Richard rearranged his clothing in the dark study and waited until his heartbeat subsided and the heat in his cheeks had cooled. Then, reluctantly, he returned the other way to the salon where the dancing was over and people were settled round in clusters talking in low voices or playing cards.

There was no opportunity the rest of the night for him to think about what he had done. He was too busy pretending to be sociable and friendly, so as not to draw suspicion to his long absence. Had he known it, there was nothing he could have done to draw less suspicion to himself; he was so habitually brusque to even his closest friends that his sudden change of temper left everyone he talked to in deep confusion. But Lord Brocket didn't have the imagination to light upon the truth of Richard's absence, and no one else cared enough about him to wonder at it.

It wasn't until the next morning, waking in his own bed, that Richard had the solitude and peace of mind to reflect on it. He lay, staring at the ceiling, and cast his mind back over last night with shock and— he tried to squash it, but it was certainly there —pleasure. The image of Laura's flushed face and bared breast rose up before him and he blinked it away. The ghostly sensation of her heart beating against his cheek teased him, and he wiped his cheek hastily. The smell of her hair—the sound of her suppressed moans—My father would be furious if he knew.

He kicked himself hastily out of bed and went to the window, where a cool chill was echoing off the glass. Outside, it was raining, and his estate was blurred into streaks of grey and green.

Her bitten off laughter echoed in his ears, and for a moment he thought he felt the tensing of her fingers against his back. He shook himself. Pathetic. That he should be so effected by a woman whose only true desire was to defy her father. That he should be so wanton as to have done such a thing in the first place.

And the only decent thing to do now was marry her.

He watched the rain flood down in sheets and toyed with the idea. Years ago, he had seriously attempted to find himself a bride and been unsuccessful. Not even his wealth and title could convince one of the women he approved of to marry him. As years had passed, he had given up on the idea, withdrawn further into his own company. And then, unexpectedly as an earthquake, he'd fallen in love... with his younger brother's wife.

At one time (it may have been as recent as the previous evening) he had believed that this unrequited love meant that he would never marry, that there was no point. His mésalliance last night had thrown into sharp relief a certain absence in his life — an absence which could filled by others than Verity.

A pleasant daydream rose up before him, in which the empty, echoing hallways of his house were filled by a pleasant, soft voice; in which his coffee was poured by fair, gentle hands; in which he fell asleep at night to the lullaby of a woman's breathing.

My father would be furious if he knew.

The dream shattered. There would be no companionship with Laura, even if she had given him pleasure. She was not an unknown quantity on which he could build a daydream. He had known her forever. Even as a little girl, she had been bad tempered, cutting, and cruel. And now, grown woman as she was, unlikely to change, he would be scarred again and again by her vicious wit, her cynical heart, her spiteful mind.

And the only decent thing to do was marry her anyway.

For several days, Richard wrestled uneasily with his conscience on the issue. He was not an unscrupulous man. Rather, he was ruled by a set of principles so strict they could almost be called prudish. They had always forbade him from indulging in the sorts of foibles so common to the upper class gentlemen who could have anything they wanted for the taking. Now, they compelled him to make Laura an offer of marriage, which he had no doubt, in the cold light of morning, she would accept. But the more he considered marrying Laura, the more he realized how unhappy she would make him. Even that night, as she had seduced him, she had done so with words that wounded.

And, he told himself, it's not as though I'm the one who seduced...

He was accustomed, in December, to spending two or three weeks at his brother's place in Cumbria. The night before his departure, he sat alone after dinner in his dining room, sipping port. It was a large dining room, almost cavernously so, and seemed larger tonight, with the curtains shut tightly against the darkness outside, and the few candles giving such dim light that the far end of the room faded into shadows. Portraits of long-dead ancestors glowered down at him from the blood-red walls.

"Gloomy, isn't it?" Richard remarked to himself. "Needs some light. Some air. A woman's touch."

The walls did not answer back, and the portraits of his ancestors looked down sternly, as though they did not approve this levity.

"And she'd do a good job of it, too," he mused, holding his port up to the light and watching it glint. "She's clever."

A footman stepped into the room. "Did you call, my lord?"

Richard started, blushing almost the colour of his wine. "No—but wait. Tell Thomas to saddle my— no, tell him to get the curricle ready. I have urgent business with Lord Brocket."

The footman was taken aback. "But you leave for Cumbria at dawn, my lord. You won't be back from Leamont until past midnight if you leave now."

Richard was already rising, leaving his port unfinished on the table. "No matter. I can sleep in the coach. This business must be done."

Done, he thought, though he still didn't know what he was going to do about it. He only knew that he could not go off to Cumbria before he knew, and if there was one thing that would decide him, it would be talking to Laura herself.

It was past nine when he arrived and most of the house was in darkness, but Lord Brocket kept late hours and was reading the newspapers in his study when Richard was sent in. He set down The Times as Richard entered.

"Well this is a surprise."

"My Lord." Richard seated himself in an arm chair and suddenly realized that he had not thought to come up with an excuse for the visit. The truth would hardly suffice. Lord Brocket could certainly not find out about the incident in his library. "I suppose it is. I hardly knew I was coming until I was here."

"And why have you come?" Brocket stood. "Sherry?"

"Thank you." Richard waited while Brocket poured the drinks and brought one over to him. When Brocket was back behind his desk, he said, "Actually, my lord... I think we need to have a conversation."

Lord Brocket raised his eyebrows. "This sounds dire."

"A little." Richard sipped sherry, trying to play for time. Then it came to him. "I hope you'll forgive me for what you may see as interfering behaviour, but I believe... I believe I may have some information of value to you."

"About?"

"But first I must know... there are rumours you are trying to ... help your daughter find a husband?"

"What use is a woman without one?" Lord Brocket gave a thin smile. "She wounded me greatly, Richard, when she ran away with Mr Maidstone. I don't think I ever expressed my grief to you."

"It was not a matter I thought fit to speak of."

Lord Brocket put his unsipped sherry down on the desk. "No. It was a delicate time, for all of us."

Indeed, three years ago, Richard's father had first started getting sick, at a time when he was so estranged from his other son, Neil, that the burden of care had fallen almost entirely on Richard's shoulders. Lady Laura's sudden elopement with a wealthy businessman had appeared to Richard as a very distant and unimportant bit of gossip.

"She was very ungrateful, to oppose my wishes, to run away with a cit." Brocket sneered. "She did it just to spite me, did you know?"

"I did not."

"Oh yes." Brocket picked up his sherry to swirl it in the glass but still did not drink. "It was the only reason she did it. If I had approved Mr Maidstone, she would have scorned him."

"She does have a... stubborn nature." Reluctantly, Richard admitted to himself that, even if it had not been her primary motivator, Laura would have found a savage pleasure in flouting her father's rule so publicly. "But, my lord, do tell me, you wish to find her a new husband, now she is a widow?"

"Certainly." Again, Lord Brocket put his sherry down untasted. "She is my only daughter. I must see her situated well."

"It's on that matter I came here." Richard looked at the clock. "I suppose she'll still be awake. Can we call her down?"

"She is not at home," Lord Brocket said, with a regretful shrug. "And I must say, Richard, if you intend to put yourself forward, well..."

"I'm not good enough?" Richard suppressed a smile.

"She would dearly like a child," Lord Brocket said, bowing his head. "She has confessed as much. She still grieves for the one she lost."

"She lost a baby?"

"Not a year into her marriage."

Richard hadn't known that. He thought he understood now, some of the new bitterness that seemed to lie under Laura's flesh, and felt an instinctive rush of sympathy for her. But he was not naive enough to believe it was for her happiness that Brocket wanted Laura to marry. Brocket's wishes only ever served his own ends.

"That's very sad. Very sad for her. But..." Richard had an instinct. "It's not to put myself forward that I came here. The men I saw at your dinner... I believe there is a certain complaint about one of them that Laura should hear. Something perhaps only I can tell her." And that was true enough, Richard thought. It was fair to warn her of Fordham's true character. And it would give him the chance to speak to her, and understand his own feelings. "When does she return?"

But Lord Brocket shook his head. "I can't imagine until nearly dawn. And she will be out tomorrow afternoon too. Whatever you have to say, I will pass it on to her if it is important. Who is the complaint about?"

"Mr Fordham," Richard said bluntly.

Lord Brocket met Richard's eyes levelly. "Giles Fordham?"

"Indeed."

Lord Brocket's eyes narrowed slightly. "You'd best tell me what it is then."

Richard had no alternative but to go on with it. He could see Lord Brocket had no intention of letting him see Laura tonight, or telling him where she was. He always had been controlling, but Richard wondered if he could possibly suspect even part of what had really gone in the library next door. Certainly not the whole of it, or he would not be so genial now, but there was something more than the usual cynicism in his eyes.

Richard cleared his throat uneasily. "You know that he has spent the past fifteen years in India."

"Yes. I believe he has."

"Do you know why?"

Brocket paused. In the silence, the clock over the fireplace gave a loud tock. "Yes. I do."

Richard was stunned. "And you... would allow a man like that the chance to marry Laura? That sort of — evil?"

"He was young then," Brocket said calmly. "It was a mistake. He is not so careless now."

But it had not been a mistake. It had not been carelessness. It had been much worse that that. Richard stared aghast at Brocket and wondered how on earth he could be so calm.

"I am not concerned about Fordham." Brocket drunk his sherry at last, in one gulp. "If that is all you came for, then... I think you may consider her warned."

Richard wondered if Brocket would tell Laura. If Brocket even knew the whole of the sordid mess. Surely, if he did, he would not be so cavalier about it. Not even Brocket. But unless Richard could see Laura to warn her himself, there was nothing he could do about it. At least she's not likely to marry him, he thought in relief; she had been certain she did not want to marry anybody.

"Then I see I have made a long journey to little purpose," Richard said slowly. "And I apologise for bothering you."

"A welcome distraction," Lord Brocket said blandly, rising to his feet as Richard stood. "You won't stay a little longer?"

"I've a long journey tomorrow. I'll be late as is." Richard nodded at Brocket. "I thank you for the sherry. Good night."

"Good night."

Lord Brocket did not follow him out, and Richard waited for his carriage in the hall alone. While he waited, he noticed, for the first time in years, the life-size portrait of Laura hanging up on the wall over the stairs. It had been done ten years ago by a prominent London painter, when she was a debutante of seventeen. She stood in a white, high-waisted gown, with a black sash around her waist, blowing in an imaginary breeze. Her head was tilted back slightly, a smile on her lips. But it was a cold smile, and the eyes above it looked bitter. Indeed, Richard thought, it was more of a grimace. She looked bad-tempered, beautiful, and unruly.

An accurate portrait, in fact.

My father would be furious if he knew.

The suspicion that he had been used only to spite her father sharpened into sudden certainty. It cut deep. And even before then, had she not been cruel to him? What they had done was wrong. And if she had been a virgin, or if there might have been a child out of it, then he would have had no choice but to accept the consequences of it and marry her. But she had not been a virgin. There would be no child. And no one knew about it but themselves.

There didn't have to be any consequences.

He turned his back on the portrait and left, decided at last to have nothing more to do with Laura Maidstone. And the portrait watched him go, still laughing, still mocking.