What was this mysterious sickness? A legacy of the war, perhaps? There were many men across the continent crippled by such legacies.

She picked up the fetid bowl, covered it with a cloth from the washstand, and carried it away, leaving the room as quietly as she'd entered it.

Theo was coming up the stairs as her mother descended them. "Has Stoneridge come out of his room yet, Mama?"

"No, and I don't believe he will do so for some time," Elinor said. "He's sleeping at the moment."

"But what's the matter with him?" Theo exclaimed in frustration. "How could he just disappear like that for two days?"

"I expect it's something to do with his war injury," Elinor replied matter-of-factly. "Nothing to do with any of us." She continued past her daughter, taking the bowl into the kitchens.

Theo chewed her lip. Then she ran up the stairs to the earl's door. Her hand lifted to knock, but something held her back. Some overpowering sense of intrusion.

Her hand fell and she turned away. He couldn't stay there forever, but neither could she spend another day pacing the house, checkmated.

There was always work to do and she'd bury her frustration in fresh air, exercise, and useful business.

Thus she wasn't in the house when Henry returned in the late afternoon. He was tired, having ridden since early morning, changing horses frequently to maintain his pace. But the roads were good, and he'd made excellent time. Tucked in his pocket was a copy of the Gazette, snatched at dawn from a vendor with the ink barely dry.

He left his horse in the stable and hastened into the house, wondering if the earl was still abed, or whether the attack had been a short one. They were very rarely short, but they'd never lasted more than two days.

Foster greeted him with the lofty condescension of an old retainer not yet prepared to accept a newcomer. "His lordship remains in his bedchamber, Henry."

"I see. Then he'll be wanting some tea, no doubt," Henry said briskly, not in the least put out by Foster's attitude. "Do us a favor and ask them in the kitchen to brew a pot. And hot water for his lordship's bath. I'll be down to fetch it when I've seen how he's doing."

Without waiting to see how his request was received, he hurried up the stairs, entering his lordship's chamber without ceremony.

The curtains were still drawn at the windows but had been pulled back around the bed.

"Ah, Henry, good man. You succeeded?"

The earl's voice was strong, and Henry stepped over to the bed, knowing what he would see. Stoneridge smiled at him, his eyes clear, his complexion, despite the stubble, pale but healthy.

He exuded an aura of peace, as if some hideous demon had been exorcised.

"Aye, my lord, I have it here." He handed the paper to his employer. "I'll fetch you up some tea and toast, if you'd like."

"Mmmm, thanks," Sylvester said absently, his eyes scanning the announcements. "I'm hungry as a hunter." He nodded with satisfaction at the brief notice of his engagement. It would require a lot more than vague reluctance or simple indecision on his fiancee's part to undo that announcement. He never thought he'd be thankful for an attack, but that one might well have proved timely.

"You'll be wanting a bath, too, sir."

"God, yes, I'm rank," the earl declared, folding the newspaper, running his hand over his chin with a grimace of distaste. "I must reek to high heaven."

Henry grinned with relief. "Not that you'd notice, sir. But I'll see to it right away."

Two hours later the earl examined his reflection in the cheval glass with a nod of satisfaction. His tasseled Hessians glimmered in the fading sunlight, olive pantaloons molded his calves and thighs, and his coat of dark-brown superfine outlined the muscles of his shoulders as if it had been made on him.

His close-cropped hair had a luster to it, his skin bore the glow of health and well-being, and he was filled with the euphoria that always followed the hell. His young cousin wasn't going to be able to present him with any insuperable difficulties. He picked up the Gazette, tapping it against the palm of his hand. No, that hotheaded gypsy was going to come sweetly to heel.

He left his bedroom, strolling toward the stairs. He heard Theo's voice in the hall, talking to Foster with that breathless catch that meant she knew she was late. He glanced at his fob watch. It was almost six o'clock, and he'd lay any odds she'd only just come in from the fields.

He stepped into a deep window embrasure as he heard her booted feet racing up the magnificent wooden staircase.

"Late again, cousin." He stepped out of the shadows just as she came abreast of him. His eyes teased her, his smile told her that his scolding tone wasn't in earnest.

"Oh, you startled me!" She stopped dead. "You're always doing that, Stoneridge."

"I beg your pardon, gypsy." He caught her wrist, pulling her into the embrasure with him. "I've missed you." His hand cupped her chin.

"Where've you been? What's been the matter with you?" she demanded in bewildered frustration, trying to pull back from his hold.

"Just an old war wound," he said with a dismissive head shake, his fingers closing over her chin.

"I have to talk -" The rest was lost under his mouth, and the familiar tingling began as her blood heated. His hand ran down her back, curved over her bottom in a lingering caress. Warning bells jangled, but she could barely hear them through the pounding blood in her ears. She reached against him, her own hands lifting to encircle his neck, flattening against his nape, holding him much more strongly than he was holding her. The taste and the smell of him sent all her senses reeling, and the whirlpool beckoned like the sirens' song…

Until he reached behind him to untwine her hands from his neck and the bells crashed their warning with renewed force. But he gave her no chance to speak. His thumb flattened on her reddened lips, his eyes smiled, but his voice was cool and collected.

"Make haste and change, Theo. We don't want any more unpleasantness over the dinner table." As if in reinforcement, the long case clock in the hall chimed six.

"But I -"

"Hurry," he said, increasing the pressure of his thumb. "You can't keep everyone waiting while dinner spoils."

Her eyes darkened with frustration, but he read acceptance in them also. Removing his thumb, he bent and kissed her eyelids, then, chuckling, pinched the tip of her nose and strode off toward the stairs.

"Hell and the devil," Theo muttered, wringing her hands, not knowing whether she wanted to strangle him or hold him so tightly he would never break free.

She stood in the embrasure wasting precious minutes until Clarissa came running up the staircase. "Theo… oh, there you are. What are you doing? Lord Stoneridge asked me to help you dress. He said you were going to be very late otherwise."

Theo glanced at her hands. She wanted to strangle him… that was all. He'd outmaneuvered her, and the damn man was still giving the orders.

Clarissa was urging her down the corridor, and with a sigh, she yielded. There was nothing to be done at the moment. After dinner she'd have her discussion. He'd have to understand that his indisposition… or whatever it was… was responsible for the delay.

"Which gown?" Clarissa demanded, flinging open the armoire. "The sprig muslin with the green ribbon knots is pretty."

"I'm not interested in pretty, Clarry. Just clean and tidy," Theo stated repressively, flinging off her riding habit. "Pass me the green linen."

"But that's so plain!" Clarissa bemoaned.

"It's clean and tidy," Theo articulated carefully, lifting the ewer to pour water into the basin.

"But you're dining with your fiance…"

"I am not!" She splashed water vigorously over her face. "In the name of goodness, Clarry, stop this romantic twaddle. I am not marrying Stoneridge. It's as simple as that."