She shook free and regarded him with dislike. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"No, you don't." He didn't touch her again, thank goodness, but he was far too close. "If you're marrying Desborough because the man you want is out of reach, think again."

The man she wanted was out of reach, for all that he currently stood mere inches away. "You don't truly think I'm wearing the willow for Camden Rothermere, do you? He and Pen are perfect together. I knew it the first time I saw them."

She couldn't mistake his vast relief at her uncompromising response. "I'm glad. I hate to think of you being unhappy, Marianne."

The irony of that statement left her gasping. "Then why chase me down here? That's hardly likely to put a smile on my face."

"Neither is marrying Desborough."

She stiffened and sent him a dismissive look. "Good afternoon, my lord. I hope your journey back to London is dry."

A fine misty rain had started to fall, turning his black hair to slick curls. The only really dry thing in the whole dripping gray world was his tone. "You won't get rid of me merely for the asking, my lady. I'm not giving up the contest."

She hid a flinch. Seeing him was so painful and she could tell by the stubborn line of his mouth that nothing she said would make him leave. Hiding her distress behind composure was second nature to Marianne. Why was it so cursed difficult with this one man? "There is no contest. Or at least not one where you're in the running. Last week, I refused your proposal. You should have the good grace to retire from the race."

His eyes slitted in a way that sent apprehension slithering through her like a snake, colder than the winter air around her. "Oh, no, my lovely. This particular runner is vying for the prize and intends to win it."

Despite her vow to appear unshaken, she took an unsteady step backward.

She gasped as her heel slipped in the mud. With lightning swiftness, Elias moved to seize her arm and save her from an embarra.s.sing tumble.

"Careful," he said, but she hardly heard.

All she felt was the heat of his touch through her blue sleeve. All she saw was the glitter in his black eyes. The breath jammed in her throat as he loomed nearer, tall, magnetic, oh, so, tempting. While he'd never kissed her, the promise of kisses had hovered behind every word they'd ever spoken to one another.

Her lips parted and she trembled in his grip, although what little common sense she retained screamed for her to run and not to stop until she was safely back at Ferney.

Nearer he leaned and nearer. His nostrils flared as he caught her scent. She could smell him too and it astonished her how familiar his essence was. Soap and clean skin and something rich and male that made her want to rub up against him. The primitive reaction stripped away her pretensions to control. She could only stand here, praying that he kissed her before she perished with need.

The delay extended. To her shame, a smothered whimper escaped her. When she edged forward in helpless encouragement, unholy satisfaction gleamed in his gaze before his thick eyelashes swept down.

So quickly that she staggered, he released her and retreated. That fraught moment of unbearable awareness might never have existed. If her blood didn't pound in her ears like an earthquake. If her skin didn't itch with longing. If his potent scent didn't lure her greedy senses.

What on earth had they been talking about? The frigid air stung her hot cheeks. She'd dearly love to appear as if that nasty little piece of teasing left her unaffected, but his knowing eyes told her that he was fully aware how badly she'd wanted his kiss.

She swallowed and made an effort to sound like her usual self. She almost succeeded. "I'm not a prize, Lord Wilmott."

He studied her as if he saw right through her hard-won tranquility to all the shameful secrets lurking in her soul. The most shameful secret of all, of course, was that she wanted him despite everything she knew about him.

"I beg to differ, Lady Marianne." She flinched at the way his deep voice caressed her name. "You are a prize. When you realize that, you'll be ready to fight for your happiness."

"My lord-" she stammered, stricken.

He bowed and stepped back. "Good day."

Only as she watched him stride through the trees and out of sight did she note the irritating fact that he'd left her, while she lingered behind. She'd dearly love to have flounced away from him with her pride intact.

After that disturbing encounter, pride and tranquility lay in ruins. More perturbing, she had no idea how to repair either.

She wished she'd clouted him with her umbrella.

Chapter Five.

The rain had become a downpour before Marianne made it back to Ferney, distraught and angry after confronting Elias. The umbrella that had proven no use in keeping him at bay saved her from the worst of the wet, but she arrived at the Hillbrooks' lovely house breathless, cranky and with her skirts and half-boots leaden with freezing water.

When Desborough proposed and Elias appeared out of nowhere to plague her, she should have realized this day was cursed. Even the weather turned against her. Fate's malign sense of humor was again in evidence when she rushed into the high, airy hall to find it heaving with boisterous young men.

Including Lord Tranter, to whom she hadn't devoted a thought since leaving London.

"Lady Marianne," he exclaimed in unfettered pleasure, hurrying toward her. The haughty butler's removal of Marianne's cloak and dripping umbrella frustrated Tranter's attempts to take her hands. The interval of fumbling comedy gave her the chance to control her surge of irritation at his intrusion. And at the proprietorial note in his light tenor voice. He'd greeted her like a lover.

She made no attempt to mirror his effusive welcome. "My lord, we didn't expect to see you."

Her lack of enthusiasm didn't deter him. "I'd come down to see old Fitzherbert over there and realized how close you were. Couldn't miss the chance to pay my respects."

The black and white tiled hall resounded with vigorous male voices. A pack of young bucks accompanied Tranter. Sidonie was busy making arrangements while her enigmatic, scarred husband watched silently from the first landing. Despite Jonas Merrick's presence at that happy gathering last Christmas at Fentonwyck, he still made Marianne uneasy. Right now, Lord Hillbrook looked like Lucifer presiding over h.e.l.l's revels rather than a country gentleman accommodating unexpected guests. Two steps below him, Richard Harmsworth's dog Sirius sat like a s.h.a.ggy brindle familiar.

"Did you hear me, Lady Marianne?" Tranter asked. She caught brief pique in his clear blue eyes before he resumed his guileless expression.

Who could blame him if he was fed up with her? In his company, she had a habit of drifting off. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"Marianne, please forgive the chaos," Sidonie said, bustling up. "The weather makes it impossible for our visitors to go home. The rain looks to worsen and the Salisbury road is flooded."

Marianne's heart sank. A short visit from Tranter was annoying enough. His inclusion in the house party cast a pall on a day that already proved thoroughly depressing. "Have you got room?"

Sidonie made an airy gesture. "Oh, we'll fit everybody in somewhere."

"We've inconvenienced you, Lady Hillbrook," Tranter said. "We should have timed our call better."

Something in his tone made Marianne wonder if he'd timed his call perfectly for his own purposes. No doubt he'd heard gossip about Desborough's intentions and he arrived to stake his claim. That isolated alpine convent became more appealing by the minute. She turned to Sidonie. "Can I help?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Tranter looking irritated that he no longer had her attention, no matter how wandering.

"Oh, would you? Bless you. I need someone to speak to Chef about the five extra guests and head off a tantrum."

"Done." Marianne headed for the kitchens, only remembering as she went downstairs that she never did find out what Tranter wanted to tell her.

Elias dropped full length onto his makeshift bed in Barstowe Hall and stared gloomily up at the ancient oak beams crossing the ceiling. Every attempt to break through Marianne's reserve ended in frustration.

Never in his life had he had such trouble with a woman. Flirtation had always come easily to him, although unlike his brother Harry, he'd never been called a rake. But then, none of those ladies had engaged his heart and dalliance had been an enjoyable game.

A game was a million miles from his turbulent courtship of a lady determined to see him as a money-grubbing scoundrel. When he'd never been so sincere in his life.

What a cruel irony that he could flatter and persuade when his emotions weren't involved, while in the presence of the woman he loved, he could hardly put two words together without causing offense. He cringed to recall Marianne's contemptuous reaction to his declaration of love. He'd set his heart out before her and she'd kicked it.

Any sensible man would retire to lick his wounds. But no Thorne had ever been called sensible. When Sidonie Merrick had written, offering a bed in barely habitable Barstowe Hall, he'd leaped at the invitation like a trout after a juicy fly. Women confided in one another. Perhaps Marianne had confessed a penchant that she was too proud to own to his face.

His darling's stricken reaction today put paid to that theory. She didn't want him here.

Although what about those searing moments when she'd nearly kissed him?

Was that wishful thinking? He'd already paid the price for undue optimism when she'd so summarily rejected his offer of marriage. But for a few seconds, the heat between them had turned the freezing day tropical.

"My lord?"

Elias angled his head to see the fellow who acted as his servant in between making repairs on the house. It was sad to see the old building so neglected. The previous viscount had been close to ruin when he'd taken his own life. Having spent last night in this gloomy place, Elias saw why Jonas and Sidonie preferred Ferney.

"What is it, John?" He sat up and wearily ran his hands over his face. Sleep had proven elusive over the past months.

"A letter from Ferney." The lanky fellow extended the sealed paper-Barstowe offered no frivolous touches like salvers for correspondence.

Elias glanced at the mullioned window. The ancient gla.s.s turned everything mottled and distorted, but there was no doubt that the rain came down in buckets. "Through this?"

"Yes, my lord."

This must be important. Had Marianne written to say she'd changed her mind and that she was madly in love with him after all? Chance would be a fine thing. His beloved more likely ordered him back to London.

Sighing, he accepted the letter and tore it open. It wasn't from Marianne and its contents made him smile. Sidonie extended an invitation to move into Ferney.

"Is the messenger waiting for an answer?"

"No, sir."

Briefly Elias had toyed with the idea of retreating back to London, and after that, darkest Africa for all he cared. If Marianne meant to marry anyone, it was that a.s.s Desborough. But Sidonie's help sparked fresh hope. Surely a smart woman like Lady Hillbrook wouldn't encourage him if his quest was doomed. "I'll be moving to Ferney as soon as there's a break in the weather."

Marianne retreated to her bedroom for the afternoon to finish her letters in privacy. She'd tried to write in the library, but the public rooms felt crowded with the confined huntsmen clumping around seeking distraction, not to mention the addition of five noisy young bloods.

Or perhaps she felt hemmed in because Tranter clung to her skirts like a burr. He'd made his interest embarra.s.singly overt, hardening her vague tolerance into irritation. She'd shuddered every time she raised her eyes to find him staring adoringly at her as if the act of moving a pen across a sheet of paper was a miracle of nature.

London's ladies were mad for Lord Tranter and she should be flattered that he chose her. She wondered why she wasn't. Oh, he mightn't be the most scintillating company, but he was patently eligible-and twenty years younger than Desborough. Perhaps he made her ill at ease because from the start, she'd never penetrated beneath his flawless social polish. Whatever lurked in his heart, good or bad, remained a complete mystery.

This scheme to maneuver himself into the Hillbrooks' house party was the most definite action she'd ever seen him take. She was sure he meant to keep any other dog from stealing his bone.

An old dog, Lord Desborough.

Marianne wondered how Tranter would feel to know that on this particular patch, he had another rival. Although if Elias had any sense, he'd surely go back to London after this morning's distressing encounter. She felt a twinge of worry-if the flooding was as bad as Sidonie said, he could run into trouble.

Except she never in a thousand years thought he'd accept his dismissal. He'd come to Wiltshire to harry her and a few sharp words wouldn't deter him.

It would be so much easier to forget Elias if he didn't keep appearing to remind her that while he mightn't be the sensible choice, he was the only man who stirred her pulse. Reconciling herself to Desborough became nearly impossible when she suffered this penchant for a man she couldn't trust.

Since Tranter's arrival, her father and Desborough hadn't left her alone either. If ever she glanced beyond Tranter's lovelorn stare, she met two frowns of disapproval.

Her bedroom offered sanctuary. But she'd just settled at the pretty mahogany desk under the window when she heard a knock on the door.

"Blast," she muttered, setting her pen down so hard that ink splattered her letter to her old governess.

On unsteady legs, she rose to open the door. When she saw Genevieve, Lady Harmsworth, she realized she was henwitted to expect Tranter or Desborough. She felt so hunted, she abandoned common sense. Neither of her swains would risk scandal by coming to her bedroom. Her father had every right to see her, though. The prospect of another harangue was almost worse than more of Tranter's sickly worship.

Genevieve laughed and her hand dropped to Sirius's furry head. The dog stood beside his mistress and regarded Marianne with perceptive black eyes. "Peace, Marianne. You look ready to draw your saber."

Feeling a fool, Marianne laughed, too, although it emerged with a forced air. "I'm sorry, Genevieve. I expected-"

"Not one of your admirers, surely. That would be too wicked."

Marianne gestured her friend inside and toward one of the elegant chairs near the blazing fire. The bedroom was huge and extravagant with expansive views over the soggy Wiltshire countryside.

"I'm glad it's you," Marianne said, although it wasn't entirely true. The beautiful blonde was famous for her intellect-and inquiring mind.

Genevieve sat and after studying Marianne with discomfitingly clever eyes, smiled. "You're terrified that I mean to quiz you on Tranter and Desborough."

Marianne took the other chair and folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear untroubled. "I can't blame you for curiosity."

"It's my besetting sin. Richard's always complaining that I won't leave well enough alone." As Sirius settled at her feet, she subjected Marianne to another penetrating inspection. "Although I'm not sure this situation could be described as well enough."

Marianne's heart sank anew. She'd seen Genevieve Harmsworth on the track of answers. She was worse than a terrier after a rat. "Would it do me any good to say I don't want to talk about this?"

Genevieve tried to look shocked. "I'm here to see how you are."

"I'm very well, thank you." And was pleased to witness her friend's frustration.

"You don't look well. You look beleaguered."

"I wonder why," Marianne responded drily.

Genevieve had the grace to look a little shamefaced. But just a little. "Even before I arrived to pester you."

Stubbornly Marianne remained quiet. As a motherless and only-not to mention lonely-child, she'd learned to keep her own counsel.