"But . . . you looked at me through the entire recitation."

"I didn't dare look at anyone else." At her blank stare, he added, "I was nervous. I know you. I trust you. I thought . . . Yes, I looked at you."

She said bleakly, "I thought you meant that poem was about me. About us."

Her pale face alarmed him. "Dahlia, I am very serious about us, and about our future."

"Our future?"

"Of course. Once we marry."

"Marry? But you haven't even- No, Kirk!" She threw up her hands and moved away from him. "You still don't understand. Not even after-" She clamped her lips together. "I'm not marrying you."

"Of course you will," he said impatiently. "You must."

"There's no must in this."

"Don't be foolish. After what we just did, how could we not marry?"

"Easily." She locked gazes with him. "People do what we just did all the time, and not all of them marry."

He started to argue, but her paleness gave him pause. Something was wrong-very wrong. But what? "Dahlia, what's wrong? You were happy until just now."

"The emotions in that poem-they weren't yours. I thought they were." The bleakness in her voice chilled his soul.

"I never claimed that. Besides, how could they be, when I didn't write them?" He raked a hand through his hair, feeling as if he were standing upon very, very thin ice in the center of a huge, frozen pond. "Dahlia, if you want me to write you some d.a.m.ned poetry, I will, but I'm not good at that sort of thing. It would be wretched."

"'d.a.m.ned poetry.' Lovely. That's exactly what I'd like-d.a.m.ned poetry. Pray do not put yourself through such torture on my behalf."

"It would be unpleasant, I admit it, but I wouldn't call it torture," he said generously.

Her expression hardened and she turned away and picked up her shawl from the edge of the billiards table. "I am such a fool. I thought you wished to marry me because you cared for me."

"Of course I care for you."

"How much?"

Good G.o.d, how did one answer a question like that? "Plenty."

"'Plenty.'" Her flat tone told him what she thought of his answer. "You 'care' for me 'plenty.'"

He hurried to add, "Marriage isn't always based on some sort of soon-forgotten love. We're fond of one another, and that's worth so much. We're compatible in so many-"

She threw up a hand. "I don't ever want to hear that word again-'compatible.' I hate that word."

"But we are. We both love to read and we enjoy quiet evenings and history, and- We just found out that we're also compatible in bed."

"And?"

He rubbed his cheek. "And what? Isn't that enough?"

"No. I want love. Kirk, do you love me? Really, really love me?"

He sighed. "Dahlia, look. We both came here to find a mate, and we found the perfect candidate in each other. Why must you cloud the issue with talk of love and-"

"First of all, we didn't both come here to find a mate. I came to find love, and then hopefully marriage. Marrying for love is not the same as marrying for convenience, and because you find the other person 'compatible.'"

"Those are just words. You're making a big to-do about nothing," he said impatiently.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Nothing? Is that how you see it?"

He raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want from me, Dahlia."

"I want love, Kirk. And I deserve that."

"I read you a d.a.m.ned poem. Doesn't that count?" he asked, raking his hands through his hair again in frustration.

"You picked that poem because it was easy to memorize, not because it reminded you of me. So reading it wasn't romantic at all. It was just a task to you. I want to be told that I'm loved, Kirk, and that you find me attractive, and that you like my laugh and think my eyes are pretty. I want to be worth some effort."

"Oh," he said, relieved. "I can do that. I do find you attractive-surely you can tell that. Your eyes are quite nice and you're a pretty woman-"

"Stop! Just stop!" She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "This is impossible. I refuse to give up all hope of romance merely because you refuse to acknowledge it-or worse, you don't feel it."

"Dahlia, I care for you. You know that. I always have."

"Yes, well, I care for my sister, and her grace cares for her dogs, and the butler cares for the pocket watch his grandfather gave him when he was a child-but 'care' is not what I want. I want someone to love me so much that losing me would make him mad with it. I want him to adore me and think I'm beautiful beyond compare, and to write sonnets to my eyes and . . . well, it would be nice if you at least wanted to write sonnets. I would be happy with that."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not the sort of man who can string words together like paper snowflakes. That's for men like Dalhousie, who spout drivel that would make a healthy man's stomach turn. But I do care for you."

"Do you? So much so that you can talk about marriage without so much as a by-your-leave?"

He opened his mouth and then closed it. "You want to be asked. I should have known that, after the last time."

"Of course I want to be asked! What woman doesn't?"

"I asked you once, and you said no."

"You didn't ask me to marry you. You suggested that we'd make a 'tolerable rub' of it 'despite' my father's sad monetary habits."

It did sound horrible when she put it like that. Still, he refused to be cowed. By G.o.d, he wanted her, so he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd quit now. "We enjoy the same pursuits-books, the outdoors, history, music. Most couples don't have the luxury of compatibility when they wed-"

"d.a.m.n it, I don't want compatibility. I want love, Kirk. Love. Do you love me?" she demanded.

"Of course."

She looked at him expectantly.

He frowned. "I said, 'Of course.'"

"Oh! You won't even-" She threw up her hands. "That's it."

"That's what?"

"There is nothing more to say. I will not marry you."

His jaw tightened and he found his hands in fists. "You must. We just-"

"Nothing happened. And if you try to say it did, I shall tell her grace that you are spreading horrid rumors about me, and I'll ask her to send you packing."

"You can't deny us."

"I can, and I shall."

He crossed the icy s.p.a.ce that threatened them and yanked her forward, her body pressed to his. "Do you feel that? That's pa.s.sion, Dahlia-not this milksop love you think you want. I admire you and respect you. I think you're the most intelligent, attractive woman of my acquaintance."

"But do you love me? I won't accept anything less." Her eyes sparkled with anger and hurt.

He sighed. "'Love' is such a fickle word, Dahlia. Isn't it enough that I want you and-"

She spun away and, with a sob that tore his heart, she fled.

Seventeen.

From the Diary of the d.u.c.h.ess of Roxburghe

Was a house party ever so cursed as this one? While I do not blame Miss Stewart for her illness, my physician thinks it might be Spanish influenza, which is a wretched business indeed. Although Miss Stewart has been confined to her chambers for the three days since the very first signs of her illness at the poetry reading, the news has sent terror rippling through my guests. Eleven fled this morning, and I suspect that several more might do so before nightfall.

Charlotte and I must make a decision today about whether or not to have the Christmas Ball, which is a great pity as the footmen just put up a huge tree in the ballroom and spent hours hanging it with silver ropes and stars. Still, reality must be answered, and if more guests leave, we'll have no choice but to cancel the thing.

Another disappointment is that, since Dahlia has been a.s.sisting in the nursing of Miss Stewart, she has barely spoken two words to Lord Kirk, which has made him as growly as a bear with a sore paw. And here I thought they were making progress!

La, so many problems. If I must cancel the ball, so be it. But I will not give up on our star-crossed lovers.

Dahlia looked at the tea tray Freya had placed on the small table in the hallway outside Miss Stewart's bedchamber and smiled before whispering, "Scones and weak tea. Just the thing for our patient."

Freya glanced at the half-open door behind Dahlia. "Is she any better?"

"Some. Lady Mary managed to get Miss Stewart to take some tea and dry toast late last night. We think she's turned a corner." Which had been a sweet moment indeed. The last few days had been filled with such uncertainty that as soon as Miss Stewart asked for another bite of toast, both Lady Mary's and Dahlia's eyes had filled with tears.

She brushed at her eyes impatiently, surprised they were once again br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. Goodness, what's wrong with me? But she knew. The long, silent hours by Miss Stewart's bedside had left Dahlia with too much time to think. She caught Freya's worried frown and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired." Because of her unsettled thoughts, she'd slept only two hours last night before it was her turn to a.s.sist with Miss Stewart.

She pressed a hand to her aching head. It had been a long three days. After leaving Kirk in the billiards room, Dahlia had been hurrying to her own room, wanting nothing more than to be alone, when she'd caught Lady Mary on the staircase. The poor woman had been frantic, wringing her hands and looking as if she might burst into tears. Although Dahlia felt much the same way, she'd put her own feelings aside and had asked if she could help.

Dahlia had quickly discovered that Miss Stewart's condition had worsened and Lady Mary, realizing that her friend's fever was rising, was concerned. Dahlia had asked MacDougal to send for the d.u.c.h.ess's physician and then she'd followed Lady Mary to Miss Stewart's bedside. Since then, she and Lady Mary had shared in nursing their patient back to health.

Dahlia had managed to take her morning walks between her shifts at Miss Stewart's side, but sleep was another thing altogether. Once she was alone, Dahlia's thoughts had roiled in turmoil over her last encounter with Kirk. She wasn't sorry for sharing her pa.s.sion with him, but oh how she wished she'd realized the truth about his feelings before she'd so plainly shown her own. She was now torn between embarra.s.sment and anger.

Fortunately, her duties in nursing Miss Stewart had kept her from any awkward confrontation with Lord Kirk. She now knew the truth-as much as she hated to admit it, he wasn't able to feel for her the way she wished him to. The sooner she accepted that cold fact, the better off she'd be. Yet that did nothing to help the deep ache that filled her.

"Miss?"

Dahlia realized she hadn't heard a word her maid had just said. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about something else."

"Och, ye're exhausted, ye are. Come back to the room and take a wee nap."

"I shall, but I think I'll take a walk first. I need to clear the cobwebs from my head." And if she were good and tired she might actually sleep, not just stare at the ceiling trying not to think about Lord Kirk and failing miserably. She felt as if she were in a fog, wrapped in wool and unable to think clearly except where Kirk was concerned. In that one area, her unwanted thoughts were painfully clear.

Freya's brows lowered in concern. "Ye should let me ha' a turn takin' care o' Miss Stewart."

"I would, but she gets very agitated when she wakes up and someone she doesn't know is there."

"Then thank G.o.d she's some'at better. Ye and Lady Mary canno' keep up such a schedule."

"We're coming to an end of it, I'm sure. She's better every day." Dahlia rubbed her shoulder.

"Ha' ye hurt yerself, miss?"

"I've been sleeping in a chair, so I'm a bit sore." Which explained why her head was starting to ache, too.

Freya scanned Dahlia's face. "Pardon me, miss, bu' are ye sure ye feel well? Ye look pale, ye do."

"I'm healthy as a horse. I've played nursemaid for everyone at Caith Manor, so this is quite natural to me. Besides-" She glanced at the half-opened door and lowered her voice. "Someone must a.s.sist Lady Mary and she won't accept help from anyone else."

"She do seem fond o' Miss Stewart."

"She is. Far more than I'd realized." And perhaps more than Lady Mary had realized, too. Over the last three days, Dahlia had gotten to know Lady Mary and had discovered a softer, gentler side to the woman who'd always been so unfriendly.

"I must return to Miss Stewart; she's due her medicine." Dahlia lifted the tea tray from the side table. "If you'll get the door, I'll see if I can cajole our patient into eating some of this scone."

"Verrah weel, miss. Dinna hesitate to ring if ye need me."

"Thank you, Freya." With a rea.s.suring smile at the worried maid, Dahlia went into the darkened room. She made her way to the table she and Mary had moved from under the window to a more useful location near the bed, and placed the tray upon it, sighing as she straightened.

At the rattle of china, Miss Stewart opened her eyes and then squenched them closed. "Ohhhhhh."