And he was not sure if the thought alarmed him or exhilarated him.

After a few minutes he drifted off into that pleasant state of being asleep and yet half aware too of everything around him.

/14/

STEPHEN was asleep. He was not exactly snoring, but he was breathing deeply in such a way that there was no doubt he was sleeping.

Cassandra closed her eyes and smiled – and felt a desperate sort of tenderness for him and for the stolen, carefree pleasure of the afternoon. She had decided to enjoy herself, and that was what she was doing. All her defenses, all her anxieties, all her mistrust of anyone outside her own tiny circle of friends, had been left at home, to be taken up again after the picnic was over.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

She allowed herself the cautious belief that perhaps after all there was one good man in the world, and he was lying beside her, his fingers relaxed about her own. She knew he was not perfect. As he kept reminding her, no one was. But he seemed as close to being perfect as anyone could be.

And if he did have character flaws or even vices, she would never know.

For, of course, she would not know him for long. Not beyond the end of the Season, at the latest. And if she was very fortunate, she would never hear any unsavory stories about him in the future.

She was going to live in the country again. She had decided that just now, while lying here. It was as if this little piece of the country, the earth beneath her, the sky above, the tree branches between, had cleared her mind of a dense, dark fog that had befuddled it for a long, long time. She was going to find a little cottage in a small village somewhere in England, well off the beaten track, and she was going to live there and grow flowers and embroider bright tablecloths and handkerchiefs and go to church every Sunday and help serve teas at parish functions and dance at local assemblies and…

Well.

She swallowed against a lump in her throat. Perhaps she had stepped off into the sky, after all. But it was not an impractical dream. Or an impossible one.

For something else had just struck her with overwhelming force.

She had been a victim for ten long years. She had not been able to help the vicious beatings. Nigel had been stronger than she, and he had been her husband and had had the legal right to discipline her as he saw fit.

But she had developed a victim's mind, a cowering, abject thing intent more than anything else upon remaining hidden in every conceivable way, upon figuratively holding her breath lest someone notice her and come at her, fists flying. And her victim's mentality she /could/ help. If her mind was not under her control, then life was really not worth living.

Life had not felt worth living for almost ten years.

Today, suddenly, it did. She turned her head toward Stephen, tears in her eyes, but he was still sleeping. /Fortunately/, he was still sleeping.

Ah, how terribly beautiful he was. How achingly attractive. How she longed…

But he had no part in her new dream. How could he? She had seduced him and made him feel obligated to her. It was all quite unfair. He should be back firmly in his own world with young ladies like the one who had walked with him this morning.

But this new dream did have something to do with him. She had him to thank for it. By being kind to her when he had absolutely no reason to be, he had reminded her of her own worth. Of her power over her own life.

Could she make such an extravagant claim for him when her acquaintance with him was so slight, when it had begun in such an ugly manner, with seduction and then ensnarement?

Was he /really/ an angel?

She smiled through her tears at the fanciful thought. She would be seeing wings and a halo soon.

She was no longer going to be penniless and dependent and abject and frightened and defensive and all the horrid, cringing things she had been since Bruce had tossed her out of her home and washed his hands of her.

She was going to fight boldly back.

Tomorrow she was going to find a lawyer who would be willing to take on her case despite her near-poverty. With Stephen's money she was going to pay him a small retainer, with a promise of the rest of his fee when he had got justice for her. According to both her marriage contract and Nigel's will, she was entitled to have received a lump sum payment from his personal fortune and a monthly pension from the estate. She was also supposed to have retained all the jewelry that had been given her since her marriage. It was her /personal property/. She was to have had use of the dower house too and the town house here in London for the rest of her natural life, unless she married again. She had no interest in the dower house, but the London house would have been worth having this spring.

Bruce had told her she might have her freedom but nothing else. The implication had been that if she did not accept his ultimatum, everything would be lost to her, even her freedom. Even, perhaps, her life.

And she had believed him.

It was absurd!

If he had believed that her guilt in his father's death could be proved, he would have had her arrested without further ado. He would not have suggested making any deal with her.

He could prove no such thing because there /was/ no proof.

She had known all this before. Why, then, did it seem like a blazing revelation today?

She was going to go after her money and her jewelry and even the town house. Any decent lawyer would surely be able to get all three for her with very little trouble. Both a marriage contract and a will were legally binding documents. He would not be risking much by taking her small retainer and waiting for the rest of his fee.

She closed her eyes and could feel the world spinning – with her on it.

She was /alive/. And Stephen's warm, relaxed hand was in her own, their fingers loosely laced.

If only the world could be made to slow on its axis. If only this moment could be prolonged. If she wanted, she was well aware – if she /chose/ – she could fall in love with him. Deeply. Head over ears. Irrevocably.

She did not so choose. She was taking joy out of this single afternoon.

She was borrowing some of his light. The light that was within herself was so very dim. Just a short while ago, if asked, she would have said that it had been extinguished altogether. But it had not. He had rekindled it in her. He was all light. Or so it seemed.

She had nothing nearly as powerful or precious to offer in return and so she would not cling to him. She would let him go as soon as she was able.

She had spoken the truth a little while ago, though. She /would/ remember him. Always. She would not literally have a medallion made to wear about her neck, of course. But she would not need one. She believed she would always be able to close her eyes and see him – and hear him and feel the warm clasp of his hand. She would remember the subtle musk of his cologne.

As soon as she had her money and jewels, she would return all of /his/ money – with thanks. And all ties between them would be severed, all debts paid, all dependence on one side and obligation on the other at an end.

Their relationship – if that was an appropriate word for what was between them – would be somehow healed. And it would end.

He would remember her – /if/ he remembered – with respect and perhaps a little fond nostalgia.

She lifted her head slightly and looked down the slope to the left. In the far distance she could see two figures, and she was almost sure they were coming this way. She was almost certain too that they were Alice and Mr. Golding. And, goodness, Alice would go for Stephen's head with her reticule if she saw them stretched out on the blanket like this, hand in hand, her hair all loose about her shoulders.