So Sir Humphrey ordered the carriage brought up to the hotel doors, and Lady Dew beamed happily from her son to Margaret and back again. "This is /just/ like old times," she said. "I would be rich if someone were to give me a sovereign or even a shilling for each time Crispin walked you home from Rundle Park, Margaret, very often after /you/ had walked /him/ home from the village. And many times Vanessa and our dearest Hedley were with the two of you, and sometimes Katherine and our girls. Oh, they were /good/ times. How I wish they could be recaptured – or renewed, at least in part. Though we can never have Hedley back." She shed a few more tears while Sir Humphrey withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, and Vanessa set an arm about Lady Dew's shoulders and rested a cheek against the top of her head.

A short while later Margaret was returning home in the Dews' large, old-fashioned carriage, Crispin on the seat beside her. "Meg," he said when the carriage was on its way, "I ran into Sheringford in the park this morning. Did he tell you? Have you seen him today? He told me he would give me a poke in the nose if he were not already quite notorious enough, and he proceeded to lecture me on the etiquette of holding my tongue when a lady had requested it of me and of doing all in my power to see that she and her words and actions were never held up to public scrutiny and public judgment. The nerve of the man! After what he did to Miss Turner and Mrs. Turner! Tell me you are not really betrothed to him, despite what you said at the ball and despite the fact that he was at the theater with you and your family last evening. There has still been no announcement in the papers. Don't let it happen, /please/.

Marry me instead." Lord Sheringford had said nothing this afternoon about the meeting in the park. He had scolded Crispin – on her behalf. And yes, it did seem a little like the case of the pot and the kettle, but all that business with the Turner ladies had happened five years ago. She was growing mortally sick of hearing about it. Five years ago Crispin had married his Spanish lady – Teresa. "Why did you do it?" she asked. "Why did you marry her, Crispin?" He leaned back away from her, into the corner of the seat. "You must understand, Meg," he said. "I had been away from you a long time. I was lonely. A man has needs that a woman is fortunate enough not to feel. I would have come back to you. I /loved/ you. But Teresa discovered that she was with child, and she was of a respectable family.

I could not simply pay her off or abandon her. I had no choice but to marry her. I never loved her. I loved /you/. I never wavered in that devotion. I still love you. But you must understand that you had set me an impossible task. You asked me to wait too long. You did not need to stay with your family. Vanessa was not much younger than you were." "Why did you not write to me?" she asked.

The Earl of Sheringford, she was thinking, made no excuses for what he had done. He admitted everything even though he needed her to think well enough of him to marry him and rescue him from penury and the loss of his home. "I wrote a hundred letters," he said, "and crumpled them all up and threw them in the fire. I knew I would be breaking your heart. I wrote to my mother. I thought she was more likely to break it to you gently." Margaret said nothing. "/Was/ your heart broken?" he asked. "/Mine/ was, Meg. Having to marry Teresa was cruel punishment for a few stolen moments to alleviate my loneliness." "Was she the only woman with whom you soothed your loneliness?" she asked. "Meg!" he exclaimed. "How am I expected to answer /that/?" "With a yes or a no," she said. "/Was/ she?" "Well, of course not," he said. "I am a /man/, Meg. But it would not have happened if you had been there. It /will/ not happen if you marry me now. Do it. Send that scoundrel on his way and marry me. Don't punish me any longer. Don't continue to punish yourself." The carriage had stopped moving. They must be outside Merton House already. The coachman did not open the door. "That is what you are doing, you know," he said, sitting forward again and taking one of her hands in his. "Punishing yourself. If you marry Sheringford, it will be to spite me. But then you will find yourself in a marriage that may last for the rest of your life. I was fortunate to be set free of mine after only four years. You may not be so fortunate.

Don't do it, Meg. Don't." He squeezed her hand tightly and bent his head to kiss her hard on the lips. His free hand came behind her head and held it while he kissed her harder still.

Oh, she had forgotten. He had always kissed her with almost bruising urgency. He had made love to her the same way in a secluded corner of Rundle Park the day before he left to join his regiment. It had been swift and hard and painful and had left bruises. But her need for him on that occasion had been just as desperate.

Oh, it was all a lifetime ago. Except that he kissed the same way now – or tonight, at least.

She set a hand against his shoulder and pressed firmly until he lifted his head and loosened his hold on her hand. "After you married, Crispin," she said, "my heart /was/ broken. I will not deny it. But I did not slip into a sort of suspended life, a life that would be forever gray and meaningless if you did not somehow come back to me. I put back the pieces of my heart and kept on living. I am not the woman I was when I was in love with you and expecting to marry you. I am not the woman I was when I heard that you were married. I am the woman I have become in the five years since then, and she is a totally different person. I like her. I wish to continue living her life." It was true too. Though there was a terrible ache in her throat. "Let that life open to include me again, then," he said. "I need you, Meg. I am lonely without you. And I /know/ you still love me. You knew I was back in England. That was why you betrothed yourself to Sheringford, was it not? You picked the very worst man you could find. Perhaps you did not even understand why. But I do. You did it so that I would come and rescue you. You did it because you were angry with me and wanted to punish me and bring me back to you. Ah, you did not have to do that, Meg. I was coming anyway." "Crispin," she asked him, "when was the last time you had a woman? I mean lay with one?" The new Margaret – the /very/ new one – was far bolder than the old. But even the new Margaret was horribly shocked by the question she had just asked. Anger was deep in her, though. And grief. "I am /not/ going to answer that," he said, sounding as shocked as she was. "That is /not/ the sort of question a lady asks, Meg. I can't /believe/ – " "/This/ lady just asked it," she said. "/When/, Crispin? Some time during the past week?" "That need not concern you at all," he said. "Good Lord, Meg, that – " "Then you can not be very lonely," she said. "I am lonely for /you/," he told her. "There will be no one else once I have you, Meg." "Or no one else I would ever know about, anyway," she said. "Crispin, this has been a lovely evening. Your parents are as warm and hospitable as they have ever been. Let us not spoil it. I am tired. Will you give the coachman the signal to open the door and set down the steps?" He sighed and released her hand before rapping on the front panel. "Think about what I have said," he told her after he had handed her down from the carriage and Stephen's butler was holding the door of the house open. "Don't marry Sheringford to spite me, Meg. You will end up spiting only yourself." "Crispin," she said, "you flatter yourself. Good night." He jumped back into the carriage and sat looking straight ahead while the coachman put the steps up again and closed the door.

Margaret went into the house before the carriage drew away from the steps.

She was very agitated. Quite upset really.