The tranquility of Lord Mislington's townhouse at Berkeley Square early one morning was disrupted by the unexpected arrival of two young gentlemen. The rotund aging footman, who was somnolently wearing a wig, was abruptly recalled to his senses when a loud knock fell on the door, and mere seconds later, admitted the Earl of Stokeford and Mr Milborne; and was taken aback upon receiving a very brusque order to inform his master that his lordship desired a word with him. The retainer could only stare back and gape. "My lord?" he responded dazedly, as though couldn't believe his ears. After all, no one had ever asked an audience with the Viscount very early in the day, for his lordship only received callers in the afternoon. Lord Mislington was never a morning person, and to think of disturbing him in his breakfast abed proved too much for the poor footman.

"Well, didn't you hear what he said?" demanded Mr Milborne.

Favouring him with a look of reproach, the retainer replied with offended dignity: "Beggin' your pardon sir, but indeed, I did hear what his lordship just said. But I regret to inform you that my lord Mislington has not yet risen from bed, and that it would be wise for you to go back in the afternoon." Encountering the Earl's hard stare, the bravado deserted him, and he quailed, murmuring hastily: "Beggin' your lordship's pardon!"

"You must tell him this is urgent," Milborne insisted.

"I'm afraid I cannot sir, knowing his lordship might still be enjoying his breakfast —,"

"Lord!" he exclaimed impatiently. "He can gobble his breakfast all he wants afterwards. Tell him, Stokeford!"

"One of the rules when crossing my uncle's threshold Milborne," said the Earl, "is to mind your manners and your tongue, else we shall not attain our object here. Pray give me leave to speak for myself." To the lackey he said in no-nonsense voice: "My Uncle will see me, my good man. Bring my card to him, and we shall await his pleasure."

Slightly mollified, the footman took the elegant card and, with a sniff, conducted both gentlemen to the library.

"Well! I wonder how you could be as cool as any cucumber, Stokeford?" said Milborne presently, depositing himself to a winged chair.

"Would you have preferred that I fly in a high-dudgeon? I wouldn't want to make a scene in this house. I had learned early in life not to lose respect for my beloved Uncle Mislington, under any circumstances."

"I thought there's no love lost between you two?"

Stokeford eyed him coolly. "That is an entirely different matter."

"If I've an uncle who's messing with my affairs, I should definitely wish him to Jericho! What's more, it ain't a small thing to have consented to your mother's scheme, knowing full well that you had not agreed to anything."

At this, the Earl's countenance became hard. He said in a controlled voice: "It is unfortunate, indeed, that this has occurred."

"Unfortunate?" echoed Milborne with a touch of scorn. "It's madness! Sending the announcement of your engagement as cool as you please, and no one the wiser except himself and your mother! I've never heard of a more underhanded goings-on! I couldn't even begin to imagine how poor Caro received the news."

"So am I," Stokeford sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. To Milborne he seemed to age in just a matter of days; so worn out that the lines in his forehead and around his eyes had become very patent. "And fact is, I don't even have a notion how to explain everything to her. I can only hope that she'll understand."

"She will," Cedric replied confidently.

Stokeford regarded him with a rueful gaze. "I'm an ass, Milborne. I've caused her pain a couple of times more than I care to remember. She was so trusting when I left her, and to think that I allowed this to happen! I am unworthy of her love and the faith she puts in me, and as equally useless."

"Take heart, Stokeford! Are you forgetting that we are here to prove otherwise?"

"I don't. I was merely reflecting that I could have done something to prevent this morass in which I've been so idiotic as to let myself and Caroline embroiled. I'm getting weary of all these complications. If it is only in my power to take her away from here — " he paused, noticing that Milborne was observing him speculatively. "What?" he demanded, feeling himself blushing.

Shaking his head, Milborne said, amused: "Egad, I never knew you were cherishing such romantic moonshine! But now that I think of it, you both could bolt away to the Border, you know. Run away, and let the rest of 'em gape after you! No one can ever have a say to the matter once the knot's been tied. Now, what say you to that, eh?"

"I'd say," Stokeford said tartly, "that yours is an utterly useless brain!"

"Not utterly!" Cedric protested. "Besides, if you couldn't manage to extricate yourself from this damnable coil, you might as lief consider such alternative as not."

"Thank you! I thought someone had said earlier that I should take heart!" the Earl said with awful sarcasm. "And, if I am not mistaken, to take heart means not running away, isn't it?"

"It is, but do think! If worst comes to worst, what then?" Cedric countered, his face suddenly grave. "You'd still prefer propriety over your own happiness? Knowing Caroline, I'm sure she would face the scandal bravely than letting you go and spend the rest of her life in regret!"

"Enough! That is out of question, Milborne. I don't want any more scandal attach to my name, and may I add, hers."

"I am glad to hear that," said an authoritative voice from the door. A stately man of about five and fifty entered, clad in a resplendent mulberry dressing gown. Both gentlemen instinctively stood up and met squarely the formidable gaze of Lord Mislington. "I can't countenance scandals myself, and I hope that that is not what brings you here at this very unreasonable hour, Stokeford," added the Viscount disapprovingly.

"I hope I see you well, Uncle?" Stokeford replied in a colourless voice.

The Viscount spread his arms about him. "As you see. Though I own to some extent I was rather surprise to see you gracing my humble abode." His stern grey eyes traveled to Milborne's face. "And who might you be, sir? I believe I have not the pleasure of making your acquaintance." Not bulked by this rather frigid reception, Milborne introduced himself as friend of his nephew and daughter. Having heard of the latter, the elder gentleman's eyes became hard, and asked: "Indeed? And what is your business here, might one ask?" Milborne told him flatly that he was to lend Stokeford some support.

"I believe you already have a fair idea of my object in coming here, sir," the Earl said. "I only beg for a small amount of your time to make everything clear, and set them aright."

"Set everything aright? I'm not sure what you mean. Pray sit down!" beckoned Lord Mislington. "Madeira?"

"No sir, I thank you," Stefan replied stiffly. "This is not a social call, and let's not beat about the bushes, Uncle. You know very well that I haven't consented to this betrothal you and and my mother had arranged."

Lord Mislington trod leisurely towards the credenza, and poured himself a glass of Madeira before replying with a regrettable want of sensibility: "Nonsense! You know very well that I and your mother have your best interest at heart, and we only did what is good for this family, which is my dear sister's sole wish."

"Without even considering my sentiments in the matter and, may I add, Marianne's reluctance in marrying me," retorted Stokeford between his teeth. "I take leave to inform you, Uncle, that by doing so you've done a damage that might prove irrevocable!"

"By God, Stefan, you don't mean to tell me that you've secretly pledged yourself to some unfortunate creature?"

"Yes!" struck in Cedric, unable to keep his tongue.

"No! That is," Stokeford said irritably, glaring at Cedric. "I haven't yet declared myself to her, though I am firm in my decision to marry her. This, however, is none of your concern Uncle. You must tell the Times that the engagement has been called off."

Lord Mislington eyes glowered at him upon hearing this. "The devil I would! And what becomes of my daughter, I should like to know?" he thundered. "'Pon rep, another breath of scandal! Haven't you got the decency to even protect the name of your cousin?"

"You should have thought of that before unwisely sending that stupid, false notice to the Times. Did you really think I would have acquiesced? If you imagined that I am like some spineless fellow whom you can easily bend to your will to serve your whims, then you are sadly mistaken, sir!"

"Enough!" exclaimed the old gentleman angrily. "A fine way to talk to your uncle, Stokeford! I will not stand here and endure your berating like be damned! By all means, do as you please! Drag your name in the mud, and, may I add, mine as well! And what will people say, I wonder?"

"I beg your pardon, but they can say what they damned well please!"

"Ha! If that isn't you all over," the Viscount returned disdainfully. "I'd say such inordinate lack of concern runs in the Beaumont's blood. Like your father before you."

Stokeford's countenance hardened. He said: "I'll thank you not to sully my father's name the next time, sir."

Milborne, who was observing this heated exchange in anxious silence, saw that it had indeed reached a dangerous ground, and thought it prudent to interfere at this point. But before he could embark on the speech which he'd been thinking for at least several minutes back, he caught sight of Marianne, peeping through the the door. Instinctively, he called her, and noticed her troubled brown eyes.

"Forgive me. I don't mean to intrude," Marianne said weakly, attempting a small, quivery smile. "But I heard loud voices, so I decided to take a look and see what's going on here."

"Ask your precious cousin!" her father said irascibly.

"I'm fixing this mess for all our sake, Mari," Stokeford walked towards her and put both hands on her shoulders. He made a little scrutiny of her rather drawn countenance frowned. "You look a little pasty, cousin. Have you been ill of late?"

"Oh, yes. Just a touch of fever, nothing serious!" she replied blithely and offered her hand to the other gentleman. "How do you do, Mr Milborne?"

Milborne shook it and for a while held it in his clasp. "Very well, ma'am. Your cousin is right; you look properly done in, Miss Marianne. Would you care to step out with me in the sunshine for a while? I'm sure," he turned an inquiring gaze at Lord Mislington, "that you'll not object to that, my lord?"

The Viscount, not without obvious reluctance, assented to it gruffly, and cautioned Milborne not to tire his daughter. "I promise sir, I won't. We'll leave you to your discussion, my lords," he gave a nod to them, and escorted Marianne to the door.

"Thank you!" she breathed presently, as they started their stroll. "The truth is, I was about to persuade Stefan to go with me, but it seems that he and Papa have more to discuss about this wretched business," she sighed.

"And your arrival had offered me an escape, Miss Marianne. Lord, it has become so deuced uncomfortable I am quite relieved to have been able to remove myself from there."

"I know. Papa can be too difficult to deal with sometimes, and he and Stefan aren't so fond with each other, you see."

Milborne said drily: "That's pretty much obvious. Both of 'em are full of fire I wonder they do not explode yet."

Marianne was obliged to laugh at this. "Why, yes. However, I should like to point out that Papa is usually severe on Stefan; thus his heat when he's talking to him. I've wanted so much to make them less ill-disposed towards one another, but that might prove to be an unavailing endeavour, as Papa, I'm sure, would never fully reconciled with him. Moreover, he had a very unreasonable dislike to my late Uncle Gregory, you know."

"But why marry you to him, anyway?" Cedric put in bluntly.

Blushing, she looked away. "You've heard the rumors about me, yes? Well, it was made out of spite against me, but Papa and Aunt Margaret saw the necessity to marry me posthaste, and the most sensible choice for my husband is — "

"Stokeford! Lord, yes, what a muddle! But do you like the notion of being married to him?"

"No, I don't," Marianne said flatly. "That doesn't mean I dislike him as well, for I don't; in fact, he's very dear to me even though he's rude and uncaring, and lacking in sensibilities at times!"

He chuckled. "Then don't marry him, Miss Marianne. You'd be far better off with the man your heart has chosen."

A forlorn look stole over her eyes. "I rather think so, too. But in my case, I can never have the liberty to choose whom I shall marry; not even when my heart is prompting me to do so."

Perhaps, for the first time in Mr Milborne's life, his heart was stirred by compassion for a lady's plight. One encounter with Lord Mislington was enough for him to believe in this artless admission. If it would not Stokeford, then he rather suspected that this beautiful, fun-loving girl would end up married to some stiff-rump, prissy nobleman after her own father's kidney. The mere thought of it made Milborne cringe, and he told Marianne with some passion that no one could force her to marry someone whom she dislike as long as he was there. "For I'd contrive something to put some rub in their paths should they even think of approaching you!"

Much moved by this impassioned speech, Miss Carstairs blushed again, and twinkled at him. "Indeed sir? Then I'll be very much obliged to you!" The glow in her face was short-lived; she added darkly: "However, you'll stand in danger of facing Papa's wrath if he'd know your interference, and I don't want that to happen, now that you've become so close to my heart."

He took her hand and brought it to his heart, saying solemnly: "Do you have any idea at all how my heart leaped upon hearing that, Marianne? I swear to you, I'd rather face your father's wrath than imagine you enduring a distasteful marriage for the rest of your life!"

Her brown eyes glistened, and a moment later, Marianne couldn't have prevented herself from bursting to tears. Flustered by this sudden weeping and the curious looks thrown at them, Cedric hurriedly led her to an isolated bench and began, rather futilely, to console her. "I-I am s-sorry! It's just that I couldn't stop m-myself. I've been so unhappy and—and restrained lately that y-your kind words has touched me s-so much, Mr M-Milborne," she cried, burying her face in the snowy handkerchief he offered for her disposal.

"Poor girl. Hush now, Miss Carstairs. No need to cry!"

"Forgive me," she sniffed. "Oh dear, I've used your handkerchief most shamefully! Do my eyes look awfully puffy?" Cedric looked down at the glistening brown orbs, and said that they were still quite pretty.

Stokeford, who was coming towards them, saw Marianne drying her eyes, and demanded to Milborne: "What the devil did you do to her?"

"I did nothing at all!"

"How was it, Stefan? Did Papa agree to call it off?" asked Marianne anxiously.

"He's adamant, and would have nothing to do with it at all. Unless," said Stokeford grimly, "I would be the one to call our engagement off."

Aghast, Milborne exclaimed impulsively: "You'd never!"

"Exactly. My Uncle Mislington is very certain I would never do so dishonorable an act, notwithstanding that there wasn't a real proposal in the first place."

"What shall we do now?" cried Marianne. "You know very well that I do not want to marry you, Stefan."

"The feeling, I assure you, is mutual, cousin. Can you not persuade him for the last time?"

She shook her head. "I can't — you know how it is with him! Had you not been here, he would have me married to someone else anyway," she said bitterly and wept on the handkerchief again. "Oh, I am wretched! Cursed! I declare I should die miserably! Oh, what will I do?"

"As of now, nothing; and crying is certainly not much of a help."

Marianne fixed him a resentful look. "And if I didn't cry, I would certainly die of a very heavy heart. Then I suppose you will be free to marry whomever you choose." Stokeford told her, in a rather waspish manner, that they should all do very well without her embarking on yet another of her histrionics. "Odious!" retorted the stricken Marianne. "I declare it will serve you right that I shall marry you after all!"

"That will do, Mari. Perhaps it is very apparent to you by now that this excessive display gets on my nerves already," warned her cousin in a dangerously soft voice. Provoked, Miss Carstairs recourse to the handkerchief and wept while throwing all her grievances to him.

Milborne, who had taken pains to console her earlier, couldn't forbear himself from admonishing the Earl afterwards. "Take a damper Stokeford!" he said when they were sitting in the carriage. "You both undergo the same strain, but do not take everything out on her. The poor girl is quite blue-deviled there's no knowing what she'd do next."

"Or say, for that matter," Stokeford murmured to the window. "Marianne would not bestir herself, and she'd do nothing save from being an incorrigible watering-pot. If my Uncle could not be persuaded, then I'd be at my wit's end."

"Lord, what a damnable coil! Where's March, anyway? Perhaps he can think of something else. Clever fellow, March. Always ready to make himself useful when you find yourself in a bind."

The Earl scowled. "I do not think that that confounded letter he sent me had been of any use at all. A nice cake I made out of myself! I'd never done anything so absurd in all my life."

"Indeed, you'd had a merry dash to town," agreed Milborne, chuckling. "But everything turned out for the best, don't you think?"

"I had thought so, too," said Stokeford gloomily. "However, things are hanging in the balance right now and the devil in it all is that I am quite unsure of what to do next."

The next few days proved to be too much for the Earl of Stokeford. Every social function he went there would always be a hand to shake, felicitations to be heard, and in some cases, few impertinent enquiries which he'd evaded as much as possible. There had been a silent war raging between him and the Countess, whom his two friends had stigmatized as the author of all his misfortunes. It couldn't have been more aptly said, for Lady Stokeford was so set on this sham betrothal that she'd more than once provoked him by asking, in a teasing manner, the date of the wedding. "It might have escaped your notice, ma'am," he answered in a blistering tone. "But I haven't the slightest inclination to pursue the wedding, nor, may I add, Marianne. So there's no point of asking me that, for it will never happen."