Laura lay on her bed with an unopened book in her hand and stared listlessly at the snow falling outside. She had not thought it possible but she was as bored in her own room, with every luxury of entertainment available, as she had been in the attic, with nothing. It was almost a relief to hear the knock at the door and imagine some trifling servant problem to be solved, but her heart fell as she sat up and saw her father enter.

"What is it?" she said sullenly, falling back down on the mattress.

Her father came to the end of the bed, rested his hands on the bedboard, and stared down at her. She did not like the hint of a smile about his eyes.

"Mr Fordham is waiting downstairs. He wishes to speak with you."

Laura sighed. She was quite fond of Fordham, when he was silent. When he was silent, he made a pretty picture of masculinity, particularly when propped up against a suitable landscape, such as a roaring fire or a library full of books he had never read. But conversation, when he attempted it, ruined the effect of his good looks. In the company of men, she knew, he could warble at length about whatever manly topic was on offer. But in the company of women his conversation became pedantic and static. His conversation with a woman was confined to three topics: her health, the weather, and Fordham's Grievances Against the World. As Laura's health was always good, as the weather was consistently bad, she was, after two weeks of acquaintance with him, more intimate with his every complaint than she ever wished to be. She knew he resented his brother for being the elder and having the title and money that came with it. She knew he had hated India and his father who had sent him there. She knew he had been wronged by his family, even the dead aunt who had left him a fortune. She knew he thought his valet was cheating him and that his new boots pinched his toes.

The one topic on which he had not been forthcoming was his hatred of Richard. Laura had tried to coax the story out of him, but he had fallen back upon a strange reticence. All she knew was that they had been at university together, and that Richard had wronged Fordham somehow. As the world in general seemed to have wronged Fordham, this was not very enlightening.

Laura rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. "Tell him I'm ill."

"You're not and I won't. Now get up and come down."

Laura twisted again and opened one eye a crack to glare at her father. "Why does that peacock want to talk with me anyway? He never says anything worth listening to anyway." She buried her face again in the pillow and spoke, muffled, "What a pity it is that all the handsome men are stupid and all the intelligent men are ugly."

Her father ignored this last bit. "He's going to ask you to marry him."

Laura sat up at once, sending a pillow flying. "What!?"

"Yes." The hint of a smile on her father's face was threatening to become a grin. "Now, will you go down and talk to him?"

Laura stared at her father. Her heart was drumming against her ribs and a strange terror had lit inside her. Above her bodily feelings, her thoughts ran strangely cold and logical: She could not marry Fordham. Her father would try to force her. She could not persuade her father. She could not reason. She could not refuse. Her only hope was to make Fordham change his mind and leave her alone.

And Fordham, stupid Fordham, could be persuaded, surely?

An electric combination of hope, fear, and a strange, perverse excitement flooded her. She slipped off the bed and went to the mirror to check her appearance. Her dress was rumpled and her hair untidy. But perhaps it was best that way. Fordham was fastidious with his appearance and did not like untidy people. She gave her hair only a cursory pat.

"No argument?" her father boomed behind her, suspiciously.

"I've stopped fighting losing battles." She turned and smiled sweetly at him. "I don't think he likes me that much, see?"

"Enough to marry you."

"Likes you enough to consider it," she retorted. "What a pity it is you men can't marry each other and leave us women out of your political alliances." She tucked a curl severely behind an ear and noted with satisfaction that, having stayed up late last night, there were bags under her eyes. Fordham would not be pleased. "Very well. I am coming."

She was still nervous when she went downstairs and met Fordham in the library, where he was at his best leaning against a bookshelf. He got up when she came in and bowed, the golden curls on top of his head gleaming in the candlelight, for it was snowing too heavily outside today for only natural light.

Lord Brocket had come down with her but he went straight to the door to his study and paused there, with his smile now stretched to make two deeply shadowed crevices either side of his mouth. He rarely smiled, and the effect was eerily like a Venetian mask come to life.

"Now that my daughter is here to keep you company," he said significantly, "I'll return to finish my correspondence."

He left, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, the room was very quiet. Fordham hovered by the books, a rather confused look on his face. Laura decided not to make it easy for him. She went over to the window to look out upon the snow. Behind her, Fordham's boots squeaked as he moved closer.

"A cold day," he said.

"It is winter. What else can one expect?"

"But you must feel it." He stepped forward, until she could feel his breath against the back of her neck. "Aren't you cold in only that thin shawl?"

She had not expected him to move so soon to physical seduction, and was surprised by how swiftly he closed the distance between them, taking her shoulders in his hands and rubbing them lightly.

"I've been thinking about you a lot lately," he murmured against the back of her neck. "I've been thinking I might marry you."

"It never crossed my mind."

"But you are too modest." His fingers tightened, and his grip was suddenly one of restraint, not affection. "Marry me."

"I think it best not."

"I'll persuade you."

He dropped his lips to her neck. She screwed her eyes shut but her body did not betray her here. No spark of desire lit inside her. Nothing but a cold flame of annoyance that his lips and fingers were so cold against her flesh.

She shook him off. "Enough of that. I won't marry you."

He stepped back, a frown marring his high, smooth forehead. "Why not?"

She knew then what she had strongly suspected before: he didn't love her. Hadn't even fooled himself into imagining he loved her. There was no sorrow in his face or voice, only confusion and annoyance.

"Because I don't want to," she said flatly. "And you don't want to marry me."

"Oh yes I do." He reached out for her hands but she pulled them away. "I've fallen in love with you."

"We both know that's nonsense." She looked at the door to the study and wondered if her father was listening from the other side. "Two months ago, before we had met, I stood behind that door in the dark and listened to you and Sir Frederick have a conversation while you played billiards in this room. I remember it very clearly. 'I can have any woman I want for the choosing. Why should I choose a sickly, aging widow?'"

Fordham shrugged. "Opinions change."

"Yours hasn't. I know very well you don't care about me. Not one bit. Why on earth, then, do you want to marry me?"

Fordham was quiet for a long time. He even left her and went over to the fire, where he played with a bit of coal that had fallen from the grate, grinding it into pieces on the hearth. She wondered if perhaps she should just leave, but she didn't think he had accepted her decision yet. At last he said, with something almost of amusement in his voice:

"I suppose I might as well tell you. It won't change your father's mind, even if he knows. All he cares about is the marriage contract."

Laura felt a flicker of fear on hearing the amusement in his voice. She had never before heard him laugh, except the stiff little fake laugh he gave when he was pretending to flirt.

"Go on," she said warily. "Tell me."

He looked at her over his shoulder. "I don't want you at all. I'm absolutely indifferent."

"Then go away and leave me in peace."

"Oh no." He shook his head and returned from the fire to stand in front of her. He was much taller than her, much broader. It wasn't something that had ever made her afraid before, but now she stared at his long, heavy hands and realized that if he wanted to hurt her, she would never be able to stop him. "That would ruin it."

"Ruin what?"

"Revenge." He ran his eyes down her figure and then back up. "It's that gimp Albroke who wants you. Hanging after you at Hunstall's. Sending you love letters. Doting fool."

Laura took a step back. "Love letters?"

Fordham ignored her. He was in one of his self-involved tirades again. "That bastard ruined my life. Sent me to hell on earth for fifteen years. Exiled me from the only home I knew and the only woman I ever loved. All for him and his blasted sense of honour. And now he's in love with you. I thought he might be when I saw you and him in the garden at Hunstall's. Trying to kiss you, wasn't he? Soft, sappy look on his face. Seen it before. Can't imagine what it will look like when I bed you."

Despite herself, Laura broke out in a gurgle of laughter. Fordham broke off from his tirade abruptly.

"What's so funny?" he growled.

"You are. You're a damn fool." She flung herself down on a couch. "You've got to be the stupidest man I've ever met."

Fordham's face darkened. Laura smiled up at him.

"That's the pettiest reason for marrying anyone I ever heard," she said clearly, "so I won't do it. Know that to begin with. It cannot be done. Know this too: you've got it all wrong. Richard is not in love with me."

"He wants you."

"He does," Laura said complacently. "If you looked like me, he'd want you too, Giles darling, and what would you do then?"

Giles scowled. "Don't think you can put me off. I saw the letter. The sap wants you, and I won't let him get it. Even if it means marrying you."

Laura raised her upper lip in disgust. "Even if...? But I told you: I won't marry you. I won't marry Richard either, if it makes the pill go down easier. But I can't imagine you're very disappointed."

Fordham stepped forward and stood over her, his bulk blocking out the light. "It's not you who matters. It's him. I'm going to take what he wants, and you're it."

There was something in his stance that warned Laura that No would not be accepted. She stared up at him, wondering if there were any way to persuade him to give it up at all. And perhaps... there was one.

"It's too late," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For you to prevent him from having me." She could not speak louder; her throat wasn't working properly. "He already has."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's my lover."

There was a dead silence, so deep she could almost hear the sound of snowflakes falling outside. For one moment, there was a quick motion in his hands and shoulders, and she thought he would hit her, but it was controlled and he stilled again. Then, abruptly, Fordham strode to the door and left, slamming it behind him. A moment later, Laura heard shouting from the hall. Fordham's voice, and her father's. She went to the window and waited, feeling strangely numb inside.

The shouting stopped. Fordham appeared on the drive, whipping his horse furiously over the trampled snow. Laura turned away from the window, her hand over her thumping heart.

The door clicked, and she jumped. Her father stood in the doorway. The smile was gone now, and the crevices with it. His lips were pressed tightly together and his cheeks were flat and white.

"I can't tell if it was a lie or not," he said grimly. "Fordham believes it."

Laura let her gaze fall to the couch where she had slept with Richard months ago. Suddenly, her strength failed her, and she sank down onto a seat.

"Does it matter?" she asked wearily.

"Tell me. Was it a lie?"

She covered her face with her hands. She felt guilty. Not for what she had done with Richard. For what she had just done to him. For what she was about to do.

"It was no lie."