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  “Anything will do, Cummings. I consider myself one of the family, you know.”

  “Indeed, sir, that you are,” said Cummings warmly. “And if I may say so, sir, Lady Malcolm will be overjoyed to learn of your safe arrival. Have I your leave to take word to her directly?”

  “The sooner the better. How is she, Cummings?”

  The butler must have sensed Derek’s anxiety. He shot him a look that was almost fatherly. “Perfectly stout, I assure you, sir. Nothing to worry about. But, if I may speak frankly—? Thank you, sir.” His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “I believe she’s feeling a bit low, Mr. Whittaker. It’s rather a burden, you know, being surrounded by the family, and everyone so anxious for a boy.”

  “Aye, it would be,” agreed Derek.

  “Here we are, sir. The blue room.”

  “Thanks very much. I say, Cummings.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do I know the Ellsworths?”

  Cummings looked mildly surprised. “Do you not, Mr. Whittaker? Dear me. I should have explained. They are very old friends of the family, sir. Sir Peter Ellsworth is the holder of a large estate in Derbyshire. He and Lady Ellsworth generally visit with us for a few weeks, this time of year. And a friend of Lady Hannah’s, Lady Cynthia Fitzwilliam, is stopping here as well, with her mother, Lady Ballymere.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Yes, sir. Lord Grafton and his family, Lord Malcolm and his family, the Ellsworths, Lady Ballymere and her daughter, and yourself. A small party. With Lady Malcolm in a delicate condition, it was thought best that we refrain from entertaining on a grand scale this year.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Derek was about to dismiss the butler, but paused. What had Cummings said about the Ellsworths? A large estate in Derbyshire. And doubtless known to make an extended stay with the Chase family this time of year. Had he stumbled on the reason for Cynthia materializing at Oldham Park?

  He looked back at Cummings. “Tell me, Cummings. Do the Ellsworths have a son with them, by any chance?”

  The butler looked even more surprised. “Yes, sir. They do indeed. Their son John, a most amiable young man.”

  “Their eldest son, no doubt?”

  “Their only child, sir. How did you know?”

  Derek gave a bark of mirthless laughter. “Just a lucky guess, Cummings. Just a lucky guess.”

  Chapter 4

  By the time Cynthia reached her bedchamber, reaction had set in. Her hands were shaking. Her lower lip was quivering. It was only through an effort of will that she prevented tears from welling in her eyes. The shock of seeing Derek again had been greater than she had anticipated. And his contempt for her had been intense, deeper even than she had feared it would be.

  It now seemed laughable that she had doubted he would remember her. Of course he remembered her. She had been a fool, telling herself how unlikely it was that he would. She had deluded herself into believing that things were different for men, that the encounter that had changed her forever had probably meant nothing to him. But it had meant something to him. Cynthia had humiliated him, and a man never forgot that.

  Thank heaven she had ridden out to meet him. She had told herself that she was going to warn him, “just in case.” But her attempt to intercept him, to warn him that he must brace himself to endure her company, had really been an attempt to arm herself. She did not want to see him again for the first time in a room full of other people.

  Well. She had doubtless received the treatment she deserved. He obviously remembered her just as clearly as she remembered him. And he despised her, as any right-thinking man would.

  The change in his demeanor was hard to bear. Recalling the ardent warmth that had lit his face when he looked at her, it was painful to see how cold and forbidding his aspect had become. He was still breathtakingly handsome, with the same heart-melting brown eyes, the same tall, athletic build, and that gorgeous hair that made a lady long to run her hands through the thick, dark waves of it. It hurt to think that she would never have that opportunity again. It hurt to think that he would never smile at her with his heart in his eyes, the way he had three years ago. She had thrown it all away. She had killed it.

  At the time, she had honestly believed that she had no choice. If that were true then, it was just as true today. But was it true? She was no longer certain. At seventeen, everything had seemed so clear. But the older she grew, it seemed, the more she questioned…well, everything. With every year that passed, she knew less and doubted more. It was horrid, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

  She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, removing her hat with trembling fingers. She was exhausted. She had slept little last night. As soon as she had known, beyond doubt, that Derek Whittaker was Lady Malcolm’s brother—and, in truth, the physical resemblance was so strong, she felt she ought to have guessed it immediately—her anxiety had been at fever-pitch. She had ridden out directly after breakfast to make sure she encountered him on the road. Her objective achieved, all she wanted now was rest.

  Part of her longed to crawl back into bed and stay there for a week. But that was, of course, the cowardly part. She would not surrender to her fear. She would get up again, and go downstairs, and face Derek. Eventually. She moved numbly toward the narrow couch, unbuttoning her jacket and trying not to think.

  “Cynthia, dear? Is that you?” Her mother’s fretful voice sounded from the adjoining room. “Heavens, child, where have you been? I’ve been half mad with worry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. The mare cast a shoe,” called Cynthia. “I’ve only just returned.” She sank down on the couch and dropped her head back against the ridge of smooth mahogany that ran along its back. She closed her eyes, heaving a deep sigh. Rest now. Think later.

  But, of course, she would not be allowed to rest after making such a sensational announcement.

  “Mercy on us!” Rapid footsteps approached. “Were you thrown?”

  “No, Mama.” She opened her eyes. Her mother stood in the doorway that linked their two bedchambers, clad in a loose dressing gown and clutching a still-wet pen.

  “Well, thank goodness for that. Put your feet up, child. I’ll ring for a nice, hot bath. We can’t have you falling asleep over your cards tonight. I heard you promise Mr. Ellsworth a hand of piquet. And although it’s often best to let the gentleman win—”

  “A bath sounds lovely,” said Cynthia quickly, before her mother could go any farther down that path. She softened her interruption by obediently putting her feet up. “But I’m not as tired as I would have been. I only had to walk for a short while.” She took a steadying breath, bracing herself to say Derek’s name without betraying any emotion. “I happened to encounter Mr. Whittaker on the road. Lady Malcolm’s brother, you know.”

  “That was fortunate.” Lady Ballymere tugged briskly on the bell rope. “So he brought you back to the house, did he? What’s he like?”

  Cynthia closed her eyes again, to avoid meeting her mother’s keen gaze. “Young,” she said vaguely. “He looks quite a bit like Lady Malcolm, in fact. Tall, like her. And he has the same dark eyes. The same smile. His hair is like hers, too.”

  “Oh, I don’t care for curly-haired men,” said Lady Ballymere, a bit too quickly. “There’s something distinctly feminine about curls, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Cynthia obediently, suppressing a flash of irritation. But she could not resist adding, “Although Mr. Whittaker’s hair is not as curly as his sister’s.”

  Lady Ballymere gave a rather unconvincing little laugh. “You seem to have studied him quite carefully.”

  Cynthia again felt the frisson of annoyance, and again suppressed it. “I saw what anyone would see.”

  Fortunately, a housemaid scratched on the door in answer to Lady Ballymere’s summons, so her mother was occupied for a moment in ordering Cynthia’s bath. By the time the door closed once more behind the maid, Cynthia had recovered her poise. It would not do, to let
her mother see how close her emotions were to the surface.

  Lady Ballymere hovered, irresolute, near the center of the room. “Well,” she said at last, “I shall just go and finish up my letter to your father. Enjoy your bath, my love.”

  Cynthia managed a smile. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Lady Ballymere swept out of the room, but paused just beyond the doorway. “Is he handsome?”

  Cynthia tried to look puzzled. “Whom do you mean?”

  “Young Mr. Whittaker, of course.”

  She pretended to consider the matter. “Yes, I believe you would call him handsome. But you may judge for yourself tonight, Mama. I daresay he will be present at dinner.”

  “Pooh! As if what I thought made any difference.” But Lady Ballymere seemed reassured; Cynthia must have convinced her that Derek had made no particular impression. She left Cynthia alone, at any rate, to bathe in peace.

  It was excessively tiresome to be watched all the time, but Cynthia understood her mother’s reasons. It would be catastrophic for Cynthia to fall in love. Her entire family was bound in a silent conspiracy to prevent that calamity if they could. So far, they had been successful…as far as they knew. Lady Ballymere’s attempts to monitor Cynthia’s opinions regarding every man she encountered were annoying, but at least they were transparent. Cynthia saw the little digs and prods coming and was able, therefore, to deflect them somewhat.

  She used to feel guilty about the tiny deceptions she practiced every day, pulling the wool over her mother’s prying eyes. No more. The battle to maintain her privacy had loomed ever larger over the years. Her need for privacy now superseded, in her mind, her mother’s right to know. And in the present circumstances—with so much to hide—she would fight fiercely to evade her mother’s constant poking and probing. A girl had to have some secrets.

  The relaxing effect of the bath enhanced her tiredness. She dried her hair before the fire, then crept between the sheets of her bed and slept dreamlessly. She woke, hours later, to her mother’s gentle shaking.

  “Cynthia, my love, are you ill? It’s time to dress for dinner.”

  She sat up groggily. “As late as that? No, Mama, I am not ill.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and yawned.

  Lady Ballymere regarded her worriedly. “I hope you are not contracting a cold. It’s most unlike you, to sleep the day away.”

  “I didn’t sleep last night.” The unguarded words slipped past her sleep-drugged wits. Cynthia immediately regretted them.

  Her mother’s eyes sharpened. “Why ever not?”

  “I don’t know.” That was almost a lie, and Cynthia was sorry for it. She amended it by saying, “It doesn’t matter.” Still, she could not meet her mother’s eyes. She stood and wandered toward the wardrobe. “Shall I wear the yellow crepe tonight, or the blue silk?”

  Matters of dress were Lady Ballymere’s chief preoccupation. As Cynthia had hoped, her mother’s thoughts were instantly diverted. “You wore the blue silk last Wednesday.”

  “I don’t mean the dark blue. I mean the new one.” She lifted the gown from the box where it had been packed. Tissue paper drifted to the floor. Shimmering folds of ice blue silk cascaded over her fingers. “I’ve never worn it.”

  “No, no, my dear. That’s glacé silk; not suitable for a mere family dinner—even at Oldham Park. We’re saving that one. Tsk! Let me repack it; you’ll crease the fabric.” Her mother almost snatched the dress from Cynthia and began deftly folding it, frowning as she did so. “You must not be careless with your clothing, Cynthia. You know perfectly well how limited our resources are.”

  Oh, yes, she knew perfectly well.

  The complaining tone in her mother’s voice did not escape her, either. She knew it was considered her fault that the family’s resources were limited—not that she had done anything to limit them. She was held responsible for doing nothing to replenish them. The fact that her betrothal to Sir James had brought ten thousand pounds into the family’s coffers three years ago had not satisfied her parents. On the contrary, it had whetted their appetite for more. And no one but Cynthia saw any unfairness in blaming her for the family’s straitened circumstances. True, everyone agreed that it was Lord Ballymere’s enthusiasm for fast horseflesh and high living that had run them into debt. But since everyone believed that Cynthia could rectify the situation, if she only would, the family’s resentment was aimed squarely at her.

  And, lately, she had begun to aim a little of her own resentment right back at them. This phenomenon was so unsettling that Cynthia could scarcely acknowledge it, even to herself. But her resentment was quietly growing, nevertheless.

  She donned the shell pink dinner dress her mother chose, deferring, as usual, to her mother’s authority. But beneath the surface, Cynthia suffered tiny stirrings of mutiny. She said nothing, of course. She just wished—silently—that she could have worn the ice blue.

  She needed to feel herself the Frost Fair tonight. She needed to look the part. She appeared far too inviting in baby-soft pink. It warmed her complexion and softened all the edges she worked so hard to sharpen. The flattering hue made her look lush and winsome and approachable. Tonight she needed to look—she needed to be—as remote and untouchable as the winter moon.

  * * *

  The drawing room at Oldham Park was cozy. Magnificent, but cozy. The effect was achieved through a wood fire that crackled at one end of it, and a diminution of the room’s gigantic proportions through judicious placement of the furniture. When Derek arrived, a footman was just lighting the last of the tapers that brightened the seating area. The duke and duchess had settled near the fire, but both rose courteously to their feet as Derek entered.

  “Mr. Whittaker, how lovely to see you again,” murmured the duchess, extending her hand with old-fashioned grace. “Welcome to Oldham Park.”

  Derek bowed over her hand, expressed his appreciation at being allowed to come and keep his sister company, then turned to bow to the duke. The formality of the duke and duchess’s manners maintained an illusion of distance, but Derek knew that their hospitality was sincere. Malcolm’s parents cherished warm feelings for their children, and, for Malcolm and Natalie’s sake, were even prepared to extend those warm feelings to Derek.

  The duke invited Derek to sit. He did so, taking a place near the duchess, and she favored him with a slight smile. “How did you find your sister, Mr. Whittaker?”

  “Very well, thank you, Your Grace.” His eyes twinkled. “Although she doesn’t seem to realize it.”

  The duke nodded in approval. “So I think. Nothing to worry about. She has a fine, healthy glow about her.”

  The duchess gave a mournful little sigh. “Ah, poor girl. To me, she seems quite worn down. But you men know nothing of what we women suffer.”

  “Nor do we wish to,” Derek agreed. “I’m told the child kicks so hard at night, it wakes even Malcolm.”

  “Excellent,” exclaimed the duke. “He’ll be a true Chase. Strong and vigorous.”

  Derek almost winced. Natalie had told him, in despairing tones, that His Grace invariably used the masculine pronoun when referring to the babe. She dreaded handing the Chase family another disappointment. Pippa’s birth had been bad enough. Everyone adored the toddler now, but, when she had first arrived, the entire Chase family had been cast into gloom.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the drawing room door opened to admit The Honorable Philippa Chase, who ran in as fast as her short legs would carry her. Derek instantly abandoned the formality he had donned for the duke and duchess. He dropped on one knee, opened his arms, and shouted, “Pippa!”

  The child ran straight at him, squealing with delight. “Unca Deck!” she crowed. He caught her, laughing, and planted a loud kiss on her plump cheek.

  “Have you been a good girl?”

  “Goo’ girl,” she asserted, nodding so emphatically that her dusky ringlets bounced.

  Malcolm’s older daughter, Sarah, was never far from Pippa’s side. She
entered the room with the dignity befitting an elder sister, scolding with mock exasperation. “Pippa, I told you not to run. How are you, Uncle Derek?”

  “Missing my best girl. How are you, sweeting?” He scooped Pippa up in one arm and rose to give Sarah a hug with the other. Sarah considered herself too old to be petted like a baby, but Derek suspected that a girl still several months shy of her ninth birthday was young enough to need a little cosseting. She ducked her head shyly but she did hug him back, and her cheeks went pink with pleasure.

  It always tickled him to see Sarah and Pippa together. There was no discernible likeness between the two half-sisters, because each favored her mother. Robust Pippa had Natalie’s dark curls and enormous brown eyes, and seemed to be born to laugh. Sarah was delicate and serious, with pale hair and paler skin, and the spectacles perched on her little nose made her look wise beyond her years. But their mutual devotion was a pleasure to witness, and spoke volumes for Natalie’s ability to link her little family with bonds of affection stronger than mere blood ties.

  Malcolm and Natalie walked in behind Sarah, bringing up the rear. Natalie leaned heavily on Malcolm’s arm. She was wearing a loose gown that made her seem huge, but Malcolm handled her as gently as if she were the daintiest object in the room. He saw to Natalie’s comfort, settling her beside the duchess in the place Derek had vacated, before turning to shake hands with his brother-in-law.

  “How are you, you young ruffian? Natalie tells me you rode all the way up here ventre à terre, you were in such a hurry to reach her. Don’t you think I know how to take care of my own wife?”

  Derek grinned. “I didn’t want to miss the big event. Looks to me like I arrived in the nick of time.”

  “Oh, I do hope you are right,” exclaimed Natalie fervently. “It seems to take forever.”