The effects of that violent storm were fading fast and, under the influence of supper, disappeared almost completely. Her eyelids were back to normal again, and her nose was no longer red. In the soft glow from the candles, her hair shone with its usual luster and her complexion had lost its drawn pallor, returned now to rose-tinted gold.

The chemise left her arms and neck bare, and the creamy skin glowed in the candlelight. His eyes drifted to her bosom, to the lace edging that sculpted the soft rise of her breasts, accentuating the deep cleft between them. His own thighs remembered the feel of hers, the unconsciously sensuous wriggling of her buttocks beneath the paper-thin lawn of her drawers.

Such voluptuous reflections were not conducive to the rational attack he was preparing to mount. He put them aside and said briskly, "Would you explain as simply as you can, cousin, exactly what it is about me that you dislike?"

The question took Theo so much by surprise that she choked on a mouthful of chicken. He reached over and slapped her back vigorously before continuing. "Is it my appearance? There's not much I can do about that. My manner… conduct toward you? That's been dictated by you, cousin, so if you wish that to change, you'll have to change your own conduct toward me… What else could it be?"

Theo took a considering sip of her wine. Her earlier fuzziness had vanished with her supper, and she was clearheaded again, although still exhausted. The earl was regarding her with a raised eyebrow, waiting for his answer to a question that she found rationally unanswerable.

It wasn't his appearance… far from it. If she allowed herself to admit it, he was far and away the most attractive man she'd ever had dealings with – not excluding Edward, whom she'd loved for years. And if she allowed herself to remember the feel of his body, the taste of his tongue, the scent of his skin…

No! Best not to permit those memories. They muddled all cool thought.

His manner toward her was certainly objectionable – arrogant, controlling, uncivil. But she stood charged on the same counts, and honesty obliged her to admit her guilt. He was very different with her mother and sisters, which seemed to indicate that she was singled out for special treatment

"Having trouble with your answer, cousin?" Sylvester inquired with that familiar ironic tinge to his voice.

Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Not in the least," she said, pushing the tray off her knees. "You are a Gilbraith."

The earl sighed. "That old chestnut won't do anymore, Theo. I was brought up to have no more love for Belmonts than you have for my branch of the family, but it's childish and stupid."

Theo's lips tightened. "I don't believe it is."

Making a supreme effort at self-control, Sylvester began to count on his fingers: "I am not responsible for the old quarrel; neither can I be held responsible for being a Gilbraith, I didn't choose my parents; I am not responsible for your father's death; and finally, cousin, I am not responsible for the entail."

All of which was perfectly true. But some stubborn demon in her soul wouldn't yield so easily. "Maybe so, but I can't like you," she said with blunt dispassion, ignoring the little voice that asked how she could be so sure, when she hadn't given him a chance.

"I see." The earl's face closed. "Then there's nothing more to be said." He rested his chin on his folded arms, and his eyes were as cold as she'd ever seen them. "Except this. You should understand from now on that you're to have no say in matters of the estate." He ignored her swift indrawn breath, continuing in the same flat, unemotional tone, "I shall instruct Beaumont that he is no longer to consult you. If he has difficulties with this, then he will be replaced."

He stood up, a towering figure in the fragile child's room. "Neither will you continue to interfere in the affairs of my tenants, cousin. They serve one master – the Earl of Stoneridge – and that will be made very clear to them. As of now you have no further influence. If you attempt to circumvent these instructions, I shall forbid you the freedom of the estate. Is that quite clear?"

Theo felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She hated him because he had the power to do this, but somehow she hadn't imagined it happening. Even from the dower house she'd believed she would continue to wield the real influence, the earl merely titular head of the estate.

She shook her head, moistening her dry lips. "You can't mean that… You don't know anything about the people, about the land."

"I can learn, cousin. And since you've refused me your help, then I shall learn without it." He walked to the door. "I bid you good night."

She sat stunned in the silent room, hearing the click of the door latch, his footsteps receding down the corridor. The pursuit was over. He would leave her strictly alone now, which was what she wanted… what she'd been fighting to achieve.

They'd move to the dower house, and there'd be nothing but the most superficial contact between the two houses. There'd be no dowries, of course. He wasn't obligated to provide them, not when there was no familial connection. But Emily was already settled, and Clarry would marry only the embodiment of her romantic fantasy – and such an embodiment would surely be prepared to dispense with such a mundane consideration. Rosie was too young for it to be a concern. As for herself…

She dashed an angry tear from her eyes. She didn't want a husband, but she did want Stoneridge. If she agreed to help him get to know the place and its people, would he rescind the ban?

No! She'd be damned if she'd succumb to blackmail.

She flung back the bedclothes and got wearily out of bed, setting the empty tray on the dresser, tidying the room in desultory fashion before changing her underclothes for her nightgown. She lay in bed wide-eyed in the darkness, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the old house as it settled for the night. She'd known for twelve years that she had no claim on the house, but coming face-to-face with that reality was a different matter.

Despite her fatigue, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned until the sheets twisted themselves around her hot limbs and the pillow felt like a burning stone. She kicked off the sheets and tried to lie still, hoping the cooler night breezes coming through the open window would help her to relax.

Downstairs in the library, the Earl of Stoneridge stood at the window, looking out at the moon-washed lawn. He'd lost. Defeated by a stubborn, self-willed, spoiled, rag-mannered young gypsy who refused to look beyond blind prejudice and see what was good for her… for all of them.

He'd lashed out in fury and disappointment at her flat rejection. He'd seen to it that she'd suffer until the true conditions of the will were made known. But for some reason the thought of her distress gave him less satisfaction than it should.

He'd had his chance and he'd failed. The bitterness rose in his throat. What a perfect revenge the old earl had devised. A wonderful three-part revenge – first the humiliation of a forced courtship to an insolently contemptuous wildcat who would never make a man a decent wife, then the hideous mortification of rejection, and then the wretched existence of an idle, impoverished nobleman with a grand house and no means to maintain it.

What other kind of a life was there for him, a disgraced soldier in the midst of war? Society might ignore the whispers if they concerned a wealthy earl in full possession of a magnificent inheritance. But the spectacle he would now present would be pathetic.

He passed a weary hand over his face, then blinked rapidly and stared out of the window. A figure was flitting across the lawn to the rose arbor. An unmistakable figure in the moonlight, with that cascade of raven's-wing hair falling down her back, and her lithe, swinging stride.