nfortunately, the news of the altercation between Lillian and Lord Westcliff spread swiftly through the entire household. By early evening it had reached Mercedes Bowman’s ears, and the result was not a pretty sight. White-eyed and shrill, Mercedes paced in front of her daughter in her room.

“Perhaps it could have been overlooked, had you simply made some inappropriate remark in Lord Westcliff’s presence,” Mercedes stormed, her skinny arms thrashing in wild gesticulations. “But for you to argue with the earl himself, and then to disobey him in front of everyone—do you realize how that makes us appear? You are not only ruining your own chances of marriage, but your sister’s chances as well! Who would wish to marry into a family that must claim a …a philistine as one of their own?”

Feeling a stirring of shame, Lillian cast an apologetic glance at Daisy, who sat in the corner. Daisy shook her head slightly in reassurance.

“If you insist on behaving like a savage creature,” Mercedes continued, “then I will be forced to take harsh measures, Lillian Odelle!”

Lillian sank lower on the settee at the sound of her hated middle name, the use of which always heralded some dire punishment.

“For the next week, you will not venture out of this room unless you are in my company,” Mercedes said grimly. “I will monitor every action, every gesture, and every word that issues from your mouth, until I am convinced that you can be trusted to behave like a reasonable human being. It will be a shared punishment, for I find as little pleasure in your company as you find in mine. But I see no other alternative. And if you offer one word of protest, I shall double your punishment and make it a fortnight! During the times that you are not under my supervision, you will remain in this room, reading or meditating on your ill-advised conduct. Do you understand me, Lillian?”

“Yes, Mother.” The prospect of being watched so closely for a week made Lillian feel like a caged animal. Repressing a howl of protest, she gazed mutinously at the flower-patterned carpet.

“The first thing you will do tonight,” Mercedes continued, her eyes flashing in her narrow white face, “is apologize to Lord Westcliff for the trouble you caused earlier today. You will do it in my presence, so that I—”

“Oh no.” Lillian sat up straight, glaring at her mother in open rebellion. “No. There is nothing that you or anyone can do to make me apologize to him. I’ll die first.”

“You will do as I say.” Mercedes’s voice lowered to a near growl. “You will apologize to the earl with abject humility, or you will not leave this room once for the rest of our stay here!”

As Lillian opened her mouth, Daisy interrupted hastily. “Mother, may I speak to Lillian privately, please? Just for a moment. Please.”

Mercedes stared hard from one daughter to the other, shook her head as if wondering why she had been cursed with such unmanageable children, and strode from the room.

“She’s truly angry this time,” Daisy murmured in the dangerous silence that lingered in her wake. “I’ve never seen Mother in such a state. You may have to do as she asks.”

Lillian stared at her in impotent fury. “I will not apologize to that superior ass!”

“Lilian, it would cost you nothing. Just say the words. You don’t have to mean them. Just say, ‘Lord Westcliff, I—’ ”

“I will not,” Lillian repeated stonily. “And it would cost something—my pride.”

“Is it worth being locked in this room, and having to miss all the soirees and suppers that everyone else will be enjoying? Please don’t be stubborn! Lillian, I promise, I will help you think up some dreadful revenge on Lord Westcliff …something really evil. Just do what Mother wants for now—you may lose the battle, but you’ll win the war. Besides…” Daisy searched desperately for another argument to sway her. “Besides, nothing would please Lord Westcliff more than for you to be locked away for the entire visit. You would be powerless to annoy or torment him. Out of sight, out of mind. Don’t give him that satisfaction, Lillian!”

It was perhaps the only argument that had the power to influence her. Frowning, Lillian stared at her sister’s small ivory face, with its intelligent dark eyes and brows that were a shade too strongly marked. Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that the person most willing to join her reckless adventures was also the one who could most easily recall her to reason. Many people were often deceived by Daisy’s frequent moments of whimsy, never suspecting the bedrock of ruthless common sense beneath the elfin facade.

“I’ll do it,” she said stiffly. “Though I’ll probably choke on the words.”

Daisy let out a huge sigh of relief. “I’ll act as your intermediary. I’ll tell Mother that you’ve agreed, and that she mustn’t lecture you any further, or you might change your mind.”

Lillian slumped on the settee, envisioning Westcliff’s smug satisfaction when she was forced to deliver her apology. Damnation, it would be unbearable. Seething with animosity, she entertained herself by planning a series of complicated revenges against Westcliff, ending with the vision of him begging for mercy.

An hour later, the Bowman family proceeded from their room as one unit, led by Thomas Bowman. Their eventual destination was the dining hall, where another bombastic four-hour supper would be held. Having been recently apprised of his eldest daughter’s shameful behavior, Thomas was in a state of barely contained fury, his mustache bristling above his set mouth.

Dressed in a pale lavender silk gown trimmed with spills of white lace at the bodice and short puffed sleeves, Lillian walked resolutely behind her parents, while her father’s wrathful words floated back to her.

“The moment you become a handicap to a potential business deal is the moment that I send you packing for New York. So far this husband-hunting sojourn in England has proved to be expensive and unproductive. I warn you, daughter, if your actions have disrupted my negotiations with the earl—”

“I’m sure they haven’t,” Mercedes interrupted frantically, as her dreams of attaining a titled son-in-law wobbled like a teacup poised on the edge of a table. “Lillian will apologize to Lord Westcliff, dear, and that will set everything to rights. You will see.” Falling a half step behind him, she glanced over her shoulder to level a threatening glare at her elder daughter.

Part of Lillian felt like curling up into a ball of remorse, while the other part wanted to explode with resentment. Naturally her father would take exception to anyone and anything that threatened to interfere with his business… otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less about her actions. All he had ever wanted of his daughters was for them to keep from bothering him. Had it not been for her three brothers, Lillian would have never known what it was like to receive even negligible crumbs of male attention.

“To ensure that you have the opportunity to properly ask the earl’s pardon,” Thomas Bowman said, pausing to glance at Lillian with hard, stone-colored eyes, “I have requested his indulgence in meeting us in the library before dinner. You will apologize to him then— both to my satisfaction and to his.”

Coming to a dead halt, Lillian stared at him with wide eyes. Her resentment built in a hot, choking mass as she wondered if Westcliff had arranged this scenario as a lesson in humiliation. “Does he know why you’ve asked to meet him there?” she managed to ask.

“No. Nor do I believe that he expects an apology from one of my notoriously ill-mannered daughters. However, if you do not deliver a satisfactory one, you will soon take your last glance of England from the deck of a steamer bound from New York.”

Lillian was not fool enough to discount her father’s words as an idle threat. His tone was utterly convincing in its grim imperative. And the thought of being forced to leave England, and worse, to be separated from Daisy…

“Yes, sir,” she said, her jaw clenched.

The family proceeded along the hallway in strained silence.

As Lilly stewed, she felt her sister’s small hand slip into hers. “It means nothing,” Daisy whispered. “Just say it quickly and be done with—”

“Silence!” their father barked, and their hands fell apart.

Glumly preoccupied with her thoughts, Lillian took little notice of her surroundings as she accompanied her family to the library. The door had been left ajar, and her father gave the portal a single decisive rap before shepherding his wife and daughters into the room. It was a handsome library with a twenty-foot-high ceiling, movable staircases, and upper and lower galleries that contained acres of books. The scents of leather, vellum, and freshly waxed wood made the air richly pungent.

Lord Westcliff, who had been leaning over his desk with his hands braced on the age-worn surface, looked up from a sheaf of paperwork. He straightened, his black eyes narrowing as he saw Lillian. Dark, austere, and impeccably dressed, he was the perfect picture of an English aristocrat, with a perfectly knotted cravat and thick hair that had been ruthlessly brushed back from his forehead. It was suddenly impossible to reconcile the man who stood before her with the playful, unshaven brute who had let her knock him over on the rounders diamond behind the stable yard.

Ushering his wife and daughters into the room, Thomas Bowman spoke brusquely. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, my lord. I promise this won’t take long.”

“Mr. Bowman,” Westcliff acknowledged in a low voice. “I did not anticipate the privilege of meeting with your family as well.”

“I am afraid that the word ‘privilege’ is overstating the case,” Thomas said sourly. “It seems that one of my daughters has behaved badly in your presence. She wishes to express her regret.” He pushed his knuckles into the center of Lillian’s back, prodding her toward the earl. “Go on.”

A frown furrowed Westcliff’s brow. “Mr. Bowman, it is not necessary—”

“You will allow my daughter to speak her piece,” Thomas said, jabbing Lillian forward.

The atmosphere in the library was silent but volatile as Lillian lifted her gaze to Westcliff’s. His frown had deepened, and with a spark of insight she understood that he did not want an apology from her. Not this way, with her father forcing her to do it in such a humiliating manner. Somehow that made it easier for her to apologize.

Swallowing hard, she stared directly into his fathomless dark eyes, the light picking out filaments of intense sable in the irises. “I am sorry about what happened, my lord. You have been a generous host, and you deserve far more respect than I showed you this morning. I should not have challenged your decision at the jumping course, nor should I have spoken to you as I did. I hope that you will accept my regrets, and know that they are sincere.”

“No,” he said softly.

Lillian blinked in confusion, thinking at first that he had rejected her apology.

“It is for me to apologize, Miss Bowman, not you,” Westcliff continued. “Your spirited actions were provoked by a moment of high-handedness on my part. I cannot blame you for responding in such a way to my arrogance.”

Lillian struggled to hide her astonishment, but it wasn’t easy when Westcliff had just done the exact opposite of what she had expected. He had been given the perfect opportunity to quash her pride—and he had chosen not to. She could not understand it. What kind of game was he playing?

His gaze moved gently over her bewildered features. “Though I expressed it badly this morning,” he murmured, “my concern for your safety was genuine. Hence the reason for my anger.”

Staring at him, Lillian felt the ball of resentment that had lodged in her chest begin to dissolve. How nice he was being! And it didn’t seem as if he was playing a part, either. He seemed genuinely kind and sympathetic. A sense of relief stole over her, and she was able to take a deep breath for the first time all day. “That wasn’t the only reason for your anger,” she said. “You also don’t like to be disobeyed.”

Westcliff laughed huskily. “No,” he admitted with a slow smile, “I don’t.” The smile transformed the stern contours of his face, banishing his natural reserve and imparting an appeal that was a thousand times more potent than mere handsomeness. Lillian felt an odd, pleasant little chill chase over her skin.

“Now will I be allowed to ride your horses again?” she dared to ask.

“Lillian!” she heard her mother scold.

Westcliff’s eyes glittered with amusement, as if he relished her audacity. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Caught in the velvet snare of his gaze, Lillian became aware that their perpetual discord had changed into a kind of friendly challenge…tempered with something that felt almost …erotic. Good God. A few amiable words from Westcliff, and she was close to making a fool of herself.

Seeing that they had made peace, Mercedes bubbled over with enthusiasm. “Oh, dear Lord Westcliff, what a magnanimous gentleman you are! And you were not high-handed in the least—you were clearly moved by concern for my willful little angel, which is yet more proof of your infinite benevolence.”

The earl’s smile became sardonic as he slid a speculative gaze over Lillian, as if considering whether the phrase “willful little angel” was an apt description. Offering Mercedes his arm, he asked blandly, “May I escort you to the dining hall, Mrs. Bowman?”

Euphoric at the idea that everyone would see her being accompanied by Lord Westcliff himself, Mercedes accepted with a sigh of pleasure. As they undertook the journey from the study to the parlor where the dinner procession would be arranged, Mercedes launched into an excruciatingly prolonged discourse about her impressions of Hampshire, throwing in several little criticisms that were meant to be witty, but caused Lillian and Daisy to glance at each other in mute despair. Lord Westcliff received Mercedes’s crass observations with careful politeness, the polish of his manners making hers appear even worse by contrast. And for the first time in Lillian’s life, it occurred to her that perhaps her deliberate flouting of etiquette was not quite as clever as she had previously thought. Certainly she had no wish to become stuffy and reserved …but at the same time, it might not be such a bad thing to conduct herself with a bit more dignity.

No doubt Lord Westcliff was infinitely relieved to part company with the Bowmans when they arrived at the parlor, but he did not reveal it by word or gesture. Impassively wishing them a pleasant evening, he took his leave with a slight bow and made to join a group that included his sister Lady Olivia and her husband, Mr. Shaw.

Turning to Lillian, Daisy regarded her with wide eyes. “Why was Lord Westcliff so nice to you?” she whispered. “And why on earth did he offer Mother his arm, and escort us all the way here, and listen to her endless babbling?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Lillian whispered back. “But clearly he has a high tolerance for pain.”

Simon Hunt and Annabelle joined the group on the other side of the room. Absently smoothing the waist of her silvery-blue gown, Annabelle glanced over the crowd, caught Lillian’s gaze, and made a distressed face. Obviously she had heard about the confrontation at the jumping course. I’m sorry, Annabelle mouthed. She seemed relieved as Lillian nodded in reassurance and sent her the silent message, It’s all right.

Eventually they all proceeded into the dining hall, the Bowmans and the Hunts being among the last in line, as they were of very low rank. “Money always brings up the rear,” Lillian heard her father say cryptically, and she guessed that he had little patience for the rules of precedence that were always so clearly defined on these occasions. It struck Lillian that on the occasions when the countess was absent, Lord Westcliff and his sister Lady Olivia tended to arrange things far less formally, encouraging the guests to enter the dining hall naturally instead of in a procession. With the countess attending, however, it appeared there would be strict adherence to tradition.

It seemed there were nearly as many footmen as there were guests, all of them clad in full dress livery of black plush breeches, a mustard-colored waistcoat, and a blue pigeon-tailed coat. They seated the guests deftly and poured wine and water without spilling a drop.

To Lillian’s surprise, she had been seated near the head of Lord Westcliff’s table, only three places away from his right hand. Occupying a place so close to the host was a mark of high favor, very seldom given to an unmarried girl with no rank. Wondering if the footman had make a mistake in seating her there, she glanced cautiously at the faces of those guests nearest her, and saw that they too were puzzled by her presence. Even the countess, who was being seated at the very end of the table, stared at her with a frown.

Lillian gave Lord Westcliff a questioning glance as he took his place at the head of the table.

One of his dark brows arched. “Is something amiss? You seem a bit perturbed, Miss Bowman.”

The correct response would probably have been to blush and thank him for the unexpected honor. But as Lillian stared at his face, which was softened by the influence of candleglow, she found herself answering with brazen frankness. “I am wondering why I am sitting near the head of the table. In light of what happened this morning, I assumed you would have me seated all the way out on the back terrace.”

There was a moment of utter silence as the guests around them registered shock that Lillian would so openly refer to the conflict between them. However, Westcliff astonished them all by laughing quietly, his gaze locked with hers. After a moment, the others joined in with forced chuckles.

“Knowing of your penchant for trouble, Miss Bowman, I have concluded that it is safer to keep you in my sight, and within arm’s reach if possible.”

His statement was delivered with matter-of-fact lightness. One would have to search very hard to find any innuendo in his tone. And yet Lillian felt a strange liquid ripple inside, sensation passing from one nerve to another like a flow of warm honey.

Lifting a glass of iced champagne to her lips, Lillian glanced around the dining hall. Daisy had been seated near the end of the table, talking animatedly and nearly knocking over a wine goblet as she gestured to emphasize her words. Annabelle was at the next table, seeming oblivious to the multitude of admiring masculine stares fastened on her. The men on either side of her were positively beaming at their good fortune at being seated next to such a ravishing companion, while Simon Hunt, located a few places away, regarded them with the baleful gaze of a very territorial male.

Evie, her aunt Florence, and Lillian’s parents were included with the guests at the farthest table. As usual, Evie was saying very little to the men beside her, tongue-tied and nervous as she stared down at her plate. Poor Evie, Lillian thought sympathetically. We’ll have to do something about your blasted shyness.

Reflecting on the subject of her unmarried brothers, Lillian wondered if there was any possibility of matching one of them with Evie. Perhaps she could find a way to induce one of them to come to England for a visit. God knew that any of them would be a better husband for Evie than her cousin Eustace. There was her oldest brother, Raphael, and the twins, Ransom and Rhys. A more robust group of young males could not be found. On the other hand, it seemed likely that any of the Bowman brothers would terrify Evie. They were good-natured men, but not what anyone would call refined. Or even civilized.

Her attention was diverted by the long line of footmen bringing in the first course; a parade of tureens filled with turtle soup, and silver platters bearing turbot dressed in lobster sauce, crawfish pudding, and herbed trout with stewed lettuce. It was the first of at least eight courses, which would be followed by several removes of dessert. Facing the prospect of yet another lengthy dinner, Lillian repressed a sigh and looked up to find West-cliff’s subtly searching gaze on her. He said nothing, however, and Lillian found herself breaking the silence.

“Your hunter Brutus seems a very fine horse, my lord. I noticed that you used no whip or spurs with him.”

The conversation around them faded, and Lillian wondered if she had made yet another faux pas. Perhaps an unmarried girl wasn’t supposed to speak until someone addressed her directly. However, Westcliff answered readily. “I rarely use a whip or spurs with any of my stock, Miss Bowman. Usually I am able to obtain the results I want without them.”

Lillian thought wryly that like everyone and everything else on the estate, the bay probably hadn’t a thought of disobeying his master. “He seems to have a steadier temperament than the usual thoroughbred,” she said.

Westcliff leaned back in his chair as a footman served a portion of trout onto his plate. The flickering light played over the close-trimmed layers of his black hair… Lillian couldn’t help but remember the feel of the heavy locks beneath her fingers.

“Brutus is a crossbred, actually. A mixture of thoroughbred and Irish draft.”

“Really?” Lillian made no effort to conceal her surprise. “I would have thought you would ride only horses with pure pedigrees.”

“Many prefer purebreds,” the earl admitted. “But a hunter needs strong jumping ability, and the power to change direction easily. A crossbred like Brutus has all the speed and style of a thoroughbred, combined with the athletic prowess of an Irish draft.”

The others at the table listened attentively. As Westcliff finished, a gentleman added jovially, “Superb animal, Brutus. Descendant of Eclipse, isn’t he? One can always see the influence of the Darley Arabian…”

“It’s very open-minded of you to ride a crossbred,” Lillian murmured.

Westcliff smiled slightly. “I can be open-minded, on occasion.”

“So I’ve heard…but I’ve never seen evidence of it until now.”

Again, conversation stopped as the guests heard Lillian’s provoking comments. Instead of becoming annoyed, Westcliff stared at her with unconcealed interest. Whether the interest was that of a man who found her attractive, or one who merely considered her an oddity of nature was difficult to determine. But it was interest.

“I’ve always tried to approach things in a logical manner,” he said. “Which leads to the occasional break with tradition.”

Lillian gave him a mocking grin. “You don’t always find traditional ideas to be logical?”

Westcliff shook his head slightly, the gleam in his eyes growing brighter as he drank from a wineglass and watched her over the light-tricked crystal rim.

Another gentleman made some joking remark about curing Westcliff of his liberal views while the next course was brought out. The succession of curious bulky objects on silver platters was greeted with much fanfare and pleasure. There were four of them per table, twelve in all, set at measured intervals on small folding side tables, where under-butlers and head footmen proceeded to carve the offerings. The scent of spiced beef filled the air, while guests viewed the contents of the platters with murmurs of anticipation. Twisting a little in her seat, Lillian glanced at the platter nearest her, which was poised on a side table. She nearly recoiled in horror as she found herself looking into the charred features of an unrecognizable beast, with steam rising from its freshly baked skull.

Jerking in surprise, she heard the resultant clatter of silverware. A footman addressed her clumsiness immediately, laying out clean forks and spoons, and bending to retrieve the fallen utensils.

“Wh-what is that?” Lillian asked of no one in particular, unable to tear her gaze from the revolting sight.

“A calf’s head,” one of the ladies replied in a tone laden with condescending amusement, as if this was yet one more example of American backwardness. “A superior English delicacy. Don’t say that you’ve never tried it?”

Struggling to make her face expressionless, Lillian shook her head wordlessly. She flinched as the footman pried open the calf’s smoking jaws and sliced out the tongue.

“Some claim the tongue is the most delicious part,” the lady continued, “while others swear that the brains are by far the most delectable. I will say, however, that without a doubt the eyes are the most exquisite tidbits.”

Lillian’s own eyes closed sickly at this revelation. She felt the rising sting of bile in her throat. She had never been an enthusiast for English cuisine, but as objectionable as she had found some dishes in the past, nothing had ever prepared her for the repulsive sight of the calf’s head. Slitting her eyes open, she glanced around the room. It seemed that everywhere, calves’ heads were being carved, opened and sliced. Brains were spooned out onto plates, throat sweetbreads were cut into thin slices…

She was going to be ill.

Feeling the blood drain from her face, Lillian looked toward the end of the table, where Daisy dubiously watched a few morsels being ceremoniously deposited on her plate. Slowly Lillian raised a corner of her napkin to her mouth. No. She couldn’t let herself be ill. But the rich, oily smell of calf’s head floated all around her, and as she heard the industrious clink of knives and forks being employed, and the appreciative murmuring of the diners, the sickness rose in choking waves. A small plate was settled in front of her, containing a few slices of… something …and a gelatinous eyeball with a conical base rolled lazily toward the rim.

“Sweet Jesus,” Lillian whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead.

A cool, calm voice seemed to cut through the cloud of nausea. “Miss Bowman…”

Desperately looking in the direction of the voice, she saw Lord Westcliff’s impassive face. “Yes, my lord?” she asked thickly.

He seemed to choose his words with unusual care. “Forgive what may seem a somewhat eccentric request …but it occurs to me that now is the most opportune time to view a rare species of butterfly that abides on the estate. It comes out only at early evening, which is, of course, a departure from the usual pattern. You may recall my having mentioned it during a previous conversation.”

“Butterfly?” Lillian repeated, swallowing repeatedly against a surge of nausea.

“Perhaps you might allow me to show you and your sister to the outdoor conservatory, where new hatchings have recently been sighted. To my regret, it would necessitate that we abstain from this particular remove, but we will return in time for you to enjoy the rest of the supper.”

Several guests paused with their forks in mid-air, their expressions registering astonishment at Westcliff’s peculiar request.

Realizing that he was giving her an excuse to leave the dining hall, with her sister accompanying them for propriety’s sake, Lillian nodded. “Butterflies,” she repeated breathlessly. “Yes, I would love to see them.”

“So would I,” came Daisy’s voice from the other end of the table. She stood with alacrity, obliging all the gentlemen to courteously hoist themselves up from their chairs. “How considerate of you to remember our interest in the native insects of Hampshire, my lord.”

Westcliff came to help Lillian from her chair. “Breathe through your mouth,” he whispered. White-faced and sweating, she obeyed.

All gazes were upon them. “My lord,” one of the gentlemen, Lord Wymark, said, “may I ask which rare species of butterfly you are referring to?”

There was a slight hesitation, and then Westcliff replied with grave deliberation. “The purple-spotted…” He paused before finishing, “…dingy-dipper.”

Wymark frowned. “I fancy myself something of a lepidopterist, my lord. And while I know of the dingy-skipper, which is found only in Northumberland, I have never heard of the dingy-dipper.”

There was a measured pause. “It’s a hybrid,” West-cliff said. “Morpho purpureus practicus. To my knowledge it has been observed only in the environs of Stony Cross.”

“I should like to go have a glance at the colony with you if I may,” Wymark said, setting his napkin on the table in preparation to rise. “The discovery of a new hybrid is always a remarkable—”

“Tomorrow evening,” Westcliff said authoritatively. “The dingy-dippers are sensitive to the presence of humans. I would not wish to endanger such a fragile species. I think it best to visit them in small groups of two or three.”

“Yes, my lord,” Wymark said, obviously disgruntled as he settled back in his chair. “Tomorrow evening, then.”

Gratefully Lillian took Westcliff’s arm, while Daisy took the other, and they left the room with great dignity.