And those women /were/ - dash it all! - his responsibility, Elliott thought now as his carriage containing them moved off from the cottage gate and the villagers raised hands and handkerchiefs in farewell.

His thoughts were interrupted when Merton himself maneuvered his horse between George's and his own. "We have lived here all our lives," he said by way of apology for the delay. "Leaving is hard - for everyone we leave behind and for us too." "I understand, lad," George assured him. "Even if the change in your circumstances is for the better, it is still not easy to leave behind all that is familiar and dear." But the boy brightened as they rode clear of the village, the carriages ahead of them. "I thought," he said, "I would have to wait until I had finished studying at university and had begun some career before I could do something for my sisters to repay them for all they have done for me and make their lives more comfortable. But now I will not have to wait. I will be able to give all of them the kind of life they deserve but have only been able to dream of until now." Or /he /would, Elliott thought wryly even if it was Merton who was footing the bill. And he remembered something else George had said during that damp afternoon ride. He had been joking, of course, but the words had nevertheless stuck in Elliott's memory like a moth trapped inside a lamp. "Of course," he had said, "you could always marry Miss Huxtable, Elliott, and allow /her /to sponsor her sisters as your wife. That would solve a lot of problems. And she is dashed lovely to look at. I am only surprised that she is still on the market." Duties, Elliott decided again now as he had decided a dozen times since the words had been spoken, did have their limits. Why should he even consider marrying the lovely but rather dour Miss Huxtable just because it would be convenient for everyone but him?

Except that he /was /about to be in search of a wife. And in many ways it /would /be a convenient thing to do. She was the sister of an earl, after all. And there was no denying that she came in a very delectable package.

Devil take it, he might well be fit only for Bedlam by the time all this was over. Although he never suffered from headaches, it seemed to him that one gigantic one had hovered over his head like a foggy halo for all of six days.

He thought wistfully of his mother and of his pregnant sister and gloomily of his two aunts, and wondered which of the last two might be the lesser evil.

But perhaps his mother would have some decent advice to give him even if she could not be expected to offer her services. /Why /could his father not have lived another thirty years or so?

He could be in London now, carousing with his friends and spending his nights in Anna Bromley-Hayes's inviting arms. He could be without a care in the world. He could be…

But he was not.

And that was that.

6

THEY would be at Warren Hall in about two hours, Viscount Lyngate had said after luncheon about an hour and a half ago. They would be there soon, then.

The countryside was green and rolling. It looked like prosperous farming land. Warren Hall /was /prosperous, the viscount had said on that first morning. So were Stephen's other properties. There were three of them - in Dorset and Cornwall and Kent - but Warren Hall in Hampshire was his principal seat. "Oh, this must be it," Katherine said suddenly, leaning forward in her seat and pressing her nose against the glass of the window, the better to see what was behind her.

The carriage was making a sharp left turn to pass between high stone gateposts, and Stephen appeared beside the carriage. He had ridden forward and was bending an eager face, reddened from the cold, to look in at them. "This is it," he mouthed, pointing ahead.

Margaret smiled and nodded. Vanessa raised a hand in acknowledgment that they understood. Katherine was craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the house, though it was still out of sight beyond the dense grove of trees through which the driveway was winding.

But a few minutes later they could all see it as the carriage drew away from the trees and, as if on cue, the sun struggled free of the clouds that had covered it most of the day.

Warren Hall.

Vanessa had expected a medieval heap, perhaps because it was called a hall. It was actually a neat and solidly square Palladian mansion of pale gray stone. There was a dome and a pillared portico at the front with what looked like marble steps leading up to the doors. There was a stable block off to one side - the driveway led toward it. Before the house there was a wide, flat terrace surrounded by a stone balustrade, with steps leading down to flower gardens beneath it, still bare now in February. "Oh, goodness," Vanessa said, "this is all very real, is it not?" Which was a foolish thing to say, though her sisters must have known what she meant since they did not question her words.

They all gawked in amazement. "It is /beautiful /!" Katherine exclaimed. "I will still have a garden to tend, then," Margaret said.

At any other time they might all have laughed with considerable merriment over the gross understatement. Even apart from the terrace and flower garden, they were surrounded by cultivated parkland for as far as the eye could see.

None of them laughed.

It was indeed suddenly all very real. None of them could ever have imagined such grandeur and such a total change in their lives. But here they were.

The driveway ascended a slope as it approached the stables and then turned unexpectedly to take them across the terrace to the foot of the house steps. There was a stone fountain in the middle of the cobbled terrace, though there was no water in it this early in the year. There were also many stone urns, which were probably filled with flowers during the summer.

The carriage drew to a halt, the coachman opened the door and set down the steps, and Stephen himself reached inside to hand Margaret down and then to swing Katherine out without benefit of the steps. He was looking very exuberant indeed. Another hand appeared in the doorway before he could turn back for Vanessa - Viscount Lyngate's.

Vanessa had been in virtual hiding from him since the day on which she had lashed out at him and told him exactly what she thought of him.

Afterward, part of her had been appalled at her temerity while another part had been proud that she had found the courage. And all of her had been horribly embarrassed at the thought of coming face-to-face with him again.

The moment had come.

Not that she had not looked at him in private a great deal more than she ought during their journey. He was undeniably good-looking - gross understatement - and virile and… well, and /masculine/. And she admired his effortless horsemanship - she had watched him often while trying to convince herself that it was Stephen she watched. It was all really not fair at all. Hedley had deserved everything good and wonderful this world had to offer and yet he had been thin and weak and very ill during the last couple of years of his life.

Indeed, she felt guilty about admiring someone who was his antithesis - as if she still owed her husband her undivided loyalty.

Hedley was long dead. "Thank you." She forced herself to look into the viscount's eyes as she set a hand in his and descended the carriage steps to the terrace. But then her eyes moved to the house. "Oh, it is far more vast than it looked on the approach." She felt like a dwarf. But what gauche words to speak aloud! "That is because from a distance one sees the house and terrace and flower gardens as a unit and is impressed more by the pleasing vista than by the size of the house," the viscount said. "One is meant to be impressed by the house itself when one arrives here." "The steps /are /marble," she said. "They are indeed," he agreed, "as are the pillars." "And this is where our grandfather grew up," she said. "No," he told her. "This house is no more than thirty years old. The old medieval hall was torn down and this built in its place. It was shabby and crumbling, I have been told. And this is certainly beautiful. I nevertheless wish I could have seen the house as it was. Much character and many memories must have been destroyed in the name of modernity." Vanessa looked at him with appreciation for his feelings. But at the same moment she realized that her gloved hand was still in his. She snatched it away as if it had been scalded, drawing attention to the fact, and he raised his eyebrows.