Laura hardly spoke to Richard for a week, and his bed remained empty every night. It was part of his vanity that he never asked for her to come to him, but it wounded quite another part of his vanity when she didn't. He blamed it entirely on her fit of temper, unaware that his manner was so brusque towards her that she assumed it was he who was in a bad mood and did not want her. But his bad mood, in the end, paid off. It was she who relented, she who took steps to make amends.

On Tuesday evening as he was dressing for dinner, Laura came into his dressing room, dressed in a coquelicot evening gown of the very latest cut: full in the skirts and very low and broad in the bust. Her shoulders were bare, but for the two little puffs of silk masquerading as sleeves, and the pale swells of her breasts fluttered lightly with her breath. A gold satin sash was tied in a large bow around her waist, just waiting to be unwrapped. Richard forgot himself for staring at her and only eventually drew himself to the fact that she seemed to be waiting for something.

"Are you... going somewhere?" he asked, confused.

"I'm coming to dinner."

He saw her peace offering for what it was and pretended not to notice the warp of petulance in her voice. "Are you? Well thank you very much."

Still, she hovered in his doorway. "Can I wear that necklace again?"

"Would it not be too much?" he asked, worried that Elizabeth might say something about it to her.

"That's really the point. I ought to look like a mistress."

"You look like heaven."

She flushed until she was nearly the colour of her dress. He dragged his eyes away from her and tried to concentrate on tying his cravat.

"I'm not going to be able to think straight with you dressed like that," he said, not looking at her. "Can't you add a fichu or something?"

She came forward and stared at herself in his mirror, her expression suddenly doubtful. "Don't you like it?"

"Laura my dear, I like it too much." He restrained the impulse to kiss her, because it would crush her gown. "And when we are alone one night, perhaps you'll wear it again so I can appreciate it properly. But tonight, I would prefer my wits about me."

The ghost of a smile appeared on her face, then she turned and left the room. Richard finished his cravat and went into his bedroom to unlock the safe. The sapphires were impossible, of course, but there were some pearl earrings that he liked and that Elizabeth did not care for, and he thought they would suit Laura.

When he came into her bedroom, she was involved in tucking a black net fichu into the neck of her gown.

"Thank you," he said, bending to kiss the top of her head. She looked up as he did so, and his kiss landed rather awkwardly on the corner of her mouth. And that demanded righting, so it was some time before they disentangled themselves. But he had avoided crushing her dress, he thought with relief, and remembered the pearls.

"Here," he said, getting on his good knee and searching the floor beneath her chair for the pearls he'd dropped. "I think these will do." He found the box and opened it before her. "Alright?"

"Very. Are they real?"

He did not wish to lie to her again. "Afraid so. But you're only wearing them in the house, so no harm can come to them."

She fixed them in her ears and examined herself critically in the mirror. "Thank you. They're lovely. Though I'll have to change my belt."

She stood and rooted through a drawer, coming out with a white satin ribbon, which replaced the gold brocade.

"You see," she said with a sad laugh, "I'm spending your money well, my lord."

"You are worth every penny of it twice over." He watched her busy fingers tie the white ribbon around a buckle. Her week's absence and her lurid dress lit the desire within him. "I wish I could chuck this dinner and spend the night alone with you."

She looked up. "They'll have to leave eventually."

There was something profoundly erotic about the words, and if the doorbell had not rung that moment, Richard probably would have chucked it. Instead, he went downstairs and greeted Lord Brocket while Laura finished dressing. He was surprised that Elizabeth had not arrived first — she normally turned up inconveniently early. But it was raining, and perhaps the traffic was bad.

"Good evening," Brocket said, shaking his hand as though they were the most polite of acquaintances. "I hope you're well."

"Well enough." Richard looked at the clock. "My sister is late."

"We can get on without her." Brocket sat down in an armchair and crossed his legs, as content as a man in his own home. Richard suppressed a surge of irrational anger. "I hope you've been thinking about what I said."

"I've been thinking, certainly." Richard played with his stick. "I can't say with any optimism."

"I have connections that will be of service to you."

"As my father's son, I have those connections too,' Richard pointed out. "This is a personal matter, Brocket. Not a political one."

"Person is politics," Brocket said, with steel coming into his voice. "At least amongst our class."

"You forget," Richard said with a cold smile, "that I'm a Whig."

"Your Mother would not be proud."

"Of my politics, or my person?"

After that, there was no pretending that they were anything other than antagonists. Brocket's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Richard met them with a glare of his own.

Laura entered the room, interrupted any further comment. Richard stood and after a moment Brocket did too. He held out his hand to his daughter. She looked and then coldly shook it. But Richard noticed that she wiped it discreetly against her skirt as she sat down.

"Quite the family reunion," Brocket said, his smile not meeting his eyes. "Don't you think, Laura?"

"No. I don't think," Laura said after a pause. "We never were united."

"There's gratitude!" Brocket said sneeringly.

Laura shrugged. "I have nothing to be grateful for."

Brocket raised his eyebrows. "Nothing to be grateful to me for, but something for young Albroke here? Really, Laura. You do not know where your loyalties lie."

It was going worse than Richard had expected. He looked anxiously at the clock. A quarter to eight. Where was Elizabeth?

"I was the one," Brocket continued, "who fed you, raised you, clothed you. And yet you have nothing to be grateful for. Please. Do tell me what else I could have done."

"Well I used to dream that you would love me," Laura said, in a high, throbbing voice, "but now I'm beginning to think it's a relief you never did. In a way, it makes this much easier."

Richard made the excuse of getting up for a drink and brushed the back of Laura's shoulder on his way to the sideboard. It was the only comfort he dared offer with Brocket watching, but Laura didn't seem to even feel it.

"Madeira, Brocket?" he asked.

"No thank you," Brocket said, with the thinly veiled superiority of one who knew a distraction when he saw it.

To make it look as though he had got up with purpose, Richard poured a glass of soda water for himself and splashed in just enough lime syrup to make it not look like an excuse.

"This is an accusation against which I can have no guard, as there is no proof," Brocket said in the background.

"There is ample proof," Laura argued. "I have seen the proof every day of my life."

Hastily, Richard sat back down, this time closer to Laura. "Perhaps that's a topic for another night," he said, putting his glass on the table next to him.

"No. We can have it out now," Laura said instantaneously. "I know love when I see it. And I know when I don't. Where's the love in sending your only child out of sight in the attic to be raised by strangers? Where's the love in trading me off like chattel to a man who th-thrashes others like a dog? When have you ever even smiled at me, or talked to me for the pleasure of my conversation? Never."

Her eyes glittered dangerously. She seemed to be either on the verge of tears or the verge of shouting. But downstairs, the doorknocker banged, interrupting them.

"That will be Elizabeth," Richard said, relieved.

But it wasn't. When the butler entered, he came alone but for the silver letter platter with a half-folded note on it. He held it out to Richard, who squinted to read it in the dim light. An apology for being unable to attend the engagement; a child was sick and needed nursing. Richard breathed out slowly. He doubted it was true. Elizabeth's children were too well-mannered to get sick without her permission. He saw, in the excuse, that Elizabeth had reconsidered the idea last minute, had perhaps deliberately backed out so that Brocket would come alone.

"What is it?" Laura asked.

"Her daughter is sick and they can't come," Richard said.

"Why, then we'll dine alone," Brocket said easily.

It would be beyond rude for Richard to cancel the dinner now. He looked carefully at Laura, who seemed suddenly rather pale. Her eyes met his, wide and accusing. Richard looked back at Brocket, who had a faintly triumphant gleam to his eyes.

"It seems we must. Though I'd like to remind you, my lord, that any guest in my house is expected to show due courtesy to any woman in it," Richard said.

"That's a little rich, coming from you."

"What do you mean?"

Brocket leaned forward, speaking to Richard, his eyes on Laura. "I mean that you have done a great discourtesy to my daughter."

Richard watched him impassively.

"She's only getting older," Brocket said cynically. "Nearly twenty-eight. Your dalliance with her means she'll never marry another man. Never have children."

Richard cast a sidelong glance at Laura but was too late to identify the expression she suppressed on her face. Anger, he hoped. Better than pain anyway.

"Never regain her reputation." Brocket scowled down at his feet. "Never rejoin society. Never be even one-tenth of the person I raised her to be." He looked back at Richard, his eyes cold. "That is what you have done to her. She will have no children to care for. No reputation to protect her. No friends to help her. No family to support her. You have ruined her. And the only way to make amends is to marry her."

"I don't think that's true, my lord."

"Isn't it?" Lord Brocket gave Richard a narrow, contemptuous glare. "Think a little further, Albroke. You've never enjoyed good health. What happens if you fall ill? What happens if you die? Without you, Laura has nothing and nobody."

A sudden chill ran down Richard's spine.

"Marriage protects her. Is the only real protection she can ever have."

"I will do whatever Laura asks of me."

"And I don't ask that," Laura finished quietly.

It was the signal for Brocket to turn on her. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs.

"Then what do you think will happen, on the day Albroke either can't or doesn't want to look after you? Do you think you'll come crawling back to me?"

"Oh no," Laura said, "you'll die before he does, I'm quite sure of it."

She sounded so sanguine that Richard almost laughed. He pressed his lips together and forced himself to sip his warming lime soda.

"Always with the quips." Brocket sneered. "You're not nearly as smart as you think you are. If you were, you wouldn't have run off with a man like Maidstone."

Laura stiffened.

"Thank God he's dead," Brocket said. "But there's no need for you to make your life and mine worse by throwing yourself away becoming somebody's mistress! I can only imagine you do it to cast shame on me — the sort of petty, helpless thing you would do. You never think ahead. You never have any caution. Never even any manners. You're a cynical, hard-hearted, depraved little woman intent on digging every hole you're in deeper. I'm ashamed that you're my daughter. Ashamed that the legacy I leave upon the world is of a spiteful little shrew who gave away every advantage she ever had for nothing more than a whim. Sometimes I think it's a relief your mother didn't live to you see you grow up into what you are."

"Mother?" Laura choked. "How can you say that! If mother weren't dead I might know what it is to be loved — you certainly don't love me!"

"If I didn't love you I wouldn't be here, trying to do what's best for you," Brocket said imperturbably. "I'm probably the only who does — Albroke's passion can't be more than passing or—"

"—Please," Richard interrupted. "Some courtesy, Lord Brocket."

"I think we've passed the point of pretending to be among polite society," Brocket said sharply. "If it weren't my daughter you disgraced, Albroke, I'd have cut you along with the rest of the ton. But it is my daughter, and so I'll see you do your duty and marry the ungrateful bitch."

His words echoed like a gunshot in the quietness of the room. Richard had never seen Brocket lose his temper before — hadn't even known he could lose his temper. He stared in surprise at the twin spots of colour on Brocket's pale cheeks.

Beside him, Laura stood up, her hands clenched and clawing at her side.

"You!" she said, in a strange, strangled voice. "You're the one who's ungrateful — you can't be grateful, you never have been, for having a daughter. You've resented every day that I was not a son." She stood, shaking, over him. Her jaw was clenching in and out. "I'm glad you never got one. You don't deserve one."

"But what did I ever do to deserve you?"

Her clenched hand shot out and slapped him across the face. For a moment, after the sound of the slap, there was a dead silence. Brocket blinked and tentatively touched his cheek.

Before Richard could speak, Brocket got up and loomed over Laura, his hands hovering around her shoulders, his face contorted with anger. Laura flinched, and Richard hastily interposed himself between them.

"No. Not in my house," he said. "Please, Laura, will you go to your room?"

She cast him an angry, wild look, but twisted on her heel and silently left the room. Brocket watched her go, the faintest shadow of regret of his face.

"Would you have hit her?" Richard asked quietly.

"Never hit a woman in my life. I'm no animal."

Slowly, Richard stepped away to the door. "I think you'd better leave."

"Are you going to marry her or not?"

"She won't marry me."

Brocket looked Richard up and down. "You can persuade her."

Richard shook his head. "You'd better go. Give it up. I'll take care of her — I will make sure of that." Better care than Brocket ever had. "You needn't worry about her."

"I don't worry."

Richard didn't doubt it. He pointed his stick at the door. "Come on."

They went downstairs, Richard trying to make up his mind if it was worth trying to keep his tone conciliatory or not. At the bottom of the stairs, Brocket decided him by saying:

"She never did know what was good for her."

Silently, Richard unlocked the door and held it open. "I don't think you should come back."

"But we must change her mind."

"But you will not be admitted into my house again," Richard said, holding the door.

"She's my daughter."

"Then why do you treat her so cruelly?" Richard forced himself to lower his voice again. "You'd better leave, Brocket. Save your dignity."

And he did leave. Richard watched his back down the stairs and then shut the door on it. It was only with the greatest difficulty he prevented it from slamming.

Upstairs, Laura was in her room at her dressing table. Richard stopped in the doorway, watching her. With shaking fingers, she was removing the jewellery he'd earlier given her. The mad fury seemed to have left her now. She looked defeated.

"I underestimated Elizabeth," Richard said softly. "I'm sorry. She outwitted me by staying home."

Laura patted a washcloth to her face, hiding her expression from sight. "No matter."

"It does matter. For what happened... I shouldn't have asked you."

She shrugged, left off the washcloth, and began to brush her hair. Her movements were stiff and stumbling.

"Laura." Richard held out his arms, beckoning her into them. "Come here."

"No." She laid down her brush with shaking fingers. "No." Then, explosively, "I hate men."

He came forward and touched her shoulder. "Even me?"

She shook him off. "Go away, Richard."

And he did. He went downstairs where he ate dinner alone and where, after he was finished, a housemaid came to assure him that Lady Maidstone had done ate most the tray she'd taken her. He remained in the dining room some time, trying to think things through. That his relationship with Laura was already turning sour did not surprise him, but it hurt more than he had expected. He didn't wish to risk seeing her again while he felt so wounded, and stayed in the dining room until it was late enough to justify going to bed.

But hours past midnight, sleepless and aching inside, Richard heard his door open and shut again, and bare footsteps pad into the room.

A figure slipped between the sheets. "My Lord?"

"I'm awake."

She kissed his bare shoulder, confounding him. Why had she come now but refused him before? She kissed him again, and her hand came sliding over his waist.

"My Lord?"

He knew he would surrender. Knew she knew it. But he held out as long as he could, and when he at last gave in and turned to her, it was with the comforting that thought that one day she would surrender too. One day she must surrender.

Or, he thought later as he vaguely woke to find her slipping out from his bed, maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would rather die fighting.