She could love such a man.

Certainly she admired him – perhaps more than she had admired anyone else in her life.

Was /that/ why she had made the abrupt decision to marry him when she had promised herself to take all the time she was allowed?

Or was it as she had said to him outside a couple of minutes ago? Was it that with no promises, no illusions, no veil of romance, she could dream of an honest relationship that could be shaped into something meaningful and satisfying?

She felt rather like weeping by the time she reached her room. She dismissed her maid and threw herself across her bed fully clothed and did just that.

For no reason that she could fathom.

14

"DO you suppose, Smith," Duncan asked while his valet was helping him into his coat the following morning and ensuring that his shirt and waistcoat beneath it did not suffer so much as one crease as a consequence, "that when one has lived a lie for a number of years one is incapable of telling the truth ever again?" Smith, not satisfied with his handiwork, hauled the coat higher on the right shoulder and stood back to take a critical look. "When one has lived the truth most of one's life," he said, brushing the coat vigorously to remove the last stubborn spot of lint, "one is still capable of telling lies. I suppose the matter works both ways, m'lord." "Hmm," Duncan said. "Reassuring. You have finished with me?" "I have," Smith said. "She will take one look at you and swoon with delight." "Really?" Duncan said. "That would be a miracle. She has already informed me that I am neither handsome nor particularly good-looking." Smith looked at him sidelong as he put away the clothes Duncan had recently discarded. "It is no wonder you are worried about telling lies, then, m'lord," he said, "if you have found such an honest woman." Duncan was still chuckling as he closed the dressing room door behind him and made his way downstairs.

He was going to take Miss Huxtable to call upon his grandfather this afternoon. He had gone to bed with the intention of spending an hour at Jackson's Boxing Salon again this morning and another hour or two at White's. But sleep had refused to come to him all night until he had made a certain decision at dawn.

He had lain on his back staring at the canopy over his bed when he was not curled up on his left side, his forehead almost touching his knees, or on his right side, one arm burrowed beneath his pillow, or when he was not flat on his stomach trying to find a way to position his head that would allow him to breathe. It was no good. There was no such thing as a comfortable position.

It was a ghastly fate, he had thought eventually, on his back again, his fingers laced behind his head, his eyes on the rosebud at the center of the canopy, to have been born with a conscience. It played havoc with a man's chances of living comfortably in the real world and of enjoying a good night's sleep.

And here he was this morning, all dressed up as if he were on his way to make another marriage offer – which, in a sense he was. To the same lady and in the same place. He was on his way to Merton House to speak with Miss Huxtable. He hoped fervently that she was not at home. Did not ladies use their mornings for shopping and visiting and exchanging their books at the library and walking in the park and … She was at home.

Merton's butler did not even make any pretense of going to see if she was. Instead, he took Duncan's hat and gloves, preceded him up to the drawing room, which was empty, and told him that he would inform Miss Huxtable of his arrival.

Too late Duncan realized that the butler must have assumed this was a planned visit. A good butler ought not to make such an assumption.

There had been another letter from Mrs. Harris this morning, reminding Lord Sheringford that the rent was going to be due again soon.

As if he needed reminding.

She had enclosed a picture that Toby had made for him. They were all in it, spread across the bottom of the paper – Toby with a mop of curly hair and the Harrises, all modestly small, himself a great hulking giant filling the right half of the page, a round sun with beaming rays above his head.

The protector.

The one who filled a child's world and brought him the sun.

Duncan could almost see Toby drawing the picture, his little body hunched over the paper, the charcoal clutched in his left hand despite all Mrs. Harris's efforts to make him use the right, a frown of concentration on his brow, the tip of his tongue protruding from the right side of his mouth.

He could almost smell the baby smell of the child.

He felt such a swell of yearning that for a moment he closed his eyes and reminded himself of what he was about to do. The right thing?

How could one know what was right and what was wrong?

There was conscience – and then there was a child.

Miss Huxtable was obviously neither going out nor expecting visitors.

She came to the drawing room a mere two minutes after he arrived there, dressed in an off-white cotton morning dress that looked as if it must be an old favorite, her hair styled in a simple knot at her neck. It must not have occurred to her that she might have kept him waiting while she changed and did something with her hair.

Strangely, she looked even more lovely than usual.

She also looked flushed and bright-eyed. Like a young innocent who had been kissed the night before and had rather enjoyed the experience. "Lord Sheringford?" She came well into the room before stopping a few feet from him. She was smiling. "This is a pleasant surprise." She offered him her hand, which he took in his and squeezed. Belatedly, he realized that she had probably expected him to raise it to his lips.

He released it. "Perhaps not so pleasant," he said. "I have come to give you the chance to rescind your acceptance of my marriage offer before our betrothal has been made public." The color deepened in her cheeks. Her smile remained, but it became more guarded. "Mr. Turner has challenged you to a duel," she said. "No." "If it is what was written in the morning papers," she said, "you must not concern yourself. I have grown quite accustomed to such silliness being written about me – and about you. And Stephen was much affected by what I told him at breakfast. He was hoping to meet you at White's this morning and make his peace with you. I am sure my sisters and brothers-in-law will feel the same way. I have sent letters to them. I would have gone in person, but I feared that I would be exhausted by the time I returned home and not quite up to facing the Marquess of Claverbrook." "Miss Huxtable," he said, "I have not been quite frank with you. There is something I have not told you that will almost certainly cause you to reconsider your decision to marry me." Not that he could be perfectly frank even now. Certain details were not his to divulge.

Her smile had faded entirely, and she looked away from him. "We had better sit down," she said, and she took a chair beside the fireplace.

He sat on a love seat adjacent to it. "I would not be attempting to contract such a hasty marriage," he said, "just for the sake of retaining Woodbine Park, much as I love it. It will, in the normal course of things, be mine eventually anyway. Neither would the simple prospect of losing all my funds propel me into marriage with a virtual stranger. I will be wealthy enough eventually, I daresay, and in the meanwhile I am perfectly capable of earning enough money to keep body and soul together, unaccustomed though I am to earning my living. To be honest, I would not even be /thinking/ of marriage yet – or perhaps ever." He paused long enough for her to speak. "You have realized since last evening," she said, "that you really do not wish to marry me or anyone else, Lord Sheringford, that you would prefer to take employment until such time as you inherit from the Marquess of Claverbrook. I can understand why the reality of being betrothed has awoken you to what you really want to do with your life until then. I can even respect you for it – and for coming here this morning to be honest with me before any announcement has been made.