gossip, and as Catherine gazed into those cynical grey eyes, she suddenly felt herself drawn to him as if by some overwhelming magnetic force. Understanding was in his eyes, along with a touch of humor and hard knowledge far beyond his years. It was these things, even more than his dark good looks and blatant virility, that impelled women toward him. Jordan understood women; he understood her, and although it was obvious he didn't admire or approve of her, he accepted her for what she was, with all her weaknesses.

"Are you coming to bed, my lord?"

"No," he said mildly.

"Why?"

"Because I find I'm not quite bored enough to want to sleep with the wife of my mother's lover."

"You don't—you don't have a very high opinion of women, do you?" Catherine asked, because she couldn't stop herself.

"Is there any reason I should?"

"I—" She bit her lip and then reluctantly shook her head. "No. I suppose not. But someday you'll have to marry in order to have children."

His eyes suddenly glinted with amusement, and he leaned back against the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "Marry? Really? Is that how one gets children? And all this time, I thought—"

"Jordan, really!" she said, laughing, more than a little enthralled by this relaxed, teasing side of him. "You'll need a legitimate heir."

"When I'm forced to pledge my hand in order to produce an heir," he replied with grim humor, "I'll choose a naive chit right out of the schoolroom who'll leap to do my merest bidding."

"And when she becomes bored and seeks other diversion, what will you do?"

"Will she become bored?" he inquired in a steely voice.

Catherine studied his broad, muscular shoulders, deep chest, and narrow waist, then her gaze lifted to his ruggedly hewn features. In a linen shirt and tight-fitting riding breeches, every inch of Jordan Townsende's tall frame positively radiated raw power and leashed sensuality. Her brows lifted over knowing green eyes. "Perhaps not."

While she dressed, Jordan turned back to the windows and gazed dispassionately at the elegant guests who had gathered on the lawns at Hawthorne to celebrate his mother's birthday. To an outsider on that day, Hawthorne doubtless looked like a fascinating, lush paradise populated by beautiful, carefree, tropical birds parading in all their gorgeous finery. To eighteen-year-old Jordan Townsende, the scene held little interest and no beauty, he knew too well what went on within the walls of this house when the guests were gone.

At eighteen, he did not believe in the inherent goodness of anyone, including himself. He had breeding, looks, and wealth; he was also world-weary, restrained, and guarded.

With her small chin propped upon her fists, Miss Alexandra Lawrence watched the yellow butterfly perched upon the windowsill of her grandfather's cottage, then she turned her attention back to the beloved white-haired man seated across the desk from her. "What did you say, Grandfather? I didn't hear you."

"I asked why that butterfly is more interesting than Socrates today," the kindly old man said, smiling his gentle scholar's smile at the petite thirteen-year-old who possessed her mother's glossy chestnut curls and his own blue-green eyes. Amused, he tapped the volume of Socrates' works from which he had been instructing her.

Alexandra sent him a melting, apologetic smile, but she didn't deny that she was distracted, for as her gentle, scholarly grandfather oft said, "A lie is an affront to the soul, as well as an insult to the intelligence of the person to whom one lies." And Alexandra would have done anything rather than insult this gentle man who had instilled her with his own philosophy of life, as well as educating her in mathematics, philosophy, history, and Latin.

"I was wondering," she admitted with a wistful sigh, "if there's the slightest chance that I'm only in the 'caterpillar stage' just now, and someday soon I'll change into a butterfly and be beautiful?"

"What's wrong with being a caterpillar? After all," he quoted, teasing," 'Nothing is beautiful from every point of view.' " His eyes twinkled as he waited to see if she could recognize the quotation's source.

"Horace," Alexandra provided promptly, smiling back at him.

He nodded, pleased, then he said, "You needn't worry about your appearance, my dear, because true beauty springs from the heart and dwells in the eyes."

Alexandra tipped her head to the side, thinking, but she could not recall any philosopher, ancient or modern, who had said such a thing. "Who said that?"

Her grandfather chuckled. "I did."

Her answering laughter tinkled like bells, filling the sunny room with her musical gaiety, then she abruptly sobered. "Papa is disappointed I'm not pretty, I can see it whenever he comes to visit. He has every reason to expect me to turn out better, for Mama is beautiful and, besides being handsome, Papa is also fourth cousin to an earl, by marriage."

Barely able to conceal distaste for his son-in-law and for his dubious claim to an obscure connection to an obscure earl, Mr. Gimble quoted meaningfully, "Birth is nothing where virtue is not."

"Molière." Alexandra automatically named the source of the quotation. "But," she continued glumly, reverting to her original concern, "you must admit it is excessively unkind of fate to give him a daughter who is so very common-looking. Why," she went on morosely, "could I not be tall and blond? That would be so much nicer than looking like a little gypsy, which Papa says I do."

She turned her head to contemplate the butterfly again, and Mr. Gimble's eyes shone with fondness and delight, for his granddaughter was anything but common. When she was a child of four, he had begun instructing Alexandra in the fundamentals of reading and writing, exactly as he'd instructed the village children entrusted to his tutelage, but Alex's mind was more fertile than theirs, quicker and more able to grasp concepts. The children of the peasants were indifferent students who came to him for only a few years and then went out into the fields of their fathers to labor, to wed, to reproduce, and begin the life cycle all over again. But Alex had been born with his own fascination for learning.

The elderly man smiled at his granddaughter; the "cycle" was not such a bad thing, he thought.

Had he followed his own youthful inclinations and remained a bachelor, devoting all his life to study, rather than marrying, Alexandra Lawrence would never have existed. And Alex was a gift to the world. His gift. The thought uplifted and then embarrassed him because it reeked of pride. Still, he couldn't stem the rush of pleasure that flowed through him as he looked at the curly-haired child seated across from him. She was everything he hoped she'd be, and more. She was gentleness and laughter, intelligence and indomitable spirit. Too much spirit, perhaps, and too much sensitivity as well—for she repeatedly turned herself inside out, trying to please her shallow father during his occasional visits.

He wondered what sort of man she would marry—not such a one as his own daughter had wed, he devoutly hoped. His own daughter lacked Alexandra's depth of character; he had spoiled her, Mr. Gimble thought sadly. Alexandra's mother was weak and selfish. She had married a man exactly like herself, but Alex would need, and deserve, a far better man.

With her usual sensitivity, Alexandra noticed the sudden darkening of her grandfather's mood and strove immediately to lighten it. "Are you feeling unwell, Grandpapa? The headache again? Shall I rub your neck?"

"I do have a bit of the headache," Mr. Gimble said, and as he dipped his quill in the inkpot, forming the words that would someday become "A Complete Dissertation on the Life of Voltaire," she came around behind him and began with her child's hands to soothe away the tension in his shoulders and neck.

No sooner had her hands stilled than he felt the tickle of something brush against his cheek. Absorbed in his work, he reached up and absently rubbed his cheek where it tickled. A moment later, his neck tickled and he rubbed it there. The tickle switched to his right ear and he bit back an exasperated smile as he finally realized his granddaughter was brushing a feather quill against his skin. "Alex, my dear," he said, "I fear there's a mischievous little bird in here, diverting me from my labors."

"Because you work too hard," she said, but she pressed a kiss against his parchment cheek and returned to her seat to study Socrates. A few moments later, her lagging attention was diverted by a worm inching its way past the open door of the thatched cottage. "If everything in the universe serves God's special purpose, why do you suppose He created snakes? They're ever so ugly. Quite gruesome, actually."

Sighing at her interruption, Mr. Gimble laid down his quill, but he was not proof against her sunny smile. "I shall make it a point to ask God about that when I see Him."

The idea of her grandfather dying made Alexandra instantly somber, but the sound of a carriage drawing up before the cottage caused her to leap to her feet, running to the open window. "It's Papa!" she burst out joyously. "Papa has come from London at last!"

"And about time it is, too," Mr. Gimble grumbled, but Alex didn't hear. Clad in her favorite garb of breeches and peasant shirt, she was racing through the doorway and hurtling herself into her father's reluctant arms.

"How are you, little gypsy?" he said without much interest.

Mr. Gimble arose and went to the window, watching with a frown as the handsome Londoner helped his daughter up into his fancy new carriage. Fancy carriage, fancy clothes, but his morals were not fancy at all, thought Mr. Gimble angrily, recalling how his daughter, Felicia, had been blinded by the man's looks and suavity from the moment he had arrived at their cottage one afternoon, his carriage broken down in the road in front of it. Mr. Gimble had offered to let the man spend the night and, late in the afternoon, against his better judgment, he had yielded to Felicia's pleading and allowed her to walk out with him so she might "show him the pretty view from the hill above the stream."

When darkness fell and they had not returned, Mr. Gimble struck out after them, finding his way easily by the light of the full moon. He discovered them at the foot of the hill, beside the stream, naked in each other's arms. It had taken George Lawrence less than four hours to convince Felicia to abandon the precepts of a lifetime and to seduce her.

Rage beyond anything he had ever known had boiled up inside Mr. Gimble and, without a sound, he had left the scene. When he returned to the cottage two hours later, he was accompanied by his good friend the local vicar. The vicar was carrying the book from which he would read the marriage ceremony.

Mr. Gimble was carrying a rifle to make certain his daughter's seducer participated in the ceremony.

It was the first time in his life he had ever held a weapon.

And what had his righteous fury gotten for Felicia? The question darkened Mr. Gimble's features. George Lawrence had bought her a large, run-down house that had been vacant for a decade, provided her with servants, and for nine months following their marriage, he had reluctantly lived with her here in the remote little shire where she had been born. At the end of that time Alexandra arrived, and soon afterward George Lawrence went back to London, where he stayed, returning to Morsham only twice each year for two or three weeks.

"He is earning a living in the best way he knows how," Felicia had explained to Mr. Gimble, obviously repeating what her husband had told her. "He's a gentlemen and therefore cannot be expected to work for a living like ordinary men. In London, his breeding and connections enable him to mingle with all the right people, and from them he picks up hints now and then about good investments on the 'Change, and which horses to bet on at the races. It's the only way he can support us. Naturally, he would like to have us with him in London, but it is dreadfully expensive in the city, and he would not dream of subjecting us to the sort of cramped, dingy lodgings he must live in there. He comes to us as often as he can."

Mr. Gimble was dubious about George Lawrence's explanation for preferring to remain in London, but he had no doubt why the man returned to Morsham twice each year. He did so because Mr. Gimble had promised to seek him out in London—with his borrowed rifle—if he did not return at least that often to see his wife and daughter. Nevertheless, there was no point in wounding Felicia with the truth, for she was happy. Unlike the other women in the tiny shire—Felicia was married to "a true gentleman" and that was all that counted in her foolish estimation. It gave her status, and she walked among her neighbors with a queenly air of superiority.

Like Felicia, Alexandra worshiped George Lawrence, and he basked in their unquestioning adoration during his brief visits. Felicia fussed over him, and Alex tried valiantly to be both son and daughter to him—worrying about her lack of feminine beauty at the same time she wore breeches and practiced fencing so she could fence with him whenever he came.

Standing in the window, Mr. Gimble glowered at the shiny conveyance drawn by four sleek, prancing horses. For a man who could spare little money for his wife and daughter, George Lawrence drove a very expensive carriage and team.

"How long can you stay this time, Papa?" Alexandra said, already beginning to dread the inevitable time when he would leave again.

"Only a week. I'm off to the Landsdowne's place in Kent."

"Why must you be gone so much?" Alexandra asked, unable to hide her disappointment even though she knew he, too, hated to be away from her and her mother.

"Because I must," he said, and when she started to protest, he shook his head and reached into his pocket, extracting a small box. "Here, I've brought you a little present for your birthday, Alex."

Alexandra gazed at him with adoration and pleasure, despite the fact that her birthday had come and gone months before, without so much as a letter from him. Her aquamarine eyes were shining as she opened the box and removed a small, silver-colored locket shaped like a heart. Although it was made of tin and not particularly pretty, she held it in her palm as if it were infinitely precious. "I shall wear it every single day of my life, Papa," she whispered, then she put her arms around him in a fierce hug. "I love you so much!"

As they passed through the tiny sleepy village, the horses sent puffs of dust up into the air, and Alexandra waved at the people who saw her, eager for them to know that her wonderful, handsome papa had returned.

She needn't have bothered to call their attention to him. By evening, everyone in the village would be discussing not only his return, but the color of his coat, and a dozen other details, for the Village of Morsham was as it had been for hundreds of years—sleepy, undisturbed, forgotten in its remote valley. Its inhabitants were simple, unimaginative, hard-working folk who took immeasurable pleasure in recounting any tiny event that occurred to alleviate the endless sameness of their existence. They were still talking about the day, three months ago, when a carriage came through with a city fellow wearing a coat of not just one cape but eight. Now they would have George Lawrence's wondrous carriage and team to discuss for the next six months.

To an outsider, Morsham might seem a dull place populated by gossipy peasants, but to thirteen-year-old Alexandra, the village and its inhabitants were beautiful.

At thirteen she believed in the inherent goodness of each of God's children and she had no doubt that honesty, integrity, and cheerfulness were common to all mankind. She was gentle, gay, and incurably optimistic.