Bertrand chose this moment to open his fool mouth. "What my father says is absolutely true. Ever since their-ah-discovery, my brother and the lady have been made fools of up and down the streets of London. I have heard that a playwright is fashioning the story of their discovery into a farce about the morality of the upper orders."

Jack thought that playwright would do better to base his work on his brother's life rather than his own, but he felt no impulse to respond. He couldn't open his mouth without showing his disgust for his father and brother's behavior, and he wouldn't show his loathing here. No matter how compelling the temptation to put them in their place, the truth was that he was of their blood, and he would not further the damage either was doing to his estimation in Becky's family's eyes.

Beside him, Lady Bertrice muttered something unintelligible and poked a fricasseed pea into her mouth.

Jack's father leaned forward and spoke past Jack and Lady Westcliff. "What was that you said, ma'am?"

Lady Bertrice swallowed her pea and raised her fork meaningfully. "Said it was a fine thing for my niece to suffer, when she is among the most principled of her class."

Jack's father and brother raised matching disbelieving brows. "Is that so?" asked his father.

"Mm." Lady Bertrice raised her monocle again and peered through it, her gaze sweeping from the duke at one end-still looking mightily annoyed-to the duchess at the other.

"I'd wager any one of you seated at this table tonight could easily surpass Rebecca in debauchery-both in thought and in deed."

Westcliff gave an easy chuckle. "No doubt you're right on that score, Aunt."

Lady Bertrice's enlarged eye focused on her niece, who sat at the other end of the table, across from her. Becky stared back at her aunt, her shoulders tight beneath the luxuriant silk.

"Of course, she could make it easier on all of us if she weren't so deuced stubborn." Lady Bertrice's eye slid toward the duke. "That comes from our side of the family, no doubt, because you're the same way, boy."

"It's not stubbornness." Becky spoke stiffly, still gazing at her aunt.

Becky had thrust away the openness she'd shown him before dinner; she'd stiffened and grown cold. With an aura of regal aloofness and a crown of ebony hair, she'd transformed into the Queen of Winter in ivory silk. She was beautiful.

"Pray tell me what it is, then, if it not be stubbornness," Lady Bertrice demanded.

"It's common sense."

Jack's father choked out a short laugh. "Common sense? Really? How can it be common sense to encourage a scandal?"

"Indeed," Bertrand added, "I should think that sense requires-no, it demands-marriage."

Becky shook her head as she carefully placed her fork on her plate and then looked up at Jack's brother, who sat beside her to her left. "It doesn't, in fact. Common sense demands caution. Marriage is a permanent state and hence it requires a thoughtful, careful approach. Jumping into it in a reckless fashion could wreak far more damage than playwrights, artists, and gossips could ever hope to."

She spoke from personal experience, Jack knew.

"I agree, Becky," Lady Westcliff said. "And you point out a common shortcoming of our class-the tendency to leap into such matters without forethought."

The duchess sat at the end of the table opposite the duke. She had spent most of the evening in contemplative silence, but now she spoke. "Indeed," she agreed. "I always am saddened to see the unhappy marriages prevalent in our class. So many wives voluntarily spend months separated from their husbands, and when I search for the root cause, it is invariably because their marriages were founded on financial considerations rather than a mutual regard."

Lady Westcliff and the duchess were attempting to steer the conversation to more general topics and away from Becky and him marrying. Jack was grateful for it. They'd been sitting here for over an hour, and during that time, he had observed the weight of the pressure building on Becky's shoulders and felt powerless to stop it.

This wasn't the way to go about winning her. This dinner was a mistake. They could prattle on about propriety, expectations, and scandal for the rest of her life, but that wasn't what she wanted. It wasn't what she needed.

She wanted peace. She needed to be freed from her fear. The way to do that was to be with her alone. To talk to her, to touch her. To prove that he was different from William Fisk; that he was the man who could bring her the happiness she believed was impossible to attain.

Jack's father slapped his hands on the table. "I see!" he exclaimed. He flashed a jovial smile across the table at Becky. "I finally comprehend your hesitation, my lady. You know as well as I do that my son is a wastrel-of course he is! He's got nothing, whereas you are rich as Croesus, and he could very well be after you for your money." His grin widened. "I do not envy you, child. Still, there is the matter of propriety and duty, is there not? And the matter of this wretched scandal. If you don't do whatever you can to stop the talk, it will only worsen. There are children in your family who could be affected by this years from now."

Becky's lips curved stiffly. "Thank you, sir."

Jack's father's eyes widened. "Why... you're welcome!"

"The solution is now clear," she said, her voice quiet but with a steely edge.

"Well, that's excellent!" Jack's father blustered.

She was impressive, so cool, so elegant, her back straight, her violet eyes cold and clear. She possessed far more strength than Jack had originally given her credit for. First she'd eschewed propriety and risked permanent exile from society with her refusal to marry him, and now Jack sensed that she was on the verge of giving his father the set-down of his life. Despite knowing that her solution wouldn't be compatible with his bid to become her husband, Jack's admiration for her soared.

"You're correct about the scandal escalating and you're correct about its effect on my family," she said with chilly politeness.

Bertrand muttered his assent. Her family stared at her, forks poised-some in midair-and Jack's gut tightened at their expressions. They knew what was coming, just as he did.

Becky stood. Instantly, Jack thrust his napkin aside and rose. All the other men followed suit. Snagging his chair leg on the expensive Persian carpet, his father was the last to rise.

She addressed the entire table. "By continuing with our association, Mr. Fulton and I are only adding fuel to this fire. I shall retire from London until the scandal has been put to rest. I intend to remove myself from this situation entirely." Her dark blue gaze traveled to Jack. "Forgive me, Mr. Fulton, but I believe this is the best course of action."

So many feelings crashed through him-respect, excitement, affection, dread, alarm-he could hardly push a word out. "Becky-"

She dipped her head in a semblance of a curtsy, swiveled, and left the room.

Chapter Seven.

Jack caught Becky as she placed her hand on the banister and planted her foot on the first step. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her, and she turned to face him.

"Don't go."

She shook her head helplessly. "There is no other solution."

His grip on her wrist tightened, his skin warm against her chilled flesh. "Yes, there is. Marry me. We'll work everything else out later."

Her lips twisted. She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. "What if we cannot 'work everything else out'? What if we find ourselves locked in a miserable match for the rest of our lives?"

"That won't happen." His voice was firm, the look in his eyes hard and determined. She didn't understand how he could be so assured, but then she remembered. Of course. He'd never been married before. He didn't know how awful it could be to be married to a person who despised you.

"Let go of me, Jack." Her voice was quiet but strong.

He loosened his grip but didn't release her.

She glanced in the direction of the dining room, and seeing no movement, she turned back to him. "What if your father is right? What if you are a wastrel and a scoundrel? What if all you want from me is my fortune? What if you prove to be as inconstant as they are?"

She'd heard rumors about his father's and brother's infidelities. She wasn't blind or deaf, and these were the things the married and widowed ladies of London society gossiped about.

Jack's eyes locked onto hers. "I am not like them. You know in your heart I am not like them."

She gazed at him for a long moment, tempted to agree, to say she knew she was being hopelessly stubborn and that she believed him.

Instead, she shook her head. "No. I don't."

Anger flashed, sharp and hard, in his dark eyes, and his jaw muscle flexed as he ground his teeth.

"How can I?" she asked. "We've spent only a few hours together." Even less time than she'd spent with William before throwing her life at him. "It's not enough."

"Don't go, Becky. Don't leave London."

Across the hall, the door opened, and Kate bustled up to them, her skirts rustling. She paused when she reached the bottom of the stairs, inclining her head at Jack. His fingers slid from Becky's wrist.

"Good night, then, Mr. Fulton." Without another word, Kate grasped Becky's hand and marched her up the stairs. Jack didn't say anything, but Becky felt the heat of his stare as they disappeared from his sight.

She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until they entered her bedchamber. She exhaled, then inhaled deeply as Kate closed the door firmly behind them.

"Sorry I took so long." Kate plunked her encumbered body onto Becky's bed. Her cheeks were pink with the exertion of their flight up the stairs. "There were certain feathers to unruffle at the dinner table."

Becky sank into her soft peach armchair. "It's quite all right. I managed." She tried to smile at Kate. "And thank you for unruffling those feathers."

"It's my fault for inviting the lot of them. I truly had no idea that Mr. Fulton's father and brother would be so..." Sighing, Kate changed the subject. "Are you really going to leave us?"

"I think so."

"But where will you go?"

Becky shrugged. "I don't know. Calton House, or..." She paused, thinking of the one other place she might go. Seawood-her house in Cornwall. It was the one thing in the world that belonged to her and her alone. But she'd never been there before, never seen it, had no idea what to do with it...

"Calton House," she repeated, her voice firm. It was the house she'd grown up in. Familiar and safe.

All spark drained from Kate's vivacious brown eyes. "Oh, Becky."

A knock sounded on Becky's closed door, and Becky's chest tightened. She swung her gaze to the door, and when she said nothing, Kate asked, "Yes?"

"It's Cecelia."

Becky's shoulders sagged with relief. "Come in."

Cecelia blew in, a compact, elegant ball of energy. She took the time to close the door with a firm snick. Turning to Becky, she shuddered. "What an abominable man that elder Mr. Fulton is, and that awful Bertrand takes after his father. Indeed, they are nothing like the youngest Mr.Fulton at all. Are you quite all right, Becky? And do you truly intend to leave London, or was that just a threat?"

"I feel it is best that I leave."

"Where will you go?"

"To Calton House in Yorkshire."

"Please don't," Kate begged, her voice a near whisper. She pressed her hand to her belly. "You were there for Jessica's birth, and I so want you to be there for this babe as well. I... I need you."

"Oh, Kate." Helplessness surged through Becky. Kate was right. She couldn't leave London, because she must be there for the delivery of her sister-in-law's child. Yet she must leave London, to escape the scandal and Jack Fulton. "Truly, I don't want to go, and I don't want to leave you, but..."

"When is the babe expected?" Cecelia asked.

"Not for a few weeks yet," Kate said. "But there is always the possibility that the child might come early."

Cecelia gave a brisk nod. "I've the perfect solution, then. You shall come to my house. Jack Fulton needn't know you're there at all. It is quiet at Devore House, I rarely see visitors, and you can have the time and space to be alone and think without the pressures of your family." She cast an apologetic glance at Kate. "No offense, Your Grace."

Kate didn't seem angry at all; instead she appeared relieved. "None taken, my lady." She turned to Becky. "I understand that you need some time to be alone, and I heartily approve. Lady Devore is right-it is the perfect solution. We will not make it known that you've remained in Town, and you'll have some time to yourself to mull things over. And I'll have the assurance that you'll be close and can attend to me the moment I need you."

Becky rose from her armchair and went to sit beside Kate on the bed. "Forgive me, Kate. You're all so torn between wanting me to be happy and wanting this scandal to go away, I can feel it, like a black cloud hanging over us all. You don't want to exert pressure on me, and yet it's difficult for me to hold on to my resolve under the force of it."

Kate squeezed her hand. "I'm so sorry that you feel coerced. I promise you, it's not intentional."

"I know," Becky said. "Truly, I do. But I still feel it."

Kate nodded gravely, and tears shone in her eyes. "Then it's for the best that you go. For a little while. I do hope you'll return to us soon."

"I will. I promise."

The three ladies spoke for a few minutes longer, arranging for Becky to stay a few weeks at Cecelia's house and for Kate to send a message if she went into labor so Becky could be present at the delivery.

After they fetched Josie and helped the disgruntled maid to pack, Becky's luggage was loaded onto one of Garrett's carriages, and at midnight, the carriage drew into the drive at Devore House. Cecelia led Becky to the guest bedchamber she'd used to prepare for her assignations with Jack, and Josie helped Becky undress. She fell into the bed and, after an hour of staring at the dark ceiling, sank into a fretful sleep.

When she awoke late the next morning, bright shafts of sunlight streamed through the crack in the rose-embroidered damask curtains.

Josie helped her to dress in a pale pink muslin morning gown, and by the time she descended to breakfast, the midday hour was fast approaching. Cecelia's breakfast room boasted tall, narrow windows looking over a small garden. The curtains were open this morning, and sunlight streamed into the room in bright golden shafts. Gleaming white wainscoting offset the yellow silk damask that covered the walls. An oak sideboard stood along the far wall, and a complementing round table dominated the center of the room.

Cecelia rose to greet her, saying she'd only just come downstairs as well, and offered her a light breakfast of warm chocolate and a poached egg, some bacon, and toast.

Becky seated herself at the table opposite Cecelia, and as a servant set her meal in front of her, Cecelia reported that in the last few days, rumors had run rampant through Town. Not only had Becky's true wicked nature been revealed, the gossips said, but after the world had caught her red-handed in debauchery, she'd spat in Jack Fulton's face and turned him down. Jack was portrayed as the hero of this most unfortunate event-he had proven his true gentlemanly nature by attempting to salvage her reputation by offering for her.

After Cecelia gave her the news, Becky sighed. "It seems to me that ladies always bear the brunt of such scandals while men are easily forgiven. Yet I am no guiltier than he is."

Cecelia's lip curled. "Absolutely true. It's just another example of the unfair burdens society places on woman."

Becky leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her thick, sweet chocolate. "Well, I am happy the brunt of the blame has gone to me rather than anyone in my family."

Cecelia raised a sleek black brow in question, and Becky lowered her cup. "I like to consider myself immune to scandal. If they disparaged Garrett and Kate, Tristan and Sophie, or any of the children, they would truly harm me. But they can call me selfish and wicked till the world comes to an end, and I will bear it."

It was true-at least part of it. She was wicked-her dreams last night proved it. She'd dreamed of Jack Fulton's lips caressing her body. Dreamed of his hands, how they'd touched her, stroked her to the heights of passion. She'd awakened more than once to find her own fingers moving over the places his fingers had gone, as if to replicate his touch, but it seemed impossible to evoke the sensations in her body that Jack had.

She already missed him. She missed the dark look in his eyes when he'd gazed at her at the bottom of the stairs. That compelling mix of tenderness and need.

Yet she knew she had made the right decision. True, marriages had been built on far less than what had already developed between her and Jack. Even in recent times, it wasn't uncommon for a wife to have little more than a formal introduction to her husband before she pledged herself to him for eternity. But that wasn't for Becky.

"Thinking of Mr. Fulton?" Cecelia asked softly.

She hid her expression behind her cup of chocolate. "Well... yes."