The attic window looked out over the side of the house, so Laura could not see the carriage arrive or leave, but she heard it, and wondered who it was who called so late on a night when her father was not entertaining.

Curiously, futilely, she opened the window and peered out over the short drop of slate tiled roof. It was dark outside, but the moon had appeared through the thinning clouds and cast a faint, grim light over the garden below. There was not much of it: a bleak square of mud enclosed by a brick wall and black pines, and just beyond, the tip of the stable roof, damp and gleaming with rain. From around the corner of the house, the sounds of the carriage and horses faded slowly away.

Laura sighed and shut the window but the view within the narrow, whitewashed room was little better. The narrow wooden bed against the wall took up most of the space. Crammed between the bed and the wall were a rickety wash-stand, a small square table, and a chair. On the table lay the tray of her half-eaten supper, and on the wash stand a jug of water and an empty china bowl. Beneath her feet, a strip of oil-cloth made a slatternly attempt to cover the splintering floorboards in front of the door. But other than those scant articles, and Laura, the room was completely empty.

The boredom was the worst part of it. For six days now, she had had nothing to do but sit on the bed, or in the chair, or at the window. Meals were a luxury, not for the food, but for the diversion. Thrice a day, for a minute or more, she got to see the face of another living human being, to speak a word or two, and be spoken to.

And once a day, her father opened the door, sneered in, and asked her if she was ready to come out yet.

If he hadn't given her a choice, she would have bullied the stupid maid servants to let her escape and fled his house. But he had given her a choice: attend his dinners and have her freedom, or attend nothing and be locked in the attic. It was slighter punishment than she had expected, on seeing him the morning after she had slapped him and fled the house — but she understood why soon enough. It was no choice at all really, for there was no freedom in marriage, and marriage was what his dinners and balls and soirees would lead to. Her only true choice was of where she would like her imprisonment to be: a father's cold attic, or a husband's cold mercy.

She preferred the attic.

There was a heavy footstep in the hall outside and then the sound of the key in the lock, and the door opened. Laura turned her head dispassionately. The maid had come to collect the supper tray. In the doorway behind her stood Lord Brocket. Laura wondered why he had come; he had already visited her once today.

The maid ducked into the room and snatched up the tray, so hastily she almost spilled the wine.

"Careless!" Laura said chidingly. "Now don't take that away. I'm still going to drink it."

She slipped off the window sill and seized the carafe and wine glass. She was not normally overfond of drink, but she knew how her father hated a drunk woman. And besides, there was nothing else to do in here.

"Yes, my lady, sorry, my lady," the maid muttered, bowing her head. She backed out of the room, carrying the tray with the remains of a poussin, winter greens, bread, and baked chestnuts. They weren't starving her; she'd have a hard time finding a husband with hollow cheeks and bony shoulders. Laura met her father's eyes and poured herself a generous glass of wine.

"I'd wish you good evening but in truth I hope it's terrible," she said cheerfully.

"It was not superb," her father said drily. He remained in the doorway, planted squarely on his two feet. "How long will you persist in this stubbornness?"

"I have made my decision, Father. I will not remarry."

"Hmph."

But her father didn't leave. He stood there, watching her drink. She let the wine trickle down her throat and felt its buzz rush over her. She never had been a heavy drinker, and the wine was strong.

She had just taken another sip when her father spoke again:

"Lord Albroke paid a call."

She swallowed without tasting. A strange fear pulsed through her, and she stared at the wine glass to avoid meeting her father's eyes. She was sure her secret was suddenly written naked on her face for the reading.

"He asked about you."

She drank more wine, her head spinning slightly. Had Richard given it away? But no, he was too much a gentleman to kiss and tell. And if she lost her composure now, her father might begin to suspect something. She looked up, forcing a smile to her face.

"And what did you tell him?" she asked.

"That you were out." Her father narrowed his eyes. "I'm not a fool. It was you he came to see. Asked about you the night of the dinner too. I've an idea he thinks of marrying you."

"And that displeases you?" Laura drained the glass with a grimace. She didn't want to marry Richard any more than she wanted to marry anyone else.

"It's not to my plan."

"I'm surprised." She looked at her father out of the corner of her eyes. "He outranks you by five degrees, father, and if he's not as wealthy as you, he's certainly wealthier than... whose ball did I not attend last night? Lord Denbury's?"

"Sir Frederick's."

"And why is Richard Armiger — sorry, Lord Albroke — less worthy than Sir Frederick? I can't fathom your reasoning."

She knew, of course. She was her father's only child, and he wanted his line to continue through her. He would never allow her to marry a man who could not have children.

"I've known him all his life," her father said crossly, "and I think you can do better."

"Alone is better. But Sir Frederick most certainly is not. What is wrong with Lord Armiger?" She played with her wine glass. "I imagine it must be something dreadful, if he's worse than Sir Frederick. I've heard Sir Frederick strangles his mistresses."

Her father's eyes went cold and ugly. She knew he didn't like her talking of such things.

"Sir Frederick keeps his peccadilloes out of sight."

"Which is all very well and good, if you've got them. But I'm quite sure Lord Albroke doesn't." Laura reached for the carafe again to pour herself another glass of wine. "Well. Bring him up and let him propose. I'll enjoy refusing him."

"I've no intention of letting him near you. That family is going to the dogs. They were once a worthwhile connection, but no more." Her father sneered. "Have you met the woman Neil married? A complete nobody! A love match, Albroke called it. I don't think he knows the meaning of the word!"

Laura wondered what her father's definition was, but didn't ask. Either way, the interview seemed to be over. Her father seemed satisfied with her reaction to the news. If he had any suspicions, they were of Richard, not her. He left, locking the door behind him once more.

When Laura finished her meal, she lay on the bed and thought it over. So Richard had called. Had wanted to see her. Did she want to see him?

She shut her eyes and imagined the heat and urgency of his lips pressed against hers. She trailed a finger over her lips, trying to evoke the sensation. Useless, of course.

And if he had seen her tonight, if they had had a moment alone together...

Her heartbeat quickened. It had been good. From the first kiss, to the moment after, when he lay in her arms with the warmth and heaviness of his body pressing down comfortably upon her. Good until she had stupidly said those words. And she knew what she'd do when she saw him again.

Her eyes flew open and she stared at the ceiling.

But she wouldn't see him again. She would not leave the attic.

She continued to believe it for another eight days. Hour by hour, day by day, she grew more and more frustrated with her confinement. When she was alone, she cast herself into fantasies, drifting from one impossible waking dream to another. But their currents could never keep her submerged long, and she would always surface to find herself staring at the white-washed ceiling and hating it.

When the servants came to bring her meals, she would endeavour to trap them in conversation. As they were servants, and as she had never had the sort of manner that could break down the differences between them, they said very little more than their duties required, and left her lonelier still.

One night, she sat on the windowsill under the light of the full moon and listened to the chatter and noise swelling out from the dining room below. It was a dry, chill night, and she shivered, even wrapped in the blanket from the bed, but she kept the window open anyway, stayed at her place beside it. Her boredom had coalesced into a dull, throbbing anger, but tonight the dullness sharpened. She hated everybody in the dining room below, every servant, every guest, and certainly her father. Hated them for laughing and talking when she could do nothing but sit and listen to the blur of sound their voices made. Hated them for making her want to listen.

Below, a woman gave a shrill, ringing laugh and Laura's hands tightened into fists. She momentarily lost her balance on the sill and swayed forward over the ridge of tiles. Beneath her, the black hard earth gleamed grey under the moon. Her hands met the sill again, and clutched tightly.

If I fell, she thought distantly, I'd probably die.

If I jumped...

She took in a cold, careful breath of air and tasted it. She had no real wish to die. Life had not been kind to her, not always, but she had no wish to quit it, and certainly not in a painful manner. It was only the thought of her father's face, his guests screams, as her body hurtled past the dining room window, that made her dwell a moment on the thought, filled with a savage glee.

It was not a serious consideration. It was but another pleasant daydream. But it kept her occupied, shivering in the cold, until at last she emerged from it and realized the chatter had grown silent. The guests must have adjourned to the drawing room on the other side of the house.

She wondered if Richard was there or if her father's suspicion of him would have kept him from issuing the invitation. Richard might be too useful for her father to avoid him. He was an earl. He had connections, and wealth, and power. If her father thought she wasn't coming to dinner, he might have risked asking Richard. And if Richard had received an invitation, he would likely have come, for the chance of seeing her again.

And he would want to see her again, she decided. She had no doubt of her own beauty and its effect upon men. Probably, she thought, Richard would be below now. Perhaps in the library, hoping, waiting.

That was another pleasant daydream, broken shortly by the door opening and a maidservant peeping through. She had come for Laura's supper tray.

"Excuse me, m'lady."

In a flash, as the door opened, a strange conviction came to Laura that Richard must be in the library downstairs. She slipped down from the windowsill and crossed the room in two strides.

"Oh, m'lady, no!" The maid trotted after her. "It's not allowed!"

"Go about your business," ordered Laura. "Go on. Don't follow me."

The maid stopped still, wringing her hands at the top of the attic stairs. "But the master said... But... my lady..."

Laura ignored her and trotted quickly down the backstairs to the service passage near her father's study. Piano music and off-key singing floated distantly through from the drawing room. She ignored it, slipping into her father's study, and made her way across the room in darkness. There was a glow coming from the crack under the door. Someone was in the library. Her heartbeat quickened. She put her hand to the doorknob.

And then she heard voices from the other side. She froze.

"Do you think something's wrong with her?" Laura did not recognize the voice, clear, cold, and rather high-pitched but definitely masculine.

"Wasn't there always?" Laura recognized Sir Frederick's throaty chuckle.

"I wouldn't know. I've never met her." There was a pause, and then two or three faint, hollow sounds. "I've heard she's a real bitch, but bitches can be tamed. It's her health I'm thinking of. Feels like Brocket's hiding something."

Laura waited behind the door, her heart pounding in her chest. Two of the men her father wanted her to marry were behind the door — and the way they spoke of her! Her cheeks burned with indignation.

"Brocket's a crafty type," Sir Frederick said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't trust him an inch. And he hasn't let her be seen in months." There was another pause, and another hollow, soft clap, which Laura recognized now as a cue striking a billiard ball. It must have gone in, for Sir Frederick continued, "It's been a year since Maidstone died. Perhaps there's a baby coming too late to be his. She always was a damned flirt."

Laura tightened her grip on the door and considered opening it, but a moment's thought convinced her that it was better to stay and listen — as long as the men would keep talking.

"That can be tamed out of a woman too," the first voice said coolly. "But he wouldn't be pressing us to marry her if there was a bastard on the way. Whatever it is, it must be something else. Syphilis, perhaps. Damn. Your turn."

There was a pause, and again the sound of billiards.

"Are you really interested in marrying her?" Sir Frederick asked.

"I doubt it. I can have any woman I want for the choosing. Why should I choose a sickly, aging widow?" More billiards. "What about you?"

"I don't mind if she's a widow, even a sickly one," Sir Frederick said. "I need money, and Brocket's got it. Five points. If I get this one in hole it's a match." The cue banged, and Sir Frederick swore under his breath. "Not that Miss Prim would ever accept me."

"And if I get this one, it's my match," the other man said.

There was a pause in the conversation for some seconds, and this time Laura didn't hear the bang of the cue, but knew it had happened when Sir Frederick swore again.

"Thank god we didn't bet on it," he said miserably. "And I used to think I was good at this."

"I've told you," the other man said, "gambling's a vile habit. If you stopped it, you wouldn't need Brocket's money."

"If I stopped it, I wouldn't have any money," Sir Frederick complained. "Well. I'm not up for another. Let's go back to the ladies. That stupid girl has stopped her caterwauling now."

There came the sound of footsteps, and then a door opening and closing. Laura stepped softly away from the library door. Her fingers were shaking.

As long as they don't see me, they'll say whatever they want, she thought, sinking down upon a chair. Her father couldn't know what people were saying about her, or he would have forced her into company somehow. If her reputation was truly tarnished — and it had never been snow white to begin with — then all his plans for her marriage would be dust. But who would dare tell him what people were saying about her? No one. Not until it was far too late for the damage to be undone.

And could she bear her reputation to be so sullied? Even to spite her father? There had been enough gossip when she had been married to Maidstone. The irony of his irrational jealousy had been that it caused people to whisper that there must be some truth to his fears. And she had never liked it. Never liked walking into a crowded room and seeing a chorus of raised brows and sidelong looks. Never liked being alone and imagining what people might be saying about her.

The library door opened suddenly, spilling soft candlelight into the study. Laura started to her feet, but it was only her father with the servant maid behind him.

"What are you doing here?" her father demanded, squinting into the dark. "Why did you leave the attic?"

"I felt like it." Laura glared at him. "Are your guests still here?"

"Yes. And I've been forced to abandon them to look for you. Get back to your room."

"No."

She slipped past him into the library, where there was a mirror over the fireplace. Her dress was decent enough, even if she had been sleeping in it for two nights, because it was crepe and didn't show the wrinkles. But her hair was in an untidy braid down her back. She twisted it up into a knot, smoothing back stray hairs, and seized a quill from the desk and threaded it in to hold her hair in place. Her father watched her, his eyes narrow.

"Then you have given up at last?" he asked.

"I never give up." She stuck another quill in her hair, and hid the tip of the goose feather under a curl. "There. Quite decent. I've simply changed my mind."

"You will marry."

She would not do that. Could not. She met his eyes in the mirror as she checked her appearance for the last time.

"I'll go where you please and talk to who you want," she said, "but I won't promise you that anyone will want to marry me." She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "I'm an ageing, sickly widow, don't you see?"