"I wish you a speedy recovery, ma'am." Tarquin bowed to the flustered Lucy and left them.

"Oh, he's so kind," breathed Lucy.

"It seems so," Juliana said, ruffled. "And yet I don't believe he ever does anything that doesn't suit him. I don't believe he would ever really put himself out for someone. He's kind only when it doesn't inconvenience him. But he would as easily leave someone bleeding by the roadside if his direction took him elsewhere or he didn't have the time to help."

Even as she spoke, she remembered how he'd come to her rescue when Lucien was tormenting her and how overpoweringly grateful she'd been to see him. Lucien was now banned from the house because he'd hurt her. Family quarrels were incredibly inconvenient, and yet the duke had sacrificed his peace to champion Juliana. Of course, he'd exposed her to the dangers of Lucien in the first place, so strictly speaking it was his responsibility to repair the damage.

Lucy was looking reproachful but understanding, and Juliana remembered that she had yet to explain Tarquin's generous offer to set the girl on her feet again. It was.certainly kind of him but would hardly inconvenience him. He had so much wealth, he wouldn't notice such a sum. Quentin had said his brother was generous to a fault, but was it true generosity when one could give without the slightest sacrifice to oneself?

However, she was obliged to listen to Lucy's astonished gratitude, singing the duke's praises to the heavens when she heard of her good fortune.

******************************************************************

Tarquin was seated at his desk, rewriting a speech his secretary had written for him to give to the House of Lords that evening. His secretary was a worthy soul, but somewhat dull, and the duke was convinced the speech would send its presenter to sleep halfway through it, let alone his audience. Not that his peers would pay much attention to the most exciting debate. They'd be snoring off a large and bibulous dinner, for the most part.

He looked up as Juliana came in on her knock. She curtsied demurely. "You wished to see me, my lord duke?"

He pushed back his chair and beckoned to her. When she came to him, he took her hands in his, turning them palm up. To her astonishment he raised them to his lips and kissed her palms. "How are your bruises, mignonne?"

"My shoulders are still sore, despite Henny's arnica," she responded, her voice strangely thick. His breath rustled warmly over her hands, which he now held clasped together against his mouth. He kissed each pointed knuckle in turn, his tongue darting snakelike between her bent fingers, each moist, swift, unexpected stroke lifting the fine hairs on her nape, her skin prickling with excitement.

"Have you forgiven me for not getting to Lucien in time?" The wicked little caresses continued, his lips now nuzzling the backs of her hands, his teeth playfully grazing the skin.

Juliana was losing her grip on reality. She barely heard his words. Her feet shifted on the Persian carpet, and she gazed down at the top of his bent head, distractedly noticing how his hair waved thickly back from his broad forehead. How could she say she hadn't forgiven him for anything when one loving touch could turn her body to molten lava?

He looked up, folding her hands securely in his. His eyes were smiling but his tone was grave. "There is so much to enjoy, mignonne. Can we take a pleasanter path from here on?"

Juliana could find no words. Her body said one thing, her mind another. How could she possibly forget that she was still captive to his plan? She was still to bear his child, to give it up to his sole control, to live a life of deceit, emotionally dependent on the duke's continuing favor. She looked down at him, her eyes bewildered but her tongue silent.

After a long minute Tarquin released her hands. There was regret in his eyes, but he said in an equably normal tone, "I think it's time for you to return Lady Melton's visit. One mustn't be backward in the courtesies."

"No," Juliana agreed, eagerly grasping this ordinary topic as a lifeline through the labyrinth of her confusion. "Should I go alone?"

"No, I'll take you up in my phaeton." He examined her appearance with a critical air. "I don't care for the breast knot on that gown. It spoils the line of the bodice."

Juliana looked down at the little posy of silk orchids sown to the low neck of her gown. "I thought them pretty."

"So they are, but not on you. They're too frilly . . . fussy." He waved a hand in an impatient gesture. "Your bosom needs no decoration."

"Oh," said Juliana.

"Change your gown now, and tell Henny to remove the flowers before you wear it again."

"As you command, my lord duke." Juliana swept him a low curtsy. "Do you have any other instructions regarding my costume, sir?"

"Not for the moment," he replied, ignoring her sardonic tone. "Except that I have yet to see you in the blue-sprigged muslin. It opens over a dark-blue petticoat, as I recall. There's a lace fichu that will be sufficiently modest for paying a visit to a house in mourning."

Juliana confined her response to another exaggeratedly submissive curtsy. Tarquin's eyes glowed with amusement. "You may have half an hour." He sat down at his desk again, picking up his quill in pointed dismissal.

Juliana stalked upstairs to change into the required gown. It was such a wonderful relief to be simply annoyed with him again. Her emotions were so much clearer when she was responding to his dictatorial manner than when he confused her with softness and the spellbinding invitation of his caresses.

He was awaiting her in the hall when she came down just within the half hour, carrying her gloves and fan. She paused on the bottom step, tilting her head to one side inquiringly as she invited his inspection.

Tarquin solemnly ran his eyes from the top of her head to the toe of her kid slippers. Then he described a circle with his forefinger. Juliana stepped to the hall and slowly turned around.

"Yes, much better," he pronounced. "Let us go. The phaeton is at the door."

He handed her up and took his seat beside her. "It won't be necessary to spend more than fifteen minutes with Lady Melton. If she's unavailable, you may leave your card."

"But I don't have a card."

"Yes, you do." He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a crisp white card on which, in an elegant hand, was inscribed, "Viscountess, Lady Edgecombe." "My secretary took the task upon himself. He has a good hand, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Better than mine," Juliana responded, turning the card between her fingers. It seemed to give her a sense of permanence, as if she could really begin to see herself as Lady Edgecombe. As if nothing could now dislodge her from this extraordinary peak.

At the Melton residence Tarquin handed the reins to his groom, who leaped from the back ledge to take them, and stepped to the street. Juliana gathered her skirts around her and prepared to alight, holding prudently on to the side of the carriage as she gingerly put her foot on the top step.

"I think it might be safer all round if I lift you down," Tarquin said, observing these wise precautions. Taking her around the waist, he swung her to the ground and remained holding her waist until he was certain she was firmly lodged on her two feet.

His hands at her waist were hard and warm, and he held her for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Juliana felt the old confusion rushing back, but then he was ushering her up the steps through the door held by a bowing footman, and into the hall. He handed the footman his card and gestured to Juliana that she should do the same. The footman bowed them into the salon.

Once more in possession of her senses, Juliana looked around with interest. The furnishings were old-fashioned and heavy, for the most part draped in dark holland covers. The curtains were pulled halfway over the long windows, plunging the room into gloom.