She sent him a blank look and stepped away so he couldn't even kiss her hand in farewell. "Good morning, Lord Wilmott."

Hurt and anger flooded him. She dismissed him, and he had the galling suspicion that if he didn't go, Baildon would tell the footmen to throw him out, scandal be d.a.m.ned. With the bitter knowledge that today's debacle threatened to place the one woman he'd ever loved permanently out of reach, he bowed shortly to the marquess and marched out.

Chapter Three.

Marianne usually enjoyed the company of Jonas and Sidonie Merrick, Lord and Lady Hillbrook, her hosts for the fortnight in the country. But Elias's self-serving proposal left her heart shredded. How dare he try to manipulate her by saying he loved her? She'd never have credited him with such duplicity. Or such cruelty. For surely he must know that it was cruel to pretend to care for her when he didn't.

Elias had sounded so sincere when he'd claimed to want her as his wife. He'd stared at her with such longing. What an actor he was. But in weaker moments, she almost wished she was silly enough to believe him. At least she could bask in the fantasy that he loved her, if only until he showed his true colors after the wedding.

Good sense might save her from excruciating disillusionment. It couldn't keep her warm at night or a.s.suage endless yearning.

If she could, she'd go to ground somewhere she didn't need to show a calm face to the world. She'd much rather return to her busy life as chatelaine of her father's estates. There she felt competent and in charge of her own decisions in a way she never did in London.

Unfortunately when she'd suggested that her father travel without her, he'd reacted so angrily that she'd worried about his health. Any urge to rebellion had wilted under concern for a parent who loved her, however little he understood her.

Sometimes she had the vile suspicion that the one person on G.o.d's green earth who understood her was Elias Thorne.

The first days at Ferney pa.s.sed without incident, unless she counted how her avoidance of Desborough aroused her father's disapproval. Luckily the party was large enough for her to disappear into the crowd. The Hillbrooks had included Richard and Genevieve Harmsworth, as well as a handful of Jonas Merrick's business a.s.sociates, hard-faced, narrow-eyed men who lingered over their port after dinner.

n.o.body linked with last spring's dramatic events was present. The events that had deprived Marianne of her ducal suitor and left Desborough humiliated after his chosen bride eloped with Harry Thorne. Hillbrook clearly worked to ensure that no uncongenial company spoiled his plans to purchase those fields in Hampstead.

Even before Elias's visit to the London house had left her a shaking mess, Marianne had dreaded this house party. But so far the men spent the days on horseback taking advantage of the last of the hunting season. She pa.s.sed the hours with Genevieve and her hostess. To Marianne's relief, neither badgered her about marital plans. Gradually her wretchedness and confusion dulled and she almost started to enjoy herself.

Until on the fourth day, her ease abruptly ended. The morning dawned chilly and wet enough to deter the keenest huntsman. When her father requested her presence in the music room after breakfast, she should have guessed what was in store.

"You wished to speak to me, Papa?" She stepped into the lovely room with its view of Ferney's extensive gardens, today gray under sheeting rain. Even for someone used to fine houses, the Hillbrooks' home took her breath away. She was grateful she'd had a chance to see it.

Or she had been grateful until she glanced past her father's st.u.r.dy form to where Desborough stood near the window.

Oh, dear G.o.d, no.

She tensed like a deer scenting the hunter's approach. No, worse than that. A deer caught in a trap.

"Lord Desborough requested a private word, Marianne." First thing, her father had been glum because of the weather. Now he sounded as if his horse had won the Derby.

She supposed in a way his horse had. Since he'd reluctantly accepted that Camden Rothermere would never be his son-in-law, he'd pressed hard for this union.

"Lady Marianne, I hope you can spare me a few minutes." His lordship stepped forward and gestured to a couch near the gleaming Broadwood piano.

"I'll leave you then." At a glare from his daughter, her father stopped rubbing his hands together. "No need to hurry. In the country n.o.body thinks twice about two old friends having a quiet chat."

Her father didn't want her using propriety as an excuse to back out. But the minute Marianne entered this ambush, she'd realized that any retreat only delayed the inescapable. Lord Desborough had come to Wiltshire to propose. Her father had brought her here to accept her future as Lady Desborough.

She squared her shoulders and mustered a smile for her sedate suitor, even if somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of her dreams splintering. "Shall we sit down, my lord?"

Her father grinned. "That's it, my girl. No need to stand on ceremony with a fellow who's known you since you were toddling."

Desborough cast her father a worried glance. Mention of his age was hardly likely to recommend him to a woman so much younger. Despite everything, Marianne found a grim amus.e.m.e.nt in her father's blundering tactlessness.

Her papa cleared his throat, backing toward the door. "I'm off for a walk in the gallery. Heard tell there's some fine pictures here. A man needs to see fine pictures."

Her father possessed a large collection of old masters inherited from previous Seatons. Marianne knew for a fact that he couldn't tell his Rembrandt from his Gainsborough. Although she'd once overheard him commenting favorably on the abundant charms of a fleshy Rubens when he hadn't known she was within earshot.

No, her father would linger in the Hillbrooks' long gallery for one reason. It had nothing to do with art appreciation. He waited for news of his daughter's engagement.

He loved her, but she always felt that was conditional on her obedience. Accepting Desborough would finally achieve his approval, especially after the disappointment with Sedgemoor. She wished that fact gave her more satisfaction.

As her father closed the door behind him-Desborough's proposal rated concessions that Elias's hadn't-Marianne sat on the blue and gold couch. Her pulse was measured; her calmness this time was no sham. Resignation wasn't a romantic response to a proposal, but it was the strongest reaction she could muster. After a hesitation that hinted his lordship was more nervous than he appeared, Desborough joined her, maintaining a decorous distance.

"You must have an inkling of what I'm about to ask you, Lady Marianne," he said quietly, watching her with a concentration that made her want to squirm. A lifetime of training was all that kept her unmoving. Her martinet governess had instilled the rule that ladies did not wriggle.

"My father isn't the most subtle of men," Marianne said with a trace of a smile.

"No, but he means well, and he loves you dearly."

Yes, he did. And since her mother's death eighteen years ago, he'd pinned all his hopes on his only child. Marianne had tried to please him, even at seven understanding his inconsolable grief at losing his wife.

When she didn't speak, Desborough went on. "He would be happy if we made a match of it."

She'd known what was coming-the stupidest girl in England would know-but hearing the words shook her. "My lord, I-"

Desborough raised one hand to silence her. "Thomas, please. I hope we've achieved sufficient intimacy to use Christian names." He subjected her to another of those searching regards. "I hope we'll achieve a relationship even more intimate."

So much for resignation. Every muscle tightened in rejection. She could hardly endure the idea of Desborough using her body.

Marianne wanted to beg him to stop, but she stifled the plea as she remembered the eager light in her father's eyes. An eager light missing since last year's setback with Sedgemoor.

After a pause which he clearly hoped she'd fill with some encouraging remark, Desborough went on. "Of course, no lady should marry purely to please her father. I'm hoping that over the last months you've come to realize how genuinely I admire and esteem you."

She needed to say something. She forced words through a closed throat. "I've enjoyed your company, my lor-Thomas," she said in a low voice, staring into her lap and wishing fruitlessly that she was a woman who aroused more than admiration in the males of her acquaintance. Wishing that she aroused a fraction of the pa.s.sion that her former suitor shared with his d.u.c.h.ess.

Wishing was a waste of time. She didn't love Desborough, but he was a good man. There were worse fates than marrying him. Even if right now, she couldn't think of any. She swallowed and told herself that bursting into tears would be an unforgivable breach of good manners.

"Because I admire and esteem you, Marianne, I would count myself blessed if you consent to be my wife."

She made herself look at him. For his age, he was an attractive man. A thoughtful face, alert brown eyes, brown hair with a hint of silver at the temples. A distinguished man. Wealthy Conscientious. If he pledged himself to her, she could rely on him.

A faint smile lightened his austere features. "I believe at this point, it is usual for the lady to respond."

She swallowed in a vain attempt to shift the emotion jamming her throat and straightened a backbone already as stiff as a ruler. She'd have a fine, useful life as Lady Desborough. And he'd give her children. She dearly wanted children to love, children who wouldn't care that she was an heiress or famous for her perfect behavior.

"Marianne?"

She'd been bred to marry a powerful man like Desborough. If her heart cried out for something more, she could learn to close her ears to its demands.

One day.

He must think her a lunatic for dithering. After all, this proposal was as inevitable as Christmas. "Thank you, my-Thomas. I'm flattered by your interest."

"More than just flattered, I hope, my dear." As if to underline their new closeness, he took her hand. When she started, he cast her a quizzical glance. "Don't say you're surprised. Your father gave me to understand that our inclinations followed a similar path."

"Not surprised, but-"

"We have so much in common." He paused. "Not least that our first matrimonial choices turned out to be unwise."

Lady Sophie Fairbrother's elopement had left him the b.u.t.t of gossip. They did indeed share more than just her father's regard. "I didn't like all the talk."

"Neither did I." He looked unexpectedly approachable. She remembered that she'd always liked Lord Desborough. She told herself that forty-five wasn't old. After all, at twenty-five, she wasn't exactly a blushing debutante herself.

His hand tightened on hers. She didn't mind his touch, but felt no particular thrill either. Perhaps that was a good thing. She'd never enjoyed emotional storms. Lord Desborough would be a solid, conformable, sensible spouse.

That description shouldn't make her want to howl in despair.

When again she didn't answer, he continued. "We've both been through the mill, Marianne. Now everything has turned out for the best. Lady Sophie wasn't the wife for me and pardon me for saying so, but Camden Rothermere has proven himself unworthy of you."

"You don't mention...affection," she said slowly, although the idea of Desborough professing undying love made her stomach curdle.

"I'm convinced affection will grow with time. I hope you already consider me a friend."

She nodded, even as her heart sank. "You've always been very kind."

"Kindness and friendship form an excellent basis for marriage. We're both past the age of romantic nonsense, thank heaven."

I want romantic nonsense. I want someone to love me.

Of course she didn't say the pitiable words aloud.

She'd immediately discounted Elias's declaration. He loved her money. In her life, she'd seriously considered marrying two men. Camden Rothermere, Duke of Sedgemoor, and Thomas Wilkie, Earl Desborough. Neither had pretended to love her.

The strength of her longing to be more, to be enough, would have astonished anyone who knew her. Sorrow clogged her throat and made it difficult to speak. But speak she must.

She raised her chin. It was childish to pine for some mythical beau who wanted her because without her, his life turned into a barren desert. "My lord, you honor me with your proposal-"

"My dear Marianne," he said with a warmth she'd never heard before. "You make me the happiest of men."

Staring into his face, she was shocked to see that while he didn't love her, he wasn't averse to sharing her bed. Perhaps pa.s.sion might have a chance after all. She tried not to gag at the images invading her mind.

She withdrew her hand and dredged her soul for the words that would make her this man's wife. "Thomas, this is-"

His eyes brightened and he leaned forward, making the couch seem suddenly uncomfortably cramped. She licked dry lips and made herself speak.

What emerged wasn't what she expected to say or what he expected to hear.

"I beg your indulgence and ask for a few days to consider my answer."

Chapter Four.

"Sidonie, my dearest darling, what are you up to?"

At her husband's sardonic question, Sidonie Merrick, Viscountess Hillbrook, raised her head from the letter she was writing. The stark gray light through the window illuminated her like a woman in a Dutch painting. She'd bundled her glossy mahogany hair into an untidy knot and her deep bronze merino gown made her skin glow like a pearl. Jonas was always conscious of his wife's beauty. Sometimes, like now, her loveliness struck him like a physical blow.

Which didn't mean he trusted her ingenuous smile. "I'm telling Pen about our house party."

Jonas's eyes sharpened on Sidonie where she sat at the large, masculine desk she'd ordered to replace the useless piece of feminine frippery he'd originally chosen for her sitting room. Sidonie had expressed blatant contempt for its practicality. His wife was closely involved in his activities and took responsibility for running his estates, while he concentrated on trade and manufacturing. He usually counted her as his greatest business a.s.set-but not today.

"I'm sure you are. Is there anything you'd like to tell your husband?"

She rose with the grace that even after two years of marriage set his heart stuttering. "I love you?"

The canny wench knew how to reach him. Until Sidonie's advent in his life, love had been a rare commodity. Now thanks to this remarkable woman, love was the very air he breathed.

"Are you asking me if you do?"

She stretched up on her toes to brush her lips across his. "Aren't you sure?"

He stared down into her shining brown eyes and because he couldn't help himself, bent for a more leisurely kiss. When he raised his head, he was pleased to see that she looked considerably less arch. Instead she regarded him through a dreamy glow.

Sometimes the power of what he felt for Sidonie terrified him. He'd learned young that solitude was the safest option in a world more inclined to cruelty than kindness. Occasions like this reminded him that, inexplicable as it seemed, she loved him, too.

"Yes, I'm sure," he murmured and caught her upper arms in his big hands. "Even if I want to take you over my knee right now and spank you."