Maribella swatted at the bumble-bee blundering noisily by her head. She was lying on her stomach on the stone surround of the pond in the courtyard of Twyford House, idly training her fingers in the cool green water. Her delicate mull muslin, petal-pink in hue, clung revealingly to her curvaceous form while a straw hat protected her delicate complexion from the afternoon sun. Most other young ladies in a similar pose would have looked childish. Maribella, with her strangely wistful air, contrived to look mysteriously enchanting.

Her sisters were similarly at their ease. Sophia was propped by the base of the sundial, her bergère hat shading her face as she threaded daisies into a chain. The dark green cambric gown she wore emphasized her arrestingly pale face, dominated by huge brown eyes, darkened now by the hint of misery. Emma saw beside the rockery, poking at a piece of embroidery with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Her sprigged mauve muslin proclaimed her youth yet its effect was ameliorated by her far from youthful figure.

Margaret watched her sisters from her perch in a cushioned hammock strung between two cherry trees. If her guardian could have seen her, he would undoubtedly have approved of the simple round gown of particularly fine amber muslin she had donned for the warm day. The fabric clung tantalizingly to her mature figure while the neckline revealed an expanse of soft ivory breasts.

The sisters had gradually drifted here, one by one, drawn by the warm spring afternoon and the heady scents rising from the rioting flowers which crammed the beds and overflowed in to the stone flags. The period between luncheon and the obligatory appearance in the Park was a quiet time they were coming increasingly to appreciate as the Season wore on. Whenever possible, they tended to spend it together, a last vestige, Margaret thought, of the days when they had only had each other for company.

Sophia sighed. She laid aside her hat and looped the completed daisy chain around her neck. Cramming her headgear back over her dark curls, she said, "Well, what are we going to do?"

Three pairs of eyes turned her way. When no answer was forthcoming, she continued, explaining her case with all reasonableness, "Well, we can't go in as we are, can we? None of us is getting anywhere."

Maribella turned in her side better to view her sisters. "But what can we do? In your case, Lord Daniel's not even in London."

"True," returned the practical Sophia. "But its just occurred to me that he must have friends still in London. Ones who would write to him, I mean. Other than our guardian."

Margaret grinned. "Whatever you do, my love, kindly explain all to me before you set the ton ablaze. I don't think I could stomach our guardian demanding an explanation and not having one to give him."

Sophia chuckled. "Has he been difficult?"

But Margaret would only smile, a secret smile of which bit Sophia and Maribella took due note.

"He hasn't said anything about me, has he?" came Emma's slightly breathless voice. Under her sisters' gaze, she blushed. "About me and Francis," she mumbled, suddenly becoming engrossed in her petit point.

Maribella laughed. "Artful puss. As things stand, you're the only one with all the sails hoisted and a clear wind blowing. The rest of us are becalmed, for one reason or another."

Margaret's brow had furrowed. "Why do you asked? Has Felix given you any train to suppose he disapproves?"

"Well," temporized Emma, "he doesn't seem entirely...happy, about us seeing so much of each other."

Her attachment of Francis Cambridge had progressed in leaps and bounds. Despite Felix's warning and his own innate sense of danger, Francis had not been able to resist the temptation posed by Emma Fleming. From the first undeniably innocent kiss he had, by subtle degrees, led her to the point where, finding herself in his arms in the gazebo in Lady Sterling's garden, she had permitted him to kiss her again. Only this time, it had been Francis leading the way. Emma, all innocence, had been thoroughly enthralled by the experience and stunned by her own response to the delightful sensations it had engendered. Unbeknownst to her, Francis Cambridge had been stunned, too.

Belatedly, he had tried to dampen his own increasing desires, only to find, as his brother could have told him, that that was easier imagined than accomplished. Abstinence had only led to intemperance. In the end, he had capitulated and returned to spend every moment possible at Emma's side, if not her feet.