Most of the important families of the district surrounding Leamont were home for the winter, to rest and recuperate from their adventures in Brighton or London or Paris. The first week of her reluctant reentry into society, Laura went to four dinners, a ball, and two afternoon teas. Smiling and listening to people talk wearied her, and she was painfully conscious of the curiosity in people's sidelong glances at her. A natural curiosity perhaps, as it was the first time in three years that she had seen most of her acquaintances, but an uncomfortable curiosity all the same.

The only person she truly wished to see again was Richard. She knew he was absent through December, knew her father was avoiding his company, but their social circle was so small that, sooner or later, they must meet. And what then?

She tantalized herself by imagining what might happen next time she saw him. It was a particular joy to her, when pretending to listen to one of her suitors, to bend her thoughts instead towards Richard and that night in the library. She could not know how those thoughts made her smile, how much encouragement her unwanted suitors mistakenly took from those smiles, and she was surprised by how warmly Lord Denbury and Lord Yardly received her aloofness.

To Sir Frederick, she was downright cruel. She could not forget that he had called her 'Miss Prim'. The first time she saw him face to face, she took pleasure in assuring him she did not recognize him now he had grown so old and fat. By the end of the week, he dared not go within earshot of her. Her only regret was that she still did not know the identity of the other man who had been in the library with him, and could not bully that man too.

It was almost February when at last Laura saw Richard again and learned the identity of the other man in the library. Lady Harriet Hunstall was holding a small dinner at her house. Laura went with her father, rather miserably, as Sir Frederick was not to be there and she would have no one to bully. As she entered the drawing room, her expression was gloomy, her brows drawn, her gaze downcast. For that reason, she did not at first see Richard, sitting in a corner talking to Lady Harriet's middle-aged companion, Miss Wilson. It was only when Lady Harriet flung her arms around Laura and kissed her cheek that Laura's gaze was forced up, over Lady Harriet's shoulder, and she found herself staring directly into Richard's eyes across the room.

Laura's gloom vanished. Richard, meanwhile, went pale. A sudden quickness of emotion in his face was hidden from Laura as Lady Harriet pushed her back to kiss her on each cheek.

"My darling Lady Laura," she cried. "It's been an age! You missed my birthday party — my fortieth, you know."

It had, in fact, been closer to Lady Harriet's fiftieth, which Laura well knew, but she said nothing and returned the kiss, tasting the bitterness of rouge on Lady Harriet's cheek. It gave her the chance to look over Lady Harriet's shoulder again and seek out Richard's eye, but he had turned back to Miss Wilson and all Laura got was the dark curls on the back of his head.

"The salon was such a crush, one could hardly move," Lady Harriet continued blithely. "You should have seen it!"

"I was in mourning," Laura said, impatient to be done with Lady Harriet. "I could not have come."

"Of course!" said Lady Harriet. "Your poor husband! I remember I was simply devastated when my Roger passed — and that ten years ago." A glittering tear rose to Lady Harriet's eye. "I loved him more than any woman ever did love a man."

There was no point being offended by Lady Harriet. Her cruelty came from stupidity, not malice. Laura only bit back an angry smile and said a polite nothing in return.

She was lucky, for Lady Harriet transferred her attention to Lord Brocket, kissing each of his cheeks with a smack and allowing Laura to slip away. Laura laughed at the look of horror on her father's face. It was Lady Harriet's chief ambition to marry again, despite her dear Roger, and any widower was her hapless victim. In fact, thought Laura, if it hadn't been that Lord Denbury was to be here tonight, her father wouldn't have dared come at all.

It was a small party, of six men and six women, and most were already arrived and seated by the fire. Laura ignored them and went to sit by the window with Richard and Miss Wilson. Miss Wilson gave Laura a shy, confused smile, but Richard did not look up from his attentive speech:

"...and a stable three per cent is infinitely better than an unreliable eight per cent. Not that there ever can be complete security. If we take Thorton's as an example..."

Finances. Of course Richard was the type to give an elderly woman financial advice at a dinner party. And by the frightened, confused look on Miss Wilson's face, she didn't understand any of it either.

"Don't bore the woman, Richard," Laura interrupted lightly. "Good evening, Miss Wilson."

Richard turned briefly around, nodded, and then turned back again. "...but I believe the new regulations will continue to improve the safety of our banks and I wouldn't wish to frighten you from..."

Laura frowned. She had expected Richard to be eager to speak to her, but he was avoiding her as desperately as Sir Frederick did. She did not understand it.

Before she could attempt to get Richard's attention again, the butler appeared to announce dinner, and the party rose to its feet. As was only polite, the men offered their arms to the women nearest them. Laura turned automatically to Richard, but he had already folded Miss Wilson's frail arm within his own. Laura turned back around. Her father had been claimed by Lady Harriet, and anyway, it simply wasn't done to take your own father's arm. But every other man in the room had already attached himself to a woman, except for one whom Laura had never met before: tall, blond, and — very handsome.

She regained her composure and held her hand out to him with a smile.

"Go on," she said, "give me your arm. At your age, you ought to know a woman needs a man's support to brave the dangers of a dining room."

The room broke out briefly in laughter, and the awkwardness of the moment passed. The blond man went a little pink in the cheeks but bowed silently and came over to take Laura's arm.

Laura had planned to sit next to Richard at dinner, but as she went first into the room and Miss Wilson last, she ended up instead far down the table from Richard, between the silent blond stranger and Lady Harriet's pimply nephew. Only when the soup was being served did Laura's companion speak, in a smooth, cold, rather high-pitched voice, which Laura recognized instantly. He was the man who had been in the library with Sir Frederick.

"I suppose we'd better introduce ourselves, as no one else seems to care to do it for us," he said. "I am Giles Fordham."

"And my name is Laura... Maidstone." She added the last bit only reluctantly.

He nodded once and then turned his attention to his soup. Now that she knew who he was, she looked forward to bullying him, the way she did Sir Frederick, but Fordham did not give her the chance. He talked little, mostly to Lord Brocket across the table. Not that he was cold or cruel to Laura either. No, she was surprised and rather annoyed to find him entirely indifferent to her. What he had said of her in the library must have been true. Her mood turned sour, and she was distinctly surly to the pathetic, pimply nephew on her right. She was not used to being spurned by men, and now it had happened twice in one hour.

After the meal, the women rose to go to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and cigars. Laura was in a foul mood by then and, making an excuse to Lady Harriet, stalked off to the water-closet beneath the stairs where she sat for a full ten minutes brooding, with her face buried in the nosegay.

She was not done brooding when she left, but her quiet fury had melted to an indignant self-pity, which was much more bearable and perhaps even a little pleasurable. As she made her way back to the drawing room, she heard another door open in the hall and looked back to see Richard hobbling off towards the back terrace, alone.

Laura's heart beat faster and her self-pity vanished. She made herself sit down with the other women. She forced herself to say some irrelevant words of conversation. But she kept her fan fluttering in front of her face all the while and soon complained of the heat of the fire.

"I'm afraid I need a little air," she said sweetly, rising and going to the French door that opened out onto the terrace. "Would anyone like to join me?"

The door, as she opened it, let in a gust of chill air that dampened the flames and made every woman shiver.

"I don't think so, my dear," Lady Harriet said kindly. "Not that I don't like to move a little after a meal for the figure but at my age—"

Laura shut the door on her voice.

Outside, the white marble terrace gleamed under the light of the full moon but Richard was no longer on it. Going to the balustrade, Laura saw him slowly pacing the gravel walk below. She slipped down the stairs after him. When her footsteps crunched on the gravel, he turned.

Closed his eyes. Sighed. "I suppose we must talk."

"Must?" Her voice was loud and sharp in the stillness of the night. She forced herself to speak more softly, lest they attract attention from the house behind. "Why so reluctant, Richard? You were never so reluctant to speak with me before you slept with me!"

He winced, and she felt contrite immediately.

"I don't mean it — you know how my tongue runs away with me. I don't like being ignored, you see."

"I do see," he said drily.

"Then why have you been ignoring me? And for a dowd like Miss Wilson too!"

"Am I not a dowd myself?" Richard lifted one corner of his mouth, but it wasn't a smile.

"Why, Richard?" Laura took a step closer. "Why ignore me after... what we did?"

He gave an uneasy shrug.

"Richard. Tell me." She took another step closer, noting that he made no move to step back. "Is it that you feel guilty? —You have no need. Is it that you didn't like it? —No, it can't be that. Is it that you have betrayed another woman? —But you have no other woman to betray."

She could not prevent the airy, taunting tone from coming into her voice as she said it, and hated herself for the look of hurt it brought to his eyes.

"It's that I've no wish to be a pawn in your vicious games against your father." He stepped aside, the point of his cane slamming into the gravel. "That I've no wish to be your pet whipping boy."

"But you're not." She reached for his hand before he could walk away. "Wait, Richard, please."

He waited, looking impassively at her. The steadiness of his gaze disconcerted her. It prevented her from saying what she knew she ought, so she said instead, in a breathless rush:

"You're not my pawn. Come with me, right now. I'll prove it to you. It's you I wanted, and want."

He withdrew his hand from hers. "Laura," he said, in a low, distant voice, ever more hostile than anger or even hatred, "what we did was a mistake, and I have no intention of repeating it."

"A mistake," she echoed, uncomprehending.

"Yes." His voice softened slightly. "My mistake, as much as yours. I don't blame you alone. But I will not repeat it."

She turned around, circled a tiny patch of gravel, trying to understand. It had not been a mistake. To her, it had been the one bright spot in an otherwise black winter. But there was a firmness to his voice that told her she could not persuade him. She turned again to meet his eyes, but there was no weakness in them, no hope of changing his mind.

He held out his arm for her. "Now, let me take you to the drawing room. It must be almost time for coffee, and you are not dressed for the weather."

Her pride prevented her from taking it. She bit her lip.

"You don't intend to ever see me again if you can help it, do you?"

"I think it would be prudent," he said gently.

"Prudent? Well. I admit I value imprudence more." She laughed back the pricking tears in her eyes. "No, I will not take your arm, my lord. I can walk myself — and better than you."

She knew only that she could not stay with him a moment more or she would start to cry. And if she started to cry he would no doubt bring out his clumsy, polite kindness, and she would crumble before it.

She was just below the terrace when his footsteps quickened behind her and he caught up with her again. She tried to hurry up the stairs but he grabbed her wrist, pulling her to face him.

"Wait," he said urgently, leaning very close. "I forgot — there is something I must tell you."

"Oh, there they are," Lady Harriet cried above them.

Richard and Laura both jumped. Lady Harriet, Lord Brocket, and Mr Fordham were standing on the terrace above them, starkly illuminated under the clear moon. Just as starkly illuminated, Laura knew, as she and Richard would be — her wrist in his, his head bent to hers. Her heart sunk.

"Ah," Lady Harriet cried, fluttering her hands excitedly, "but what must you say, Lord Albroke?"

Richard dropped Laura's wrist abruptly. "It was a private matter."

Lady Harriet put her hands convincingly over her ears. "Oh. Of course. But we shall not listen. Do not fear us and speak, my lord."

Lord Brocket gave her a dirty look and then glared at Laura. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Getting some air, Father." She moved around Richard and went up the stairs. "But I've had enough now."

She drifted back into the drawing room, where the coffee tray had arrived, and foundered somehow on an empty couch. A moment later, Lady Harriet, Mr Fordham, and Lord Brocket returned. Lady Harriet bustled into the room to start an excited, whispered conversation with Miss Wilson, who looked much more interested in this than she had been Richard's financial talk. Brocket and Fordham stayed by the door a moment, where they had a brief conversation in very low voices. Then Brocket sat down, pointedly far from Laura, and Fordham went to the coffee table.

The door opened and shut once more and Richard came in, not looking at Laura or at anyone at all. He ignored the coffee and went to the furthest corner of the room where he occupied himself by pretending to be interested in the music sheets on top of the piano.

Laura realized that Mr Fordham was standing in front of her, holding two cups of coffee. She took one from him listlessly and did not protest as he sat down next to her. She did not even speak at all, staring into her cooling coffee for some time before she noticed that neither was he. She looked up and saw that Fordham was watching Richard at the piano, his eyes as baleful and unblinking as those of a cat watching a bird.

"Do you — know Lord Albroke, Mr Fordham?"

"I was at Oxford with him." His eyes narrowed to slits. "I hate him."