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THE CHANGELING BRIDE

By

Lisa Cach

Contents

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue

To Mom and Dad.

LOVE SPELL

October 1999

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

276 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10001

Copyright © 1999 by Lisa Cach

ISBN 0-505-52342-6

The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester

Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Prologue

England, 1790s

"I do not think I can go through with it."

She gave him no answer. He had not expected one.

"The entire arrangement galls me. I feel like a bull on the auction block, going to the highest bidder. A man should not be reduced to such a thing." Henry paced in front of his great-grandmother, who sat like a shrivelled gnome under layers of shawls. He was not certain she remained capable of either seeing or hearing him, and it had been at least two years since she had spoken. She had always been a good listener, though, and he liked to think some part of her listened still.

"I should not balk, I know. A marriage of convenience has never been a dishonourable arrangement."

He dropped into the chair across from her, the wooden joints creaking under his weight. "But I wonder what Grandfather would have thought if he had seen the new Earl of Allsbrook going hat in hand to a merchant, bartering his title for cash?" He paused, considering that idea.

"Perhaps he would not have disapproved. He always, after all, put duty before all other considerations, pride included. Pity Father did not share his view."

He looked at his great-grandmother, at the wrinkled face and the half-closed eyes that never seemed to blink. Even when he was a child, she had been old and mysterious, and had spent all her time in her suite of rooms, doing he knew not what.

"Of course, there are the girl's sentiments to be considered as well—not that I think she is old enough to know her own mind on the matter. She is not in the least bit eager for this marriage."

He briefly lost himself in the recollection of the shouting match he had been unable to avoid overhearing between father and daughter. It had been during his first and only visit to his betrothed, and although the sliding doors to the drawing room had been closed, his fiancée's voice had carried through the wood with piercing stridency. "I will not have him! He will spend all my money on his stupid farms and stick me away in his decrepit old house, where I will never see my friends and never have new clothes, and the air will smell of sheep."

A bellow of rage from her father had drowned out any further complaints. When Henry was introduced to his betrothed half an hour later, she was white-faced and red-eyed, but outwardly compliant. That was, until her father had left them alone together.

"If you insist on this marriage," she had warned him, her lips tight over the words, "I will do everything in my power to make your life a living hell."

Henry tried to shake the memory from his mind. "She is perhaps not as bad as she seems," he said, more to himself than to the silent figure in front of him. "She is pleasing in form and face. She has an eye for fashion. She has been taught proper behavior, and her father assures me that she knows well the running of a house. And I cannot forget the money."

A silence lengthened, broken finally by a log shifting in the fire. As if the thought were dislodged from some hidden depth by that falling piece of wood, he added softly, "And yet, I could have wished for a happy marriage."

Chapter One

Present Day

Elle had the uncomfortable feeling that eyes were following her as she made her hasty way up the wet sidewalk. She was not late for work, but the sense of being watched made her feel exposed and vulnerable, and she hurried through the rain to reach her building.

This wasn't the first time this week that she had felt as if she was being followed when she came downtown, as if someone hidden from view was tracking her every step. She wanted to laugh at the foolishness of the idea, but couldn't. Either someone really was stalking her or some essential part of her personality was cracking and falling apart. Neither conclusion was reassuring.

"Hey, lady, spare a quarter?"

Elle almost tripped, surprised by the slurred demand. She'd been so busy checking over her shoulder for the unseen pursuer that she hadn't noticed the derelict hunched in the doorway. She sidestepped quickly, averting her eyes from the stick figure in ragged clothes.

"Lady, lady! Spare a quarter for a veteran?" he called, accusation in his voice.

Elle hurried her step. She hated being harassed by street people.

She had made it to the end of the block and was waiting for the walk signal when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Startled, she turned quickly, jerking her arm away from the unknown hand. It was the derelict from the doorway, staring at her with wide green eyes that were incongruously beautiful. Those eyes locked her in place, drowning her in shades of pale green and gold.

"Wanna come with me?" he asked.

She hardly heard what he said, too engrossed in wondering how he had eyes so clear and perfect, when his face was ravaged by age and life on the streets.

His proposition finally broke through the spell his eyes had cast on her, and Elle stepped back in disgust. He started to laugh, the remaining teeth in his mouth yellow and rotting, his tongue sliding over them in a parody of lasciviousness.

The signal changed, and she dashed across the street, not looking back until two blocks later, when she reached the building where she worked. There was no sign of him.

Wilhelmina Regina March—Elle or Ellie to those with half a hope of becoming her friend—decided that this day that had started so badly with the transient was showing no signs of improvement. Not that it was a day any worse than the one before, or more dispiriting than she anticipated tomorrow being.

She thought this as she sat at her desk, which itself sat like a coral atoll in a sea of burgundy carpeting. It was alone in the reception room but for a hunter green couch and a brass spittoon that pretended to be a planter. The silence of the room buzzed in her ears.

She swiveled at the hub of the circular station, her ergonomically correct chair rolling easily across the sheet of plastic beneath her feet, making a quiet clickety-click. She reached up and adjusted the delicate black headset she wore, its tiny microphone hanging near the corner of her mouth.

She pressed a button next to the blinking light on her phone. "Conner, Conner, and Polanski," she said, her diction perfect, her tone pleasant yet impersonal. "How may I direct your call?" She stared at the empty couch as she transferred the call, then swiveled to look through the windows at the gray, heavy sky. The high walls of her circular pen cut off half the view, so all she saw were the tops of cranes in the industrial district near the river, silhouetted against the ever-present bank of clouds. It would rain again by the time she left for the day.

There came another softly blinking light on the phone. "Conner, Conner, and Polanski," she said for the hundredth time today, her phone voice carrying the conversation without conscious thought. "How may I direct your call?"

When she had taken this job she'd told all her friends that it was just for the money, and for no more than a year. She had said it was only to support herself and pay off some of those student loans until she got on her feet with a real career.

Three years later and she had a small collection of cheap business suits appropriate for the lobby of an investment firm. She was running out of excuses in her own mind for staying on and didn't know herself what it was that kept her locked in her padded chair.

"Conner, Conner, and Polanski." Two and a half more hours and she could go home. Tatiana would be waiting for her. At least that was one bright spot she could count on. "How may I direct your call?"

Elle shuffled down the aisle behind the others as the bus came to a halt at her stop, and had to leap from the bottom step to the curb to avoid a deep puddle with oily sludge floating on the surface. She had taken but a few steps into the rain when she heard a splash behind her. She turned and saw an old woman, wearing the layered clothing of the homeless, sprawled half in the puddle, half on the sidewalk, her pant legs askew and raised to show bare withered calves veined like marble.

Fellow passengers stepped around her and hurried on their way as if she were invisible, and behind her the door to the bus closed with a hydraulic hiss as the driver pulled back into traffic. Elle bit her lip, then returned to the woman and squatted down beside her, reaching out a hand to touch her.

"Are you okay? Can I help you up?"

The woman didn't answer, just rocked awkwardly on her back like a stranded turtle and made little grunting sounds.

"Let me help you up."

Elle got behind her and grabbed her under the arms, pulling her as gently as she could up onto the curb into a sitting position. The woman was light, despite her bulky appearance. It felt like she had more clothing than flesh under her ragged jacket.

"Are you okay?" Elle asked again. The woman was breathing heavily, but seemed disinclined to move. Her feet were still in the puddle, mud splattered up her ankles. Her knit cap had fallen off, and Elle picked it up and held it out to her.

"Here, you'd better put this back on. You're getting wet." The woman made no move to take it, so Elle set it in her lap.

The woman suddenly leaned away from Elle, groping along the sidewalk with one gnarled hand until she found the cane that had skittered away from her when she fell.

She took her hat and shoved it inside the front of her jacket, then with a surprising burst of strength stood up, leaning heavily on the cane. Elle stepped back, then reached out again to steady the woman, who swayed and seemed ready to fall.

"Ma'am, are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to help you get somewhere? Can I call someone for you?" Elle chewed her lip, uncertain. She didn't feel comfortable leaving the old woman, but she didn't know what to do with her, either.

"Do you want to come to my apartment?" Elle found herself asking, not believing those words were coming out of her mouth. She thought of the carpets she only walked on shoeless in hope of keeping them clean, the sofa she vacuumed weekly. She didn't have much money, but she had Lysol disinfectant, by God. "I can make you something to eat, maybe some tea, and you can use my phone."

The woman ignored her and reached an arthritis-warped hand into a pocket, fumbling around, searching for something. She drew out some old tissues that dropped to the ground and melted on the wet sidewalk, then poked through a handful of gum wrappers, lint, and bent paper clips. She found what, she wanted, a piece of heavily folded pink paper, and carefully lifted it in her twisted fingers, holding it out to Elle.

The old woman obviously wanted her to take it, so she did. The woman wrapped her cold hands around Elle's and squeezed. For the first time she looked directly at her, and Elle realized that the woman's eyes were the same yellow-green of the morning transient's, and their eerie intensity held her spellbound. The old woman smiled, as if with a secret, then turned and hobbled off, staggering from side to side every few steps but covering ground with unexpected speed.

Elle frowned after her, her lips parted in puzzlement. When the woman had disappeared into the slanting rain,

Elle looked down at the folded paper, then put it into her pocket. She'd throw it away when she got home.

"Tatiana darling, I'm home!" she called, opening the door to her apartment. It was hardly necessary, as Tatiana had heard her key in the door and was bounding down the hall even as she stepped inside. A smile curled her lips, her wet feet and the rain trickling down her scalp momentarily forgotten at the sight of her princess running to greet her.

She knelt down and opened her arms, burying her face in Tatiana's neck, rubbing her hands up and down Tatiana's lower spine in the way she knew the dog loved. She got her ear washed in returned, and then the big Samoyed wriggled out of her grasp and raced back down the hall, pouncing on a squeaky toy.

Tatiana had been a surprise birthday gift from her brother, Jeff, a testament to both his thoughtlessness and his clumsy affection for her. At first sight of the uncoordinated ball of fur, she had been in love, forcefully restraining herself from dribbling out all the nauseating endearments that immediately sprang to mind. "Darling. Precious. Widdle snookie-wookie-ums." She had said them all in her heart, but had refused to so debase herself as to utter them aloud.

What she had said instead, as she had cuddled the puppy to her chest and allowed it to chew her finger, was, "You know, don't you, that this means I'll have to find an apartment that allows dogs? And that I'll have to housebreak her, and walk her, and make sure she gets enough exercise, and pay for shots at the vet and spaying, not to mention a dog license and dog food?"

"Aw, but, Ellie, how could you refuse that face? Huh? Just look at her, she loves you already," Jeff had answered, a fatuous grin on his face as he snuggled his pregnant wife closer under his arm.

"Lemmee hold 'er, Aunt Ellie," three-and-a-half-year-old Clarence begged, tugging at her pants.

"Not right now, Clarence," she said, pulling away from his grasping little hands. She loved her nephew, but she wouldn't put her heavenly angel in a child's care. She summoned greater peevishness into her tone and continued, "And I'll have to take her to obedience school and groom her, and I'll get fleas in my carpet, and white hair all over everything I own. A dog is a big responsibility. Don't you listen to the Humane Society ads?"

She had kept her, though, and rearranged her life to suit Tatiana. She had found an apartment she could barely afford, one that not only allowed dogs but was right next to a forested park where Tatiana could run off the leash. Her consequently reduced finances had meant taking the bus to work and no cable television, but she admitted those changes were probably for the best. She also now got exercise whether she wanted it or not; mornings and late afternoons found her outside with a Frisbee or ball, doing anything to help Tatiana burn off energy.

She shed her parka and shoes, and walked through the apartment to the sliding glass doors that looked out on the forested park. Tatiana shoved rudely at her legs, wanting out, and when Elle slid open the door the dog squeezed past her, zipping off down the narrow apartment complex lawn and back again. Elle stood and watched, a smile on her lips that had been in absence most of the day.

The phone just inside the door rang, making her jump. Her face scrunched in annoyance as she went back inside to answer it. It was probably either Jeff or a telemarketer, neither of whom she wanted to talk to.

"Hello?"

"Ellie! Glad I caught you," Jeff's persistently cheerful voice was dulled by the buzz of a car phone. "Tina wanted me to call and ask you over to dinner tonight. I can pick you up on my way—I'm about fifteen minutes from your place as I speak."

"I was just going to give Tatiana her walk. Can we make it some other time? She hasn't been out all day."

"No problem, bring her along. You can walk her before dinner. After, too, if you eat too much, ha ha. Can't let you get fat on us, or we'll never find you a husband."

"Yeah, right. Look, Jeff, I'm just in a really bad mood tonight." She watched Tatiana through the door, sniffing around, hot on the trail of some rodent. The rain had lightened to a soft drizzle, and although the woods were gloomy beneath the trees, they still called to her.

"That's because you don't get out enough. What's the matter, you forget how to be sociable? It won't kill you to make an effort. Tina's feelings will be hurt if you don't come, and you know the kids adore you."

"Jeff…"

"C'mon, Ellie. For me?"

"Oh, fine. I'll come, but you have to promise to have me home by nine."

"No problemo."

Elle hung up and gave a snort of frustration with herself. When would she learn to say no? Giving in seemed to be what she did best.

Forty minutes later she and Tatiana unloaded themselves from Jeff's Ford Taurus in the driveway of his suburban home. The house was a variation on the same theme as all the others in the development: white plastic-latticed windows and neutral-colored siding, and a bay window beside the front door looking out on a patch of too-green lawn lined with bark dust and azaleas.

An unfamiliar car—an Escort with alloy wheels and a spoiler on its hatchback—was parked along the curb in front.

"Another guest?" Elle asked.

"Just Toby from work. You've heard me talk about him, haven't you?"

"Toby, as in single Toby? As in, 'Elle, why don't you go out with this great guy I know' Toby?"

"That's the one." Jeff gave his trademark grin.

Elle felt her stomach go hollow. Not again. "Jeff, what did I say last time? I thought you agreed to stop doing this."

"But maybe you'll like this one." He put his arm around her shoulders. "I just want to see you happy, you know that."

The front door opened and Tina came out onto the top step, the newest addition to the horde nestled against her shoulder.

"Ellie, how nice to see you. We have a special guest tonight, who came just to meet you." She paused, taking in Elle's apparel. "I wish you'd dressed a little more attractively… We'll just have to tell Toby you clean up good," she said, smiling.

Elle cringed, aware that her makeup was creased and oily on her face and that the grubby comfort clothes she had changed into were covered in dog hair and gave her the shape of a coffee can. The sweatshirt ended at her hips, and the leggings she wore beneath showed every pound of rump and thigh.

"Toby!" Tina called back into the house. "Toby! Come out and meet Jeff's little sister, Ellie."

The day was not improving with age.

Three hours later, with one of Tina's hamburger casseroles burbling unhappily in her stomach, Elle decided it was past time to go home. Toby was not bad-looking, but he took her quiet for an invitation to spout opinions on the Way Life Ought to Be, opinions with all the depth of thought, compassion, and factual accuracy of a Rush Limbaugh broadcast.

She made a show of looking at her watch, then sucked in her breath in false dismay. "Jeff, it's past nine. God, I'd really love to stay longer and chat, but I've got to get up early tomorrow."

"I could give you a lift home," Toby offered.

"Oh, really, that isn't necessary. I wouldn't want to make you go out of your way."

Toby pooh-poohed her protestations, seconded by Jeff, and minutes later Elle found herself out the door and on the way to the Escort, Tatiana trotting ahead onto the lawn, there to do her part in altering the uniform verdancy of the grass.

She felt a moment of malicious delight when she saw it dawn on Toby that Tatiana—fluffy, white, shedding Tatiana—would be riding in his precious car. She waited on the curb as he hastily flung borrowed newspapers over the small backseat in a desperate attempt to save his upholstery.

Toby's verbosity died a slow death on the ride home as Tatiana repeatedly attempted to crawl between them into the front seat, panted hotly in his ear, and drooled on his shoulder, and then, when forced to stay in back, drowned out his voice with the loud rustling and tearing of newspaper as she tore up and rearranged his improvised upholstery covers. She eventually settled down with a sigh and a final scrunching of paper, resting her muzzle on her paws and regarding the back of the seat with what Elle was sure was a profound disappointment at this sorry state of affairs.

Moments later the car filled with the stench of canine intestinal gas.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Toby swore, furiously rolling down his window. "Can't you teach that friggin' mutt some manners?"

"Tatiana is a perfectly well-mannered dog," Elle replied haughtily, her chin lifted. Insult her dog, would he? "She is not a mutt, either: She's a purebred Samoyed, and some would consider it an honor to be in her presence, flatulent or not."

Toby turned to glare at her incredulously, finally at a loss for words, then turned back to watching the road, his shoulders hunched in anger.

He did not so much as wish her a good night when he dropped her off outside her apartment, and then drove off with an unnecessary squeal of tires. Despite how little she had liked him, she felt a sense of depression descend on her as the car's taillights disappeared around the corner.

"Maybe there's something wrong with me," she said to Tatiana. "The problem can't always be with the guy, can it?"

She let herself into her apartment, too distracted to feel the green eyes that followed her every movement from the shadows beyond the parking lot. She would not have slept as well as she had that night if she had known how long those eyes kept watch.

Chapter Two

Elle lay in bed Saturday morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she should get up. A splatter of rain hit the window, and she turned to gaze out at skies dark with clouds.

It had been four days since the surprise blind date with toady Toby. Jeff had given him her number, and much to her distress, he had called twice, apparently finding no need to apologize for his behavior in the car. Maybe he was waiting for her to apologize.

She wanted to strangle Jeff for giving out her number, but she knew that her brother just wanted for her what he had—a spouse and kids and a two-car garage. She wondered sometimes, though, if she would ever find happiness through conventional routes.

"It's a malaise of the spirit, Tatiana, that's what it is."

Tatiana lifted her head off the bed and thumped her tail once uncertainly.

"Shall I expire of ennui? Is that how I'll go?" She pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead in a fainting pose. "Alone, nothing to show for my twenty-five years, in a dim little apartment I can't afford, with no one to mourn my loss? Do I sound melodramatic?"

Tatiana's tail thumped more rapidly, and her jaws opened in a soft pant.

Elle rolled out of bed and went to take a shower, scratching at her scalp on the way. When she was a child her hair had been the color of a bright new penny, but by the time she began to come to terms with that misfortune, nature had dulled the shade, as if hair, like copper, could tarnish. Her freckles, too, had faded with age, although perhaps that was a result of sunscreen, and summers spent indoors rather than out in the fields chasing crickets and dragonflies. Her eyes tilted up a bit at the corners and were a deep rich hazel, a striated mix of green and brown.

She soaped up in the shower and wondered for the thousandth time if she should start that diet she was always planning. It was only when trying on new clothes in the hideous glare of dressing-room lights that her weight truly bothered her. It was depressing to stand in one's underwear, getting that unfamiliar backside view, noticing anew the way her bottom and hips were padded with fat. Her bustline was unremarkable, usually set to disadvantage by a bra turned gray with age, the little satin bow between her breasts hanging crookedly by a final thread.

If she stayed away from fashion magazines, she could almost believe what a friend had once told her—and even take it as a compliment—that she had the figure of a Greek statue, symmetrical and proportionate, devoid of the overstated breasts and starved hips that populated advertisements. The friend had gone on to say that her face fit that description as well, for surely a strong nose such as hers was not fashionable today, but perhaps a few millennia ago, it and the rest of her face would have served as a model for Athena or Aphrodite. Elle liked to think so, but knew it wouldn't do her much good until she met a man who, upon setting eyes upon a museum statue of a Greek goddess, refrained from commenting on what a cow the goddess was.

She dried her celestial frame and dressed in mundane jeans and T-shirt, a goddess masquerading as merely mortal. She found a half-stale bagel and toasted it for breakfast, then ate it while standing at the kitchen counter contemplating the bunch of overripe bananas in her fruit bowl. Another Saturday, she mused, in the thrilling life of Wilhelmina March.

Elle pulled her parka hood over her head and stepped off her patio onto the squishy wet grass. Tatiana raced ahead, her white fur the only spot of brightness in the rain-drenched landscape.

Elle trudged along behind her, following her up the path that led into the woods. Mud sucked at her hiking boots and slid underfoot, and her breath was loud in her ears. If it weren't for Tatiana, she'd spend the day under a quilt on the couch, a book in one hand, a bowl of Hershey's Kisses in the other, banana bread in the oven.

Once under the canopy of evergreens, her mood lightened. There was nothing here to remind her that her student loan payments had doubled last month, or that it would be another ten years before she could even start to think about saving money to buy the bed-and-breakfast that was her vague dream for the future. No reminders of her dismal romantic life, either.

Tatiana crashed and bounded through the low-growing Oregon grape, collecting burrs in her long fur, her paws black with mud. Elle wished she could be equally as enthusiastic about exercise.

After trudging uphill through the mud for another ten minutes, she stopped to catch her breath, breathing heavily in the quiet. The hairs on the back of her neck started to rise, the feeling of being watched suddenly overwhelming her. She spun around, her heart in her throat, but all that faced her were trees and undergrowth, dripping and silent. Tatiana had disappeared.

"Tatiana! Here, girl!" she called, slapping her thigh with one hand. "Tatiana!"

She heard a "woof" from somewhere above her on the hill, followed by a chain of excited barks. There was a crashing in the undergrowth, then more barking. Elle felt a chill of adrenaline wash over her, her heart beating hard. Someone or something was watching her, she could feel it.

"Tatiana!" she called again, her voice quavering up a half octave. A squirrel suddenly chittered angrily from the branches of a tree up the hill, and then Tatiana bounded into view.

Elle let out a shaky breath. Just a squirrel. There was no one here, nothing to be afraid of. She tried to shrug off the sense of being observed, of not being alone. "Don't disappear again, okay?" she told the dog. As lousy a bodyguard as Tatiana was, she did make Elle feel safe in the woods. She trusted Tatiana's ears and nose, and was less likely to talk herself into believing she was being stalked by a mountain lion, or that a gang of teenage boys was waiting around the next bend to attack her, if she had Tatiana romping along beside her, unconcerned.

The path continued up the hill in a series of long switchbacks, then meandered over and around the connecting hills. Elle gradually relaxed as she walked, squishing contentedly through the mud. She shoved her hands into her parka pockets, her fingers encountering loose coins and Kleenex. In her right pocket was a stiff piece of paper. She pulled it out.

The bright pink color stirred her memory. The old woman on the bus. Idly curious, she unfolded it as she walked, then stood still to read it. There were hearts drawn around the border, and in the middle was written: coupon good for: one free husband. And in small print on the bottom, redeem at will. The cheap black ink had worn off in the folds.

So much for no reminders of her romantic life. She turned the coupon over. The back was blank. It sounded like one of those 1-900 chat lines where women talk for free, only the idiots who'd made the coupon had forgotten to include the phone number. She laughed at the absurdity of it.

She resumed trudging along the trail, fiddling with the paper as she walked. It had been three years since her last serious relationship had ended in a glorious blaze of agony, and it was beginning to seem possible that she might never marry. She didn't want to be a spinster aunt, though, devoted to her dog, invited over to Jeff's house for Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas, the family being careful to include her so she wouldn't feel as lonely and pathetic as she was.

She was also, she admitted to herself, getting tired of doing everything alone, and getting tired of hoping that she might meet the right man. There were times at the grocery store when she would pass by the bridal magazines and be unable to resist thumbing through the pages, imagining a fairy-tale wedding of her own. Maybe that was why she wasn't more adamant with Jeff about the blind dates.

The perfect marriage, she mused, was an arranged marriage. No emotional agonies, just a commitment to a partnership with a firm basis in financial stability. The divorce rate was proof enough that marriages based solely on love led primarily to misery.

She stopped again and thrust the coupon into the air. "I'm redeeming my coupon!" she said to the towering Douglas firs. "I want my free husband. Give me a man who is civilized, owns a very big house, and doesn't expect me to dote on him." The trees dripped in response.

She tilted her head back, looking up into the dark, greenish-black branches, the hood of her parka sliding off. "Do you hear me?"

Drops plopped on her face, making her blink. She lowered her head and pulled the hood back up. She gave the paper another little shake at the forested gloom. Nothing happened. Quiet and solitude surrounded her. The trees appeared unimpressed.

"See, Tatiana? Nothing." She turned to look up the side of the hill, to where Tatiana had been digging near a fern, and gasped. A human face was staring back at her. He was no more than fifteen feet away, perched on the hillside, dressed in rags, his hair wild. Tatiana was beside him, sniffing curiously at his sleeve. Elle felt the panic flush through her, her skin tingling, her ears pricking in an atavistic response to danger.

His eyes met and held hers, and then she felt a tingle in the fingertips that held the coupon. She glanced down and saw the paper dissolve into shimmering pinpricks of light. Her eyes raised quickly to his, her lips open, her body cold with fright.

"She wants him," the man pronounced.

"Oh, yes," came a high voice off to Elle's left.

"Indeed, she's willing; she agreed!" came another from behind her.

She turned quickly to each of the voices, finding herself surrounded by derelicts, male and female, filthy and decayed. Her glance skipped from one to the other. With a sense of unreality she recognized the old woman from the bus, and then the man who'd followed her on the street. Their eyes were all the same glowing yellow-green.

"She agrees," one said, the phrase repeated by another, and then yet another.

"She agrees, agrees, agrees," they chorused, their voices filling her head—echoing, ringing—dizzying her.

She couldn't focus her eyes, her sense of balance was failing… and then the voices stopped.

Elle staggered, and her eyes cleared. She was alone in the forest. She took a deep breath, quivering. Tatiana sniffed at the space where the man had been.

A rumbling roar sounded from the hill that rose above her. She snapped her head up. Trees shifted. The hillside looked like it was coming towards her for a moment, trees and ferns and all, and then it stumbled, turning over on itself, becoming a wave of dirt and rock and falling trees, and she screamed. The wave washed over Tatiana, pulled her under in a flash of white, then hit Elle with such force that she knew only blackness.

Chapter Three

Elle woke to hands tugging at her clothes, stripping her. Her eyes opened to dim phosphorescent light glowing from the walls of a narrow cave. The hands belonged to dainty, fairylike men and women, their hair wild and uncombed, wearing filmy shifts that floated about them in the cool draft than blew through the cave.

Her brain felt about as clear as a bowl of oatmeal. "What are you doing?" she finally thought to ask. She felt weak, too weak to struggle against the hands.

A tittering of giggles met her query. They had her naked now but quickly dressed her again, this time in a loose, white garment. The others dragged her clothes over to a figure lying nearby and began to dress it.

Elle gathered her energy and rolled over on the rocky floor, stones pressing into her belly and ribs, to see the figure better. It was a woman lying there, her limbs unnaturally loose. Elle reached out and touched her arm. It was cool and slack.

" 'Twas the influenza that got her," one of the fairy women said.

"Influenza," the others repeated, relishing the word.

"Is she dead?" Elle asked, her mind floating.

"Dead, yes yes, so dead, so very dead."

Elle pulled herself up closer to the dead woman's head. Her face… Elle frowned at the corpse. That was her face there, on the dead body. Her Grecian nose, her mouth, her freckles, her dull red hair.

Elle reached out, gently touching the woman's face, not quite believing that it wasn't herself. The woman looked like she had been very sick, her eyes sunken in purplish circles. Her hair was in a loose braid, like Elle's, only it was a foot longer. One of the fairies took the braid in his hand and sliced off the extra inches with a small knife, then looked at Elle and smiled a tight, strange little smile.

"Who is she?" Elle asked.

"She's you," one woman said.

"Or you're her," said another.

"Or will be, or were," the others put in, giggling.

"I don't understand," Elle said.

They laughed. One of the women touched Elle's forehead with cold, hard little fingertips, and her strength began to drain even further.

"Wait," Elle protested. "I don't understand…" Her eyes drooped shut, and gentle hands lowered her to the ground.

When she woke again she was lying on a hillside with the dark night sky above, the fairies around her. She felt the way she did when awakened too suddenly from sleep, when the patterns of dreams still held sway over her mind and she could not form a coherent thought.

The odd people were giggling and whispering among themselves. The small hands helped her to stand, and she felt damp grass beneath her feet. Someone swung a dark hooded cape over her, concealing her white gown that glowed faintly in the night.

It was very dark: A quarter moon was the only illumination. There was no reflected peach glow from city lights, no street lamps visible in the distance. All she could see was the irregular line where the black horizon met the charcoal sky. She heard the wind, and the noises of night creatures: an owl, frogs, a dog barking somewhere far, far away. She shivered in the breeze, her feet already chilled by the damp ground.

They took her hands and led her down the hill. She had no sense of time, or of how far they walked in the dark. Eventually the grass and mud beneath her feet changed to smooth, unevenly set stones. When she looked up, a building loomed like a giant shadow against the sky and stretched off to either side in unfathomable dimensions of blackness.

All but two of the fairies drifted away from Elle, and the remaining pair led her to a door that they opened without touch. They took her inside, up two flights of stairs, and at last onto the thick wool carpeting of a hallway, at the end of which a candle burned in a sconce upon the wall. It illuminated a wide white door, its brass handle glimmering in the candlelight. It opened silently as they approached, revealing a large bedroom.

A low fire burned in the fireplace, its flames casting flickers of warmth upon the face of the woman who sat slumped in a chair beside it, fast asleep. She wore an apron over her long dress, and a white cloth cap covered most of her hair. Elle could just make out the shapes of the furniture, largest of which was the four-posted, canopied bed, its draperies pulled back and its soft white covers disarranged. A desire for sleep so strong that it weakened her knees swept through her, and she stepped longingly towards the mattress piled high with pillows, her two escorts pulling the hooded cape from her.

Her companions watched silently as Elle crawled into the bed, never once considering that it was not her own. She nestled down onto her side and watched from half-lowered lids as one of the youths approached her. The boy touched Elle's forehead, and she sank into sleep.

The two fairies waited until Elle was deeply asleep, then with soundless steps they left the room, the door closing behind them. They retraced their route to the outside, where their compatriots joined them in the cobbled yard.

If anyone had been awake, they would have heard a faint, chimelike titter of laughter coming from a group of shadows that circled about each other, as if there were children out playing games in the dark. The shadows disappeared one by one, replaced by will-o'-the-wisps that bobbed and danced their way back across the fields and into the forest, leaving behind a house that had no notion that fairy spells had been upon it, or that a changeling was in its midst.

Elle woke several hours later, her mind clear. The first thing she saw was the bloated pink and white face of a man bending over her. He looked like the Quaker Oats man, only not so clean and wholesome. He was pressing a long, trumpet-shaped contraption against her chest, between her breasts. She yelped and slapped it away.

The man jerked away from her, even as a middle-aged woman rushed to the side of the bed. "Eleanor! This is no time to be difficult," the woman ordered in a pronounced British accent.

Elle stared at the woman, then took in the posts and draperies of the bed, and the covers that were pushed down to her waist. A rush of panic swept over her, and the dreamlike journey of last night came back to her in frightening, disjointed images. A clammy sweat broke out on her skin, and her heart beat painfully fast in her chest.

Something told her she was not in Oregon anymore.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly. She would imitate a possum and choose quiet and stillness as a defense until she understood what was happening.

Dr. Simms smiled and patted her hand. "There, there, m'dear. You are allowed a bit of muddleheadedness."

"I am? That's kind of you."

"Do you not remember, m'dear? Ah, well, 'tis not unusual. The fever overheats the brain, causing loss of memory. You are a very lucky young woman. It is not everyone who survives the influenza."

Elle's brain clicked on the word. Her double in the cave, dressed in her clothes, dead of the influenza. Those fairies, they had put her in the dead woman's life. Impossible. She didn't believe it, and most certainly this doctor would not believe it. She gave him a wavering smile.

"Much better. Now just let me listen to your heart, so I can reassure your mother that you will still be with us on the big day."

Elle allowed him to place his horn on her chest. She stared at his hair as he bent over her, his ear to the end of the horn. It was a wig he was wearing, white and woolly on the sides, and she could smell powder and his body odor.

He straightened up, and he spoke with the same matter-of-fact tone her own doctor used. " 'Tis a bit fast for my liking, but strong. I would advise against becoming unduly excited during your recovery." He frowned down at her.

"I shall endeavor to be bored."

He patted her hand once more, then gathered his things and left the room with the woman. They were talking in subdued tones as the door closed behind them.

Elle sat up and surveyed the room. It was large and airy, the walls painted white with gold trim around the paneling. There was an enormous mirrored armoire, a writing desk, a couple of gilt-legged chairs, a vanity, and the marble fireplace she had noticed last night.

She got out of bed and walked over to the windows, her dirty toes sinking into the softness of the thick carpet. She pulled the heavy weight of the curtains all the way to the side.

The room overlooked a garden. Flowers and small shrubs were arranged in precise, geometrical designs and lined by neat gravel paths. Beyond the formal arrangements, the gardens turned to lawn, perfectly and evenly green, with a long rectangular pool. Statues were arranged along the edge of the pool, and at the far end sat a small structure with a domed roof supported by columns.

"Miss Eleanor, you should not be out of bed!"

Elle jumped at the shrill cry. The woman who had been sleeping by the fire last night stood by the open bedroom door, one hand on the knob, the other carrying a tray tucked against her hip.

The maid met Elle's frankly assessing eyes, then looked down. She dipped in an awkward, reluctant curtsy, the tray tilting precariously.

"Forgive me, Miss Eleanor. I did not mean to correct you."

Elle shrugged, at a loss for a proper response. "Is that breakfast you've brought with you?"

"Yes, miss. Dr. Simms suggested broth and toasted bread to be served to you in bed." The maid was looking at her oddly.

"Sounds okay to me." Elle smiled brightly.

" 'Okay,' miss?"

"Oh. It's… well, I think it's a Spanish word, actually. 'O kay pasa es su casa,' you know," she improvised. Elle suddenly realized that she, with her American accent, was the strange-sounding one amongst these English voices. She went back to the bed and crawled in, her lips shut tight.

The maid put the tray down on a stand over Elle's legs, then tidied up the room while Elle ate. The broth was bland and the toast was cold and unbuttered. She'd be hungry before she finished.

There was a soft tapping on the door, then it was pushed open by the middle-aged woman she had seen before, in a frothy pink-and-white-striped dress with a kerchief crossed over the bosom.

"Clarice, that will be all for now," the older woman said to the maid.

"Yes, Mrs. Moore." Clarice bowed her head and gathered up Elle's breakfast tray, leaving the room without another word. Mrs. Moore came and perched herself on the edge of the bed, then clasped one of Elle's hands in her own, looking at her for a long, uncomfortable moment before she spoke, her eyes filling with tears.

"We were so worried. Your father insisted we carry on as if you would recover, and I do confess, much as it shames me to do so, there were times when I doubted his wisdom. But he was right. Here you are, looking like you have not been ill a day in your life." She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Of course, Dr. Simms says you still need your rest, and we are not to excite you overmuch until you have completed your recovery. Although how a girl could not be excited at such a time, I really cannot imagine."

"Yes, it is difficult," Elle ventured softly, trying to mimic the accent of this woman who could only be Eleanor's mother.

Mrs. Moore's eyes clouded with worry, and Elle knew that her attempt at an English accent had failed miserably. "My throat is very sore," she croaked. "Could I have some water?"

With evident relief at this explanation, Mrs. Moore stood and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She handed it to Elle, then gasped with dismay and took ahold of Elle's messy braid.

"What lack-wit did this to you?"

Elle stared at her blankly. She'd braided it herself.

"Superstitious country simpletons, thinking that long hair saps the strength of the ill. No doubt the culprit did it while you slept. Oh, it is just too horrible. When I find her, I shall dismiss her immediately, and without a reference."

"Please don't do that," Elle said. She couldn't get someone fired for no reason. "Whoever did it must have done it for rny benefit. She must have cared very much about what happened to me, to take such a risk."

"Why, Eleanor, that is a most charitable view of the situation." She sounded surprised, and almost put out. "I would have thought that you would be more concerned, all considered."

"I'm… I'm just thankful to be well, that's all. Surely a little forgiveness can do no harm."

Mrs. Moore stared at her for a long moment, surprise smoothing her face into a mask. "Well, if that is the way you want it, then. It is not for me to argue when you have your mind set on something. It will not be my fault, though, if you wake up tomorrow with nothing but a tuft upon your forehead."

She took the glass back from Elle and set in on the table. "I shall leave you now. You need your sleep, if you want to look your best. You can wear a wig on Friday." Her eyes got a little watery once again. "I am so relieved you are well. It would have been such a disappointment to your father if we had had to postpone everything." She gave a weak smile, patted Elle's knee, and left.

Elle heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. It was exhausting, improvising her way through interactions with people who thought they knew her. She hadn't had a chance to think since she woke up.

The last logical memory she had was of making that foolish wish for a husband, on the trail in the forest. And then… the image of Tatiana being sucked under the landslide filled her vision.

"Tatiana!" she cried. Oh, God, what had happened to her? She looked frantically around the room, knowing the dog was not there, then took a deep breath and pressed her hands over her eyes, trying to calm down.

Think, Elle, think, she coaxed herself. If she herself had survived the landslide, then perhaps Tatiana had, too. If she could figure out what had happened, she could find her dog.

It looked like she was in someone else's life. Insane as it sounded, people who looked and acted like fairies had brought her here. And where was here? Everyone spoke with an English accent. Most logical conclusion? England. The room and gardens looked like something out of the eighteenth century, as did the clothing. Logical conclusion?

Well, the most logical conclusion was obviously that she'd hit her head during the landslide, and was even now in a coma in a hospital, having unusually vivid dreams.

She slid out of bed and went to look at herself in the mirror of the armoire. She looked the same as always, same hazel eyes, same pale freckles. There were no bruises to show if she had been hurt. Everything felt real.

She became aware that her very real bladder was in need of relief. An unhappy thought niggled at her mind. This house might be completely in keeping with the time period in which it was styled. The closest she might come to a proper toilet could be a porcelain pot beneath the bed. What a disgusting thought.

She opened the door and poked her head out into the hall. Optimism might not be the most practical course, but she'd go look for a bathroom anyway. There were voices somewhere down the hall, out of sight, but otherwise the corridor was empty. She tiptoed out and tried the next door down. The handle turned beneath her hand, and she slowly inched open the door, her eye to the widening crack.

The handle was suddenly jerked out of her grasp, the door pulled wide. A grinning young woman with ash-blond hair and sparkling brown eyes stood there.

"Caught you!" she cried, then saw who it was. "Ellie, what are you doing? Do not let Mother catch you out of your room already, she will have a fit."

Elle gaped at the woman, surprised to be called by her name, even as the blonde pulled her quickly into the room and shut the door.

"Sorry if I scared you," the blonde said. "I thought it was Clarice, trying to spy on me, the wicked cow. I think she goes through my letters when I am not in my room, then reports to Mother. And what would she have thought of that last one my dear George sent me? Oh, but the row it would have caused!"

Elle grimaced. Someone new to put on an act for, and this chatterbox was getting her no closer to a bathroom. "Maybe I shouldn't be up yet," she mumbled.

The blonde clapped her hands in delight. " 'Tis true, what Dr. Simms said, is it not? I was not supposed to know, of course, but you know I had to listen in. They never tell us anything about what is going on—I do not know why, especially when it concerns us most directly. I must say, I rather hope it is a permanent thing, this change to your voice. I did not know a fever could do such a thing, but Dr. Simms said oh yes, a fever could give a person a whole new accent, if it settled in the throat, but that it would most likely dissipate in time. Imagine, you could have woken up sounding like a Scot, and would not that have been just the thing to send Father into a rage?"

Elle thought that Dr. Simms had proven himself rather creative with his diagnosis. No wonder Eleanor was dead. Maybe she'd been bled, or had leeches stuck on her. The good doctor probably didn't wash his hands, either.

"Come, Ellie, sit by my fire and let me read you this latest missive. I have hardly been able to wait to share it with you, but they would not let me disturb you, although any idiot can see that you are as healthy as a horse." She led Elle over to the soft chair by the fire, which was little more than a few smoking embers. It gave out no warmth, but the blonde didn't seem to notice. Elle shivered in her nightgown.

" 'Dearest Louise,' " the blonde read, " 'With each rising of the sun upon the joyous heavens I see in that sky the glorious gold of your hair…' Oh, Ellie, is he not marvelous?" she sighed, before continuing on. " 'The nights with their solitary splendors are not so splendorous as…' "

Elle tuned out the execrable prose. Louise must be Eleanor's sister. Funny, she'd always wanted to have a sister, but somehow she hadn't imagined having one like this. Still, there was something charming in her enthusiasm, and Elle watched in amusement as Louise fluttered and sighed over the love letter.

Louise finished the letter, crushed it to her chest, and looked heavenward. " 'Tis not fair, Ellie, not fair at all. George is so romantic, so heroic. He cannot help it that his father is only a knight and that he has so little property. I have money, do I not? We could live on that and never want for anything. Father will never hear of it, though, will he? No, the Moores must climb to the top of the aristocracy. His grandchildren must be earls and dukes, and he will sell his daughters for it, no matter that true love is within my very grasp. George is the only one I shall ever love, and I will never give myself to another man."

"I don't know," Elle said, entertained despite her protesting bladder. "Maybe if George were a duke, you wouldn't find him half so appealing."

Louise turned outraged eyes on her. "Eleanor Margaret Elizabeth Frances Moore, I do not believe my ears. This, from you of all people? That fever has done more than addle your throat, if that is how you now see it. Has a touch of the influenza changed you so much?"

"I'm not feeling quite myself today."

Louise snorted disdainfully. "Obviously not. Next thing I know, you will be telling me you have formed an attachment to horrid Lord Henry."

"Rest assured I have not."

Louise eyed her speculatively. "I knew your 'illness' for a ruse, you know. I expected you to remain deathly ill until well past the day, and then maybe he would think you were too sickly to be worthwhile. Not strong enough to bear the noble heirs and such. You truly were ill, though, were you not, to get your voice like that? Or are you faking?"

"My illness might have killed me."

Louise giggled. "You could always relapse Friday morning."

"When there have been so many preparations made?" Elle paused, trying to think of something else logical to say. "I wish Lord Henry would not be there, of course."

Louise broke into gales of laughter and collapsed onto the opposite chair. "I was worried about you for a moment, Ellie. Yes, it is too bad that Lord Henry will be there. Pity we could not do the thing without him."

"He is unpleasant."

"You have grown kind. What happened to 'penniless parasitic pauper, grubbing in the dirt for farthings'? And 'tasteless, uncouth barbarian, with a face like a stone'? And let us not forget how old he is. Why, he is positively ancient compared with you. An eighteen-year-old girl should not waste her life on such an old man."

Eighteen? Elle was twenty-five. Apparently no one had noticed Eleanor's sudden aging. Perhaps they put it, as well as the accent, down to the flu. Useful thing, influenza. "He's not really that old, is he? And money isn't everything."

"Well, of course it is not everything to me, Ellie, but you cannot pretend that you have not been complaining for the past three months about how poor you will be after Lord Henry spends all your money on his dismal farm. It is not like he bears any love towards you, like my George for me. My heart weeps at the thought of you married to the earl of Allsbrook, no matter his title."

Elle's mouth dropped open as the light belatedly clicked on. Eleanor was to be married on Friday, and now that she was playing that part, she would be the one getting a husband in an arranged marriage. Just as she'd wished on that coupon.

"Do you think it will be such a poor match, then? Truly?" she asked, stunned.

"How you have found the courage to go through with it, I do not know."

She wasn't really going to have to marry a man she had never seen, was she? None of this was at all what she had intended when she'd used the coupon. She hadn't been serious. No, this was not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. She had to find a way to wake up, or get back home, or do something to get out of here.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not feeling well, Louise. I'm sorry, but I think I should return to my room." Elle got up and shuffled to the door, then turned. "I forgot to ask—I've been so sick—what day is it today?"

"Wednesday, Ellie." There was concern in her voice. "You look ashen all of a sudden. You really were sick, were you not?" She came over to her, and gave her a warm hug. "Are you certain you truly are well, and well enough to be married?"

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" she asked wistfully.

"We both know what happened to Catherine Toomes-by when she tried to refuse marriage to that awful man her parents chose," Louise said, her voice dropping.

"Locked in her room for three weeks, given brown bread to eat, and beaten into submission. Father is that determined to marry us up the ranks; I would not be surprised if he stooped to the same measures if thwarted." Louise looked uneasy, her smile gone. "His temper is short enough as it is, Ellie, with you being ill so close to the day. Dr. Simms had quite a job convincing him that you truly ailed."

"Yet you seem so willing to run off with your George."

"You know it is but a dream. Father would never allow it. I do not want to think about what he would do if I attempted such a thing."

Elle nodded with new, unwelcome understanding, then slipped back to her own room.

Chapter Four

Elle finished and put the lid back over the chamber pot, skulking back to her bed feeling as if she'd done something wrong. It was mortifying to have to leave her waste sitting there behind the dressing screen for someone else to remove. The neatnik in her could barely stand it.

She'd spent the day within the confines of her room, on the order of Dr. Simms. Clarice had come and gone several times, and Mrs. Moore had come by once more to check on her and to tell her that she would be allowed to choose a new lady's maid. Apparently the previous one had been indiscreet with a footman and was in a family way. For the most part, though, Elle was expected to sleep and gather her strength for her wedding day, so she had not had any other visitors.

She had tried to entertain herself with a thorough inspection of her room. Most amusing had been digging through the clothespress and the dresses. It was like her girlhood fantasies of being a princess had finally come true, with their velvets and satins, embroidered silks, and foaming, falling lace.

The undergarments were equally as rich, although much more confusing in their variety. There was not a pair of panties in sight, but a surfeit of fine thin garments related to slips and camisoles and shirts. There was also a collection of corsets and stays of different lengths, and Elle had played with them like a child. And the odd pads in various shapes and sizes with dangling straps—where were they worn, and how? She had held one of the corsets up in front of herself and looked in the mirror. It seemed a much easier solution to a tummy bulge than diet and exercise.

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. 11 P.M. The day had gone slowly, despite the time spent rooting through the clothes and personal belongings of her eighteenth-century double.

Elle went to the armoire, pulled open the doors, and rummaged around for the one pair of sturdy shoes she had seen earlier. Most of the footwear was as delicate and decorative as the gowns and underclothes, but there was one pair that was dark brown leather and low-heeled, with a silver buckle devoid of gems and filigree. There was no clear difference between the right and the left shoe, so she sat on the floor and slipped them on the way they looked most worn.

She went to the clothes press and opened a few drawers, debating the gowns that lay spread out so neatly. There were a few that were not so ornate as the rest, a few that looked more for outdoor pursuits like walking, but she could not see herself trying to get into one without help. Instead, she grabbed a dark, hooded cloak off a hook in the armoire and swept it on. It covered her nightgown and was thick enough to be warm.

She was anxious to find out if there was some way to get home, or at least to find some definite answers to the questions that buzzed like angry yellow jackets in her mind. The best solution she could think of was to go back to the hill she had awoken on.

It had been this thin plan of action that had allowed her to keep control of herself all day. As long as she had a plan, she could keep the seed of anxiety from germinating and sprouting big, ugly tentacles of panic.

She mounded pillows under her bedcovers in imitation of a sleeping form, then blew out the few candles that remained burning. She'd seen people do this in movies, but had never thought that she herself would have reason to resort to such a subterfuge.

Elle crept out into the hallway and paused uncertainly. The candles in the sconces were still lit, casting light where Elle had thought all would be dark. Weren't people in bed yet? She listened for a moment, hearing the faintest hint of voices and laughter, then shrugged to herself. What did she have to lose?

She scampered quickly down the hall, to the small door she vaguely recalled from the previous night. She opened it and went lightly down the wooden stairs, one hand holding up the hem of her cloak and nightgown. The stairwell was plainly intended for servants. She went as quickly as she dared on the unfamiliar steps, afraid of meeting someone.

The stairs ended in a dim stone-floored hallway, with doors and passages opening off it. There was the noise of a kitchen nearby: pots banging, dishes clattering, voices raised in anger at a task done poorly. Elle could smell meat cooking, and the yeasty, buttery smell of pastries or bread.

Her stomach rumbled at the enticing scents, but she could hardly go in and filch a snack. Boullion and toast all day had left her appetite anything but satisfied. With a quick stab of regret she turned away from the source of the delicious smells and looked for an exit.

It took only a moment to locate the door that led out to the cobbled yard. Here, too, there were lanterns lit against the darkness, and Elle could see that there were stables across the yard. A few men and boys were moving around, one leading a horse. No one had noticed her. She pulled the hood up over her head, then sidled along the wall into the shadows.

From which way had she come? She couldn't remember clearly. She came to a corner of the house and peered around the edge. Windows threw light upon the ground halfway down the building, and she could hear the murmur of voices. This side of the house looked over the gardens, and she was fairly certain that she had not passed through those manicured grounds on her arrival. Still, she was drawn like a moth to the light that spilled from those windows, and curiosity guided her steps in their direction.

The casements were partially open to the night air, letting out the heat of bodies and candles. Elle climbed the low terrace steps, then crouched near a window, slowly raising her head until she could see over the sill, hoping the dark hood pulled low on her brow would make her indistinguishable from the black of the night.

The people within, scattered about a room with high ceilings and rich furnishings, were talking noisily, laughing and chatting; some were playing cards. Chairs and sofas were arranged in conversational groups, small tables were being used for card games, and at one end of the room sat a harpsichord covered from leg to lid with painted pastoral scenes.

The men wore knee breeches and white hose, and black buckled shoes upon their feet. The women wore dresses that were a match in luxury to the ones in Eleanor's clothespress. A few of the older women wore gowns with paniers, which pushed their skirts out to the sides, but the others favored dresses that fell in slender bells. Everyone—men and women—wore their hair either covered by a wig or powdered.

Elle gaped at them through the window. She watched the women flick their fans open and closed, gesturing and tapping companions' arms. She watched the cardplayers place cards upon the table with either triumph or chagrin, one player keeping a tally on a small sheet of paper. A pair of elegant young women gossiped with each other, their heads bent close as their eyes scanned the room. A group of men stood in a circle and pontificated, looking very much as if they each thought they had the right of the discussion.

Some half-conscious awareness of a presence broke through her study. She turned her head to the left and gave a violent start at the dark shadow that stood not four feet from her. She let out her breath, her hand going to her heart when she realized it was a man, and not some beast from the dark.

"Oh, God, you scared me," she said.

"What are you doing out here?" The voice was deep, masculine, and mildly curious, sending a rumbling echo through Elle's suddenly hollow chest.

She shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, and gave the guilty child's answer. "Nothing."

"You were spying on them."

"Them?" She peered at him in the darkness, able at least to make out that he was dressed as they were inside. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

He was silent for a moment, and his answer came slowly. "Yes, I suppose I am."

She relaxed a bit. He did not sound threatening. "And I wasn't spying, really—just observing."

"Do you make it a habit, this 'observing'?"

She liked the sound of his voice, smooth and deep, with that well-modulated British accent. She wished she could see him better.

As if hearing her thoughts, he stepped forward into the light. His hair was covered by a wig, but the eyebrows that slashed across his forehead were black arcs, and the eyes beneath so dark they looked as if light could not escape them. His nose was straight and slightly long, and his sculpted lips betrayed a slight hint of amusement.

She stared at him, flustered by his handsomeness, then gathered her scattered thoughts to answer his question. "I would like to do it more, but people have the annoying tendency to notice and object." She was rewarded by an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. For a moment it felt like they were coconspirators, out in the dark, spying on those within.

"Tell me what you see, when you look in there."

Elle looked back through the window, entranced anew by the colors and textures. "Silk and brocade, jewelry, fans, powder and hair."

She heard him sigh softly, as if disappointed. "Yes, I suppose you would."

"And…" What did that little sigh mean, that she was some poor girl who could see nothing but the wealth? "Greed, envy, sloth, lust, anger, and ample evidence of past gluttony."

"I think you left pride out of your listing of the seven deadlies."

"That's because you're out here."

He gave a soft laugh. "Touché." He cocked his head slightly. "Where is your home? You are not from this area."

Elle stepped farther back into the shadows, ensuring that her face was invisible within the hood. Her fingers fluttered noncommittally in the air. "Er, no…"

He took a step towards her. "I have never heard an accent quite like yours."

She started backing away, aware now of his physical presence. He was just under six feet tall, and of medium-shoulders and slender build. His size was not imposing in itself, but the strength and smooth control inherent in his movements made her nervous. She herself was five feet five, a decent height, but no match for him if he wished to detain her.

He reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, and she froze, wide-eyed, trying to gauge his intentions.

"Stay a moment. I will not spoil your fun if you wish to watch longer. 'Tis harmless enough." His hand gently squeezed her shoulder, sending an unexpected ripple of sexual awareness through her.

"You won't tell anyone you saw me, will you?" His hand became a subtle invitation, its warmth seeping through the cloak to her skin.

"Mademoiselle, there is nothing to tell. I have not seen you."

His head bent down to hers, and for a moment she knew he was going to kiss her. "No!" She jerked out from under his hand, wild thoughts of what a stranger alone with her in the dark might do. "You think you can force your attentions on any young woman you find?"

He straightened. "Your pardon, but I had no intention of doing any such thing."

He sounded amused by it! "Right. I've read about men like you, wenching with helpless servant girls."

"I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I was merely trying to see your face."

"Oh! Oh!" Her face flamed as she heard the truth in his voice. She was so stupid. "Well, you had no right to do that, either. My face is my own business."

For the first time traces of suspicion crossed his composed features, and he grabbed her arm. "Just what are you up to out here?"

Elle glared up at him, his face once again in shadow. She debated for a moment, then hiked her skirt and kicked his self-controlled person in the shin.

His grip loosened in surprise, although he did not gratify her with a noise of distress. She pulled free of his hand. "You have no right to hold me," she told him, then turned and gathered her skirts in both hands, leaping down the terrace steps and running into the safety of the night.

Embarrassment and anger burned her cheeks. How dare he grab her arm? But it was her own stupid expectation of a kiss that appalled her, and his unflappable composure. That almost emotionless face clearly said he had never considered such a thing, and never would.

She made it back to the cobbled stableyard, and seeing no one about, she darted across it and off to one side, where a dirt road led off into woods. She went slowly once she reached the cover of trees, uncertain of her footing and the direction of the road.

The sounds of the night countryside surrounded her: owls softly hooting, leaves rustling in the breeze, insects buzzing and whirring. Some animal moved through the underbrush to her right, snapping twigs as it went. Elle tried to think of what animals roamed wild in the English countryside, but couldn't think of anything more dramatic than deer and hedgehogs.

The road was uneven beneath her feet, rutted by wheels. She tried to stay between the ruts, and as a result tripped several times on what she strongly suspected to be piles of horse manure. It certainly smelled that way.

The road eventually led out of the woods and through a field, where the moonlight let her see a hill across the open space. The breeze picked at the opening of her cloak, its chilly fingers seeking to pull it wide. She clenched the woolen folds more closely, her step a bit faster. The road veered away from the hill, heading into the trees across the field. She left the road and cut across the short grasses.

The hill itself was no easy climb, and it wasn't until five minutes later that she found herself near the top, winded and sweating from the exertion. She sat on the grass and tried to catch her breath, surveying the silver and black landscape before her. It looked similar to what she could recall from last night, but that was saying little.

"Hello?" she called softly into the night, self-conscious of her own voice in the lonely air, breaking the quiet. "This is Elle, the woman you took from Portland. Is anyone there?" The wind soughed, leaves rustled, and owls hooted. No other answer came to her. "I want to go home." No answer. "Or at least ask some questions."

"I don't know what you want of me, or why you've done this. I've been pretending to be Eleanor all day. Is this what you wanted? How long do I have to do it? When is she coming back?" The image of Eleanor, dead on the cave floor, flickered in Elle's mind. "She is coming back, isn't she? I mean, you got me out of that landslide, which should have killed me, so a bit of the flu shouldn't stop you from resurrecting Eleanor Moore. You dressed her in my clothes; does that mean she's living my life?"

Elle thought about her dreary job and her small apartment, and came to a startling conclusion. Besides for being scared out of her wits and worrying about Tatiana, she was almost enjoying herself. It was that feeling she got when skiing down a too-steep, too-advanced slope: Each moment she managed to stay upright was a victory over danger and chaos. For months now—no, for years—she had been feeling dead. Now, at this moment, alone on a hill in the dark in an unknown land, she felt vitally alive.

"Okay, maybe I wouldn't mind staying through the wedding. I've always wanted one, you know. The dress, the flowers, maybe a carriage ride to the church. You've got to get me out of here before the wedding night, though. I'm not going to let some old man have sex with me. I'll stay through the wedding, then you come get me and take me home." She decided she'd just have to assume that they heard and understood and that she had some sort of say in what went on.

She stood up, brushing the back of her cloak free of grass and twigs. The night sky overhead was dense with stars, and she tilted her head back to gaze up at them.

The constellations were the same as at home, only brighter in this deep darkness. She was alone, completely and utterly alone in this past world, and it both thrilled and terrified her.

The image of Tatiana being washed under rocks and mud filled her mind, and she clamped down on it, shutting off the emotion that would come if she let it.

"I know that if you could save me from a landslide, you must have been able to save Tatiana as well," she said to the stars. "It may not be convenient to bring her to me here, but when I get home she'd better be there." She tried to sound threatening, but her voice quavered. "This little adventure isn't worth it, if it means losing my dog."

She remained on the hill some time longer, waiting for some sign, some evidence that she had been heard and understood, but none came. The warmth of exertion had faded, and she began once again to feel the chill of the air. She reluctantly picked her way down the hill and headed back to the house.

Elle was in bed asleep by the time, several hours later, the answer to one of her queries appeared on the hill in the forest. The unfortunate boy chosen as messenger was far from pleased with the task he had been assigned and was doing a poor job of it. His name was Mossbottom, and as far as fairies went, he was relatively inexperienced.

Mossbottom slipped out of a crack in the hillside, followed closely by Tatiana, whose white fur was powdered with greenish phosphorescence. Placing spells on people was a simple fairy trick, but animals were another matter. Mossbottom had been stuck with care of the dog by the more senior fairies, who thought it great fun to watch him flounder about their underground labyrinth of caves chasing the hyperactive dog. The senior fairies had also thereby escaped personal dealings with a creature that scared them. It had been, after all, a disastrous run-in with some similar beasts that had started this whole confusing drama, so many years ago.

Mossbottom warily eyed Tatiana, who met his gaze with ingenuous brown eyes and smiled her panting smile. A twig cracked somewhere out in the dark, and Tatiana's ears perked forward, her panting suddenly stopped as she strained her attention into the blackness around her. Whatever hold Mossbottom had temporarily thought he had over her disappeared, as the awareness of being outdoors came rushing to Tatiana's senses. With a bark and a bound, she was off and running, shedding shimmers of fairy dust in luminous streams behind her.

If Mossbottom had been capable of crying, he would have done so. That wicked dog—she'd be the death of him. With steps unusually heavy for one of his sort, he followed the fading glimmers of her trail.

Chapter Five

The day of Elle's wedding dawned bright and golden upon the countryside. She was awoken by Marianne, her new maid, who had spent last night upon a trundle bed beside her own bed. In fact, since she had chosen Marianne from the three maids presented by Mrs. Moore, Elle had not had more than ten minutes free of her company. The woman was cheerful and energetic, which had seemed to recommend her when compared with her more subdued competitors, but after nearly twenty-four hours in her company, Elle was beginning to wonder if she had made a serious error in judgment. The woman was driving her batty.

"Now, I have rung for your bath, and tea is on its way. Here now, let me help you out of bed. You must be fairly faint with excitement, yes?"

Elle rolled her eyes and suffered Marianne to lead her to the bench in front of the vanity, where she began to brush Elle's hair.

"We're going to wash it today, aren't we?" Elle asked, looking in distaste upon her powdery locks. She had had a basin of water in which to wash her hands and face every day, and there was even a toothbrush and some toothpowder that tasted foul, but no one had made mention of a proper bath until today. Her hair had been kept somewhat clean by having powder rubbed into it and then brushed out. By the scent of Marianne, it was apparent that full-body bathing was not a daily affair.

"Did you wish to? Mrs. Moore did say that you were to wear a formal wig for the wedding, and really, that is the most appropriate thing, do you not think?"

"I don't care if I wear the wig or not; I want to wash my hair. My scalp itches."

Marianne seemed to think that was funny. "So now you will want to wash it every time it itches?"

"I'd like to wash it every day, before it even starts. I'd like to take a bath every day, too: a long, hot bath. I think maybe you should, too, Marianne."

Marianne threw her hands up to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "If once a day is so beneficial, might not twice a day be even better?"

"I'm thinking that the entire staff could use a good scrubbing. What do you think, shall we order everyone down to the reflecting pool in the garden and give them a good dunking?"

The maid just laughed.

Soon a legion of maids was filing in and out of the chamber, depositing tub, towels, soaps, and bucket upon bucket of steaming water in front of the fireplace. They spread a linen sheet in the tub before filling it with water, draping the white folds over the edges. Elle sipped her tea and watched in awe the womanpower required for a simple act of bathing. She realized rather belatedly that she was not counting on being here past this evening, and wondered what the real Eleanor would think when she came back and found a bath waiting for her every day.

Marianne and two other maids remained in the room when the tub was full, and Elle watched them patiently, waiting for them to leave. Instead, they just stood there. Two minutes passed, feeling like two hours, before Marianne finally spoke.

"Miss, the water will not long stay hot."

"It rarely does."

"No, miss."

They looked silently at each other for a long moment. "I, ah, I'm a rather private person," Elle said.

Marianne flicked a glance at the other women, back to Elle, then turned to the maids and ordered them from the room. "You can bring the rinse water to the door, and I will take if from there," she told them. "There now, miss. I could pour some milk in the water, if you like."

"To drink?"

"To obscure the water, miss," Marianne giggled.

"Only if you intend to give me biscuits to scrub with."

Elle thought that there was still one too many persons present for privacy, but this was obviously the best she was going to get. Besides, there was the matter of rinse water to consider as well, if she truly wished to have clean hair.

Elle threw off the nightgown she'd been wearing for two days and stepped gingerly into the tub, sinking down into the water with a sigh. The wet linen made a comfortable liner for the tub. She'd just try to ignore Marianne's presence. She'd close her eyes and pretend she wasn't going to have to scrub her nooks and crannies under the eyes of another woman.

Something splashed into the water in front of her, and Elle opened her eyes to see Marianne lathering a sea sponge with soap. The maid then reached into the water and grabbed Elle's arm, lifting it above the surface, and began to wash it with the rose-scented foam. Elle gaped, and barely stopped herself from jerking her arm away from Marianne's touch.

"Marianne," she said as softly as she could, trying not to show her tension. "Why don't you have some of that tea? I'll call you back when I need to wash my hair, and you can help me then."

"Oh no, miss, I would not think of it."

"Marianne, please. I am not an infant."

Marianne stared a moment, then handed Elle the sponge. "As you wish, miss."

After the bath, Elle combed out her own hair, bending from the waist and letting it dry a bit in front of the fire. Marianne had brought out the wig she was to wear, and Elle looked at it now from her upside-down perspective. It was an ugly thing, powdered a grayish white, frizzy on top with ringlets down the back and two rows of horizontal curls on either side, above where her ears would be. She had suggested forgoing its use, but when Marianne had let her know that the alternative was to have her own clean hair pomaded and powdered and arranged, the wig had started to look a whole lot better.

The first thing Elle put on was a long chemise that was identical to the sort that she had been sleeping in. Over that came a set of stays, which Marianne strapped her into with the help of another maid. They pulled steadily on the laces in back, tightening the boned structure until Elle thought her ribs would crack and her breasts spill over the top. They seemed dissatisfied with the results, but could pull the laces no tighter for fear they would break. Elle breathed shallowly and took small steps over to the mirror to see what the contraption had done for her figure.

Yes, her waist was much smaller than usual, and yes, her breasts were bulging like honeydews above the neckline, but breathing was an agony; she couldn't raise her arms thanks to the tight shoulder straps, she couldn't bend at the waist, and her belly was already feeling pinched and tortured.

Next came a single petticoat, then stockings that were held up by garters tied above the knee. Marianne held up a large sausagelike affair, covered in muslin and tapering at the ends, that she then tied around Elle's waist, so that the thickest part rested above her derriere. Her butt was not a part of her anatomy Elle had ever wanted to pad for effect.

She sat on the vanity bench and allowed Marianne to lightly powder her face and apply a touch of color to her lips. With a small brush Marianne subtly darkened Elle's lashes and brows. Elle looked at the results and wished she had her bag of L'Oreal. She'd spent the last ten years of her life learning how to apply makeup to her best advantage, and now, on her wedding day, she'd have to do more or less without.

Another maid carried in the wedding gown, cradled carefully in her arms. Marianne clapped her hands together in delight, and Elle could only stare in wonder at the creamy confection of gauze, lace, and muslin.

The maid laid the gown on the bed, and Elle kept her eyes upon it in the mirror as Marianne set to work confining her hair. How many dress designs had she dreamt of through the years, thumbing through bridal magazines? It seemed like thousands. Well, here was a wedding dress for her, and she was going to be married in it to a man who was a stranger, and there would be a party afterwards attended by people she didn't know, and she'd be congratulated by family and friends that she'd never seen before and would never see again. All of it had been planned by someone else, and not one choice about the food or music or decorations or entertainment had been hers to make. She wasn't paying for so much as a miniature quiche. After tonight, even the husband wouldn't be hers.

All considered, it was a pretty good deal. Her heart beat with happy excitement.

In a room at an inn near the church, Henry George Archibald Phillip Trevelyan, the Earl of Allsbrook, dressed without the help of either a man or enthusiasm. His younger brother, Frederick, was sulkily polishing his boots yet another time, his large, poetic brown eyes expressing all the dismay that he had been forbidden to express by mouth. He had been quiet for some five or six minutes now, and a minute more proved unendurable.

"But why does it have to be her?" he questioned yet again.

Henry groaned silently. Freddy's eighteen-year-old heart was a romantic, impassioned relic of another age. He should have been born a hundred years before, when stories of princesses in distress and true love winning the day were all the fashion.

"I refuse to discuss this any further, Freddy," he said without a trace of his own inner disquiet.

"Do you not believe in love? Do you not think you will regret this all the days of your life, as you grow old with a woman you despise?"

"I do not despise her. She is young and ignorant, as are you. That is no cause to dislike someone but rather a reason to educate them. A tactic that has obviously failed in regards to yourself, I regret to say."

"Well, I do not like her."

"You have not even met her."

"I have heard about her, and that is enough. You know how servants talk. My man Jim has heard plenty since we arrived, and it is very little of it good."

"I am glad to hear that you have become so fine in your judgment that actually meeting the accused and forming your own impressions are unnecessary. That is quite an accomplishment."

Frederick flushed under the rebuke. "You have met her, and I do not hear you singing her praises. You do not even look happy, on this, your wedding day."

"Even if she were the loveliest woman in the country, possessed of the finest mind and the most equable spirit, I do not see how that would alter my mood. Marriage is a practical matter. It is for family and estate that we do it, and I challenge you to find any man, yourself excluded, who would marry for the sheer thrill of it."

Freddy put an extra bit of energy into his boot polishing. "You have no heart in you," he muttered, just loud enough for Henry to hear.

Henry ignored him, and sat to put on his wig. He was thankful that the hot, itchy things were passing from style. He planned to abolish them entirely from his wardrobe, along with hair powder, just as soon as his own financial well-being was not so dependent upon the opinions of others.

If his father were not already dead, he reflected for not the first time, he would be sorely tempted to kill him himself for the mess the man had made of the family's fortunes.

His one meeting with Eleanor had done little to endear her to him. Or him to her, he imagined. After her vow to make his life miserable, she had proceeded to dig her vicious little tongue into his shame at selling his title for a bride's riches. It had taken every ounce of self-control to keep his anger from showing, for he had refused to let her provoke him into a reaction. If he controlled himself, he controlled the situation. He had learned that lesson by observing its opposite in his father, and had made it his guiding principle.

He tried to tell himself now that Eleanor had been tense, had been herself embarrassed at being a tool for her father's attempts to enter the nobility. There might be a kind woman somewhere under the acid, who would make a passable mother to their children. All he asked for himself was that she behave with civility in public.

He checked the time on his pocket watch. Eleanor should have received the bridal gift he had sent her by now. Had she sneered?

He glanced at Freddy's mournful face, and his lips tightened imperceptibly. The luxury of sentiment was not his to indulge. Eleanor was suitable in the only respects that mattered: She was rich and young enough to bear his heirs.

When Elle climbed into the carriage that would take her to the church, she wore around her neck the earl of Allsbrook's bridal gift, her fingers straying to it at every opportunity. Mrs. Moore had scoffed at its value, remarking that such a small amount of gold, and such minor gems as amber and jade, were hardly befitting a future countess. Elle heartily disagreed, although she did not argue with Mrs. Moore. Instead she insisted upon wearing the filigreed necklace that did not sparkle or shine, but rather glowed with a soft warmth that brought out the green and rich brown in Elle's eyes.

Marianne had firmly secured the wig to Elle's head, yet with every movement it felt as if it would topple to the ground. Elle had never liked the "big hair" look, and powder and flowers did nothing to improve the style. The dress, however, with its tight bodice and sleeves, and skirt that poofed into a gauzy bell over the bustle beneath, was all that she could hope for. The wide sash around her newly slender waist was tinted a pale gold, as were the ribbons on her silk shoes, complementing the lace. The rest of the dress was cream in color, chosen no doubt for the soft effect it had upon her redhead's complexion. The only element she could have wished different was the airy scarf that was piled in high folds over her bosom, making her look something like a pouter pigeon and obscuring the lovely necklace.

The carriage started with a soft jolt, rolling slowly away from the house. Mrs. Moore and Marianne accompanied her, the one to see to her emotional well-being, the other to repair any last minute imperfections in her appearance. Elle looked back at the house, newly astonished at its size, and wondered how the lawns were kept so neatly trimmed without benefit of a lawnmower.

The carriage passed under the shade of tall trees that lined the drive to the front gate, then turned onto the road and into sunlight. Open fields interspersed with pockets of woodland made up the scenery they passed through, and Elle drank it in with avid eyes. She had always wanted to see England and was not going to miss out on this chance to see what she could of it.

The distant, familiar barking of a dog brought her eyes to the crest of a hill, and her fingers gripped the window embrasure when she saw the white shape that was flying down the slope towards the carnage. For a moment she thought she was imagining things, then was certain of it when the boy she thought she saw chasing after Tatiana disappeared in a flash of sunlight. The joyous baying of her dog begged to differ.

"Stop!" she shouted. "Stop the carriage!" She leaned out the window, yelling at the driver. "Stop! Stop!" Marianne and Mrs. Moore erupted into babbles of concern, but Elle ignored them. The carriage finally slowed to a halt, and after several frustrating moments of fumbling, Elle released the catch on the door and fell to the ground outside. She had forgotten her clothes and their inhibition to her movement. She didn't care, though, as she rolled over and pushed herself up in the dust, her wig now definitely awry, one ribbon streaming down over her shoulder.

"Tatiana! Here, girl! Tatiana!" she cried. Tatiana's white ears lay flat against her head as she ran even faster, tongue lolling in a wide-open, joyful grin. Elle crawled a few feet into the field, then spread her arms as Tatiana barreled into her, her wet tongue slopping all over Elle's carefully made-up face. Elle felt tears start in her eyes, hanging on her lashes and washing the primitive mascara onto her cheeks.

"Here, Tatiana, be careful; I have to get married in a few minutes," she chided, but there was no reproof in her voice.

"Eleanor, what in God's name are you doing?" came her mother's distressed cry.

"Miss, miss, your hair! We're going to be late, oh please, miss, let go of that dog," Marianne wailed, stumbling from the carriage.

"I won't let her go," Elle stated, pressing her forehead against Tatiana's. "She's coming with us."

"Eleanor Margaret, return to this carriage this instant. You are not bringing that dog with you."

Elle turned and glared into the carriage, where Mrs. Moore sat appalled. "Oh, yes I am, and if you try to stop me I won't marry the earl."

"Insolence! Do you dare to threaten your own mother?"

"You know I do. You said yourself you know better than to argue when I have my mind set." She held Mrs. Moore's eyes with the strength of her determination, backed by her bottomless love for Tatiana, and the older woman slowly gave way, her cheeks flushed in anger.

"I vow, Eleanor, I think I shall be pleased to be rid of you. Let the earl handle your willful nature, and good luck to him."

Elle untied the gold sash around her waist, then made a leash of it and led Tatiana back to the carriage. She wasn't taking any chance of losing her again, and anyone who didn't like it could stuff it. They could think her irrational or crazy, she didn't care. Tatiana was the only living creature in this entire world who knew who she was, and that was not a bond she took lightly.

The remainder of the ride was chaos. Tatiana bounded from seat to seat, panted drool onto an angry Mrs. Moore, waved her tail in Marianne's annoyed face, and took every chance to bark at animals out the window. Marianne did her best to rearrange Elle's coiffure, tacking the ribbon back into place and struggling to resecure the roses. She used a handkerchief to try to wipe away the smudges beneath Elle's eyes, and brushed vigorously at the dirt marring the dress. Upon arrival at the small village church Elle was almost presentable.

Mr. Moore was waiting for them, pacing impatiently in front of the church. His frown deepened when Elle emerged from the carriage with leash in hand.

"She refuses to part with the dog," Mrs. Moore complained to her husband, passing the problem onto more assertive shoulders. "She claims she will not marry the earl if she has to part from the beast."

Mr. Moore narrowed his eyes at his daughter. "I am calling your bluff this time, my girl. If you think to delay this over a dog, you had better think again. You want it with you? Then bring it. You are getting married either way."

Elle smiled in relief. This formidable man, with the scowl etched so ferociously upon his brow, was not putting up a fight. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

There was some fussing and delay in the front of the church, as people took their places, and then the organ started up in an unfamiliar hymn. Louise walked slowly down the aisle, and then it was Elle's turn, Mr. Moore on one side, Tatiana heeling nicely on the other. At least Tatiana's fur matched the occasion, Elle thought, and the sash leash made a decorative touch.

The scene had a sense of unreality about it, and her eyes were having trouble focusing on the guests sitting in the pews. Her heart was pounding under those layers of cloth and corsetting, and she realized with detached bemusement that she was light-headed from excitement and too little oxygen. She wondered if she was about to faint.

She felt the brush of Tatiana against her leg and was reassured. All would be well. Those fairy people had heard her, and she'd be home by this evening, with the memory of a wedding in which she was finally the bride. Her eyes cleared, and she gazed blissfully up to the altar, where her bridegroom awaited.

Henry watched his bride and father-in-law approach, and could not for the life of him decide what to make of the spectacle. The woman had brought a dog with her, into a church, to take part in a sacred ceremony. Mr. Moore looked uncharacteristically bewildered, Eleanor serene, and the dog obliviously happy. He did not know if he should be insulted or amused. It was a lovely dog, but if he had been a more devout man he might easily have called off the ceremony until its removal.

He watched Eleanor's face, and saw the moment when her eyes cleared of their glazed serenity. Her eyes met his in consternated surprise, then darted around, looking for someone or something that she could not find. Her eyes came back to his, and he could swear that he saw fear in them. Fear, and a displeased recognition. Well, what had she been expecting?

Eleanor had been expecting an old man. She had not, most definitely not, been expecting the obnoxiously self-composed man who'd caught her spying. This man, with his wicked black eyebrows and intense dark eyes, embarrassed her down to her silk-clad toes. She suddenly felt small and vulnerable under all her finery.

She took her place beside him, her hands shaking. When the time came, she repeated her vows, thankful she would not have to keep them. She was so aware of his presence beside her that she caught his subtle jerk of surprise at the sound of her voice. She realized then that he had not recognized her as the woman outside the window until that moment. No one could forget her mangled attempts at a British accent, once heard.

Her mind distracted by his surprise and wondering what he was thinking, she did not realize when the ceremony was all but over. His fingertips were suddenly pressing lightly under her jaw, tilting her face, and his mouth descended to take possession of her own. His lips were smooth and firm, both gentle and strong as they moved upon hers, sending a warm rush from her heart to her loins.

His size and his closeness, the heat radiating from his body, and the faint scent of clean linen intoxicated her senses. It had been too long since she'd been kissed, and she was taken by surprise by the melting sensation. She wanted to savor it, but it was over in a moment.

She staggered slightly when he released her and was steadied by his strong arm. She looked up into his eyes but could read nothing there. All the same, the shivers of her flesh told her that a wedding night would not be as unwelcome as she had thought.

Chapter Six

Henry watched his new wife with suspicion. She was several feet away, speaking with an elderly aunt who was earnestly holding her hand and apparently giving heartfelt advice on marriage and the proper handling of husbands. Eleanor was nodding at the proper intervals, but she hardly looked as if she were paying attention. She looked downright uneasy.

He had been watching her throughout the afternoon and evening as she accepted congratulations from friends and family, ate at his side, and quietly listened to others talk. The woman was not consistent, and it unsettled him. At their first meeting, she had been distant, cold, and acidic. At the second, a smart-mouthed but spirited voyeur. And today, that dog that she still held by the leash declared her rebellion, yet she seemed subdued, even uneasy, and her wig was slightly askew.

It could be that she was finally accepting that she could do nothing to change her situation, and was resigning herself to being his wife, but that did not feel like a complete explanation. There was something strange about her today that he could not quite put his finger on, and he had the nagging feeling that he was missing some piece of the puzzle.

Well, whatever it was, it should be an easy bit of work to discover. He was, after all, twelve years older than she and vastly more experienced. Once he discovered it, her actions and moods would make logical sense, and he could help her to fit neatly and unobtrusively into her position as the countess of Allsbrook, and she would give him no more trouble.

An unwelcome thought came to mind. He had been fairly certain that no insanity ran in the Moore family, but there could always be the odd mad cousin stashed away. Pray God that that was not the explanation.

Elle could feel eyes on her and turned to find Lord Allsbrook staring at her. Her breath caught under his gaze. For all that she hoped to be gone before the evening was finished, she could not escape the feeling that this was her husband. She was bound by cords of law and faith and honor to a stranger. And she was, for now at least, at his beck and call. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her, then turned back to the man who was talking to him.

She felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut when his attention shifted away, the release of tension was so dramatic. She brought her eyes back to the earnest woman in front of her and watched the woman's lips move back and forth over discolored teeth. Elle had long ago stopped listening to the words.

The violins in the small orchestra scraped out an attention-getting string of notes, and Elle felt Lord Allsbrook's presence behind her in a tingle that ran up her neck and tightened the muscles of her scalp.

"Shall we dance, my lady?" his smooth voice inquired, and she could feel the vibrations of it throbbing against the timpani of her ears.

She turned to him, and he took her hand before she could muster a response. She let him lead her out onto the floor, too flustered to think straight. He took the end of Tatiana's sash from her hand, giving it into the care of a man who stood at the edge of the floor. It was as he took his position, other couples lining up behind them, that Elle belatedly realized her folly.

The orchestra was not going to belt out some pop Madonna tune, and the guests were not going to dance however they pleased. They weren't even going to waltz or do a simple foxtrot. This was going to be a dance with complicated rules, and whatever they were, she didn't know them.

Her stomach twisted, and fresh sweat broke out under her arms, adding to that which the room of candles and overdressed bodies had already created with their heat. She felt a fine rivulet creep down her scalp under the wig and trace a path down her forehead. She was suddenly nauseated by the heat, the odor of so many bodies, and the knowledge of the humiliation that was about to come.

Lord Allsbrook gently squeezed her fingers in his gloved hand, and glancing up at him, she saw him raise his eyebrows expectantly. She twisted her head to see the women behind her and tried to mimic their positions beside their partners. Perhaps she could fake her way through this.

There came a brief hush, the music started, and Elle closed her eyes in a brief prayer that the dancing gods were feeling merciful tonight.

She let Lord Allsbrook lead her forward, then when he stepped away craned her head to watch the woman behind her. She twisted from side to side as the dancers' positions changed, her feet fumbling along a half beat behind everyone else's.

The dance increased in its complexity, and she became more and more lost, making little running steps under cover of her skirts to put herself in the right position, too busy concentrating on where everyone was to even look up at her partner. More than anything she wanted to walk off the dance floor and escape this spectacle she was making of herself, but she couldn't. She was the bride, and this was her first dance with her husband. Her chest was tight with unshed tears of frustration, but she wouldn't quit.

She clenched her jaw and sniffed back the threatening tears, determined to complete the dance, however badly. Her world narrowed to her own feet and the woman who danced beside her. Her lips set in a grim line, she plodded her way back and forth and around, until with a final flourish the music ended, and Lord Allsbrook led her from the floor.

Once they had broken through the edge of the crowd he grabbed her arm pulled her with more force than necessary into an alcove. His face was flushed, his jaw tensed, but as she gaped up at him she saw his features smooth out, as if he were deliberately hiding his anger from her view.

"I know you have had dancing lessons," he said in a low voice. "I can only presume that you are attempting to punish me in some childish manner for this marriage. You are an adult now, Eleanor, and it is time you took on adult responsibilities. Your behavior today has shamed your family and has shamed yourself."

The unfairness of his accusation made Elle's face flush in an anger she, for one, was not about to hide. It drowned her embarrassment in a cleansing wash of fury. "You, dear husband, have all the sensitivity of an ice cube," she hissed. "You have no idea what I've been through today, and frankly, I doubt you could understand even if I spelled it out for you in three-foot capital letters. God help me, my palm is itching to smack that cool look right off your face."

"I doubt God's going to be much help to you with that. He was the one who blessed our union today."

She broke away from him, too angry to bear his presence. She found Tatiana, snatched the leash from the man's hand, and wove her way to the French doors that led out onto the patio. She had to get out of here, away from Lord Allsbrook, away from the heat and stench of bodies.

Lord Henry Allsbrook and the rest of this shallow, self-satisfied crowd could go to hell for all she cared. She had done nothing of which to be ashamed. Who were they to judge her?

The night air brought a welcome kiss of coolness to her flushed neck and cheeks, and she paused at the top of the terrace steps to savor the breeze that blew across the gardens and swirled in the lace of her gown. Tatiana tugged at her silken leash, reminding Elle that the Samoyed had been patiently awaiting an opportunity to use the facilities.

She let Tatiana lead her down the steps and onto a gravel path, avoiding the other party-goers who had come out for a bit of fresh air. For Tatiana the garden was an amusement park of smells, and she trotted happily from bush to bush.

Elle wandered with her dog down to the long reflecting pool, along its length, and up to the pavilion at its end, her mind cooling along with her body. There were lanterns in the garden up by the house, but none down here, and she found the darkness welcome, concealing her as it did from the watching eyes of others.

There were cushioned benches inside the pavilion, one of which she sat on now, finding to her dismay that her stays prevented her from attaining a comfortable slouch. Had it only been two days ago that she had thought it would be entertaining to wear a corset? Her dresser drawer of soft, faded bras and panties had never seemed so precious.

The benches were long enough to lie down on, so she lay back and swung her legs up onto the cushions, finding that the bustle tied around her waist was made of quite solid material, solid enough to feel like a log under her back. The monstrous wig shifted as she rested her head on the cushions, so she reached up and pulled the pins from it, tugging it off and setting it farther along the bench. She dug her fingers into her flattened, pinned-up hair, loosening it and letting the cool air touch her scalp.

This would be the perfect opportunity for those glowing fairies to come to her and take her home. She'd had enough of this adventure.

She rested her arms across her stomach and was almost comfortable, despite the bustle in the small of her back. She would just close her eyes for a bit and do some deep breathing exercises, and send up a private prayer that when she opened her eyes again she would be back home.

Henry searched the crowd again for the powdered head of his wife. She still was not back from the gardens, and he felt his irritation rise yet again. It had been literally years since he had allowed himself to lose his temper, yet this girl who was now his wife was nudging him ever closer to that precipice.

He excused himself and made his way out to the terrace, then down into the gardens. She should be easy to pick out, with that damn dog trailing after her, but she was nowhere to be seen. His eyes narrowed on the pavilion.

A low canine growl greeted his arrival in the dark structure, and he knew he had found her. The two indistinct white shapes shifted, and he realized Eleanor had sat up.

"Thank God, you're here," she said, her voice filled with relief. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't stick to our bargain."

"Once again, madame, God is not on your side."

A stunned silence met his words, then at last she spoke. "Lord Allsbrook."

"My lady." He heard the edge of anger in his own voice and for once did not care to dull it. "Has your lover stood you up? How unfortunate."

"It's not how it looks."

"You do admit the situation is suspicious."

"Oh, for God's sake. How do women stand it, being watched every hour of the day? I can't even go cool off in the garden of my own home, can't even get off my sore feet for a few minutes without someone chasing me down and accusing me of fornicating in the shrubbery, as if I didn't have better things to think about."

He moved closer, staring down at her faint white form, the anger still hot in his blood. "You spoke of a bargain you had made."

"Sit down, will you," she snapped at him. "You're looming."

He closed his eyes for a long moment, dredging up the image of his drunken, enraged father. He would not lose control of himself. He would not lose control of the situation. He sat down.

The dog had stopped growling, and now came and leaned against his legs. He let her sniff his hand, then scratched her head, the silky fur under his fingertips helping calm him. When he had mastery of his tone, he spoke again. "You admitted to waiting for someone. Who was it?"

He heard her sigh of exasperation. "It doesn't matter. They won't come if you're here."

"They?"

"Yes, 'they.' And 'they' are mostly female. Does that make you feel better?"

"It might if I thought I could believe you. I would have thought we could make it through at least one day without doubts of fidelity atop everything else."

"You really are insufferable, you know that?"

"Were you waiting for a lover?"

"No! I was waiting for women, a group of young women… friends, who promised to tell me things about the… ah… wedding night."

He was quiet a minute, stroking the dog's head, rubbing the silky ears. Her voice did not have the ring of truth to it. He could press the matter, but it would serve no purpose. Tomorrow they would leave for Brookhaven, and whoever she had planned to meet would be out of reach. He needed this marriage. The tenants on his estates needed it. This once, and this once only, he had to ignore her misbehavior. "I will endeavor to take your word on that," he said, his voice neutral. "I did not want this marriage to start as badly as our first meeting, although it seems to have done so. We have an entire life to live in each other's company, and I would that we could do so pleasantly."

"It hasn't been all that bad a day," she said.

"An encouraging sentiment." His voice was lifeless, and then, to his surprise, she nudged him lightly with her shoulder.

"I've never known anyone who thought a wedding day easy on the nerves," she said. Was she trying to cheer him? "I thought somehow I'd escape that part of it, that I'd just have fun today, but I guess I fell victim to bridal insanity. Surely you can't always be so awful yourself?"

He tried to let that one pass. "I did not know it was you I spoke with outside the window the other night," he said instead. "Did you recognize me in the dark?"

"If I had, do you think I would have kicked you?"

That was no answer at all. "You were going someplace then." He let the statement hang, the question clear. Had she been meeting someone, as she appeared to be doing tonight?

"I'd been cooped up inside all day. I know you keep catching me out alone in the gardens at night, but there's really nothing to it. It's been ages since I've had any sort of romantic relationship."

"Girlhood flirtations, were they?"

"Mmm. Can I ask you a question?"

"You are my wife now."

"Did you really just marry me for my money?"

His hand grew still on the dog's head. "Finances were my first consideration. It is my hope, however, that we can build a civil relationship."

"That sounds… civilized." Her voice suggested she found something lacking in the idea.

"Was there someone else you had hoped to marry?"

"The horse is dead, my lord. Stop beating it. Couldn't you have gotten a job, if you needed money?"

His irritation flared again. "As what, a cobbler? A baker? A footman in another peer's house?"

"Sorry. I didn't know you were so touchy about it." She didn't sound sorry.

Silence reigned for several long moments. "Why have you started speaking with that odd accent?"

"Dr. Simms said it's left over from the influenza, when it settled in my throat; it should go away in time. It's nothing to worry about." He sensed her careless shrug.

"I did not know you had been ill. I was told your absence was due to the exhaustion of the preparations." Her behavior suddenly made more sense to him. He recalled sneaking out at night himself as a boy, when his fever had gone but the doctor had given orders that he was to stay in bed. Eleanor showed every sign of being willful enough to disobey both doctor and father, if a walk in the garden was what she wanted.

"My father no doubt didn't want you to know. He was quite determined to see us married, whatever the circumstances. But I'm feeling much better, except for this throat thing."

He had never heard of anyone picking up an accent after an illness, but he admittedly knew little about medicine. "In deference to your recent infirmity, perhaps it would be best if we returned to the house." And thence to their chamber, to seal this bargain permanently.

Elle could think of no plausible excuse for remaining out in the pavilion, much as she wanted to. She couldn't tell him that she was waiting for anorexic fairies to return her to her own time, so she stood and squished the wig firmly onto her head. She took his profferred arm, her other hand still holding Tatiana's leash.

At least he was acting semihuman for the moment. His anger had not been exactly pleasant to experience, but at least it told her he knew she was alive.

"Can I call you Henry, now that we're married?"

"You would be comfortable with that?"

"Of course. And I'd prefer if you called me Elle."

"Then in privacy, that is what I shall do. And while we are discussing names, what do you call that beautiful Samoyed that has not left your side?"

Elle's face broke into a wide smile. "She is beautiful, isn't she? Her name's Tatiana."

"Do you breed her?"

"Heavens no. I decided against that when she was a puppy."

"Perhaps if we found a suitable mate you would change your mind."

"She's not a puppy machine," she said, a little defensively, knowing it was impossible. Tatiana had been spayed.

They had crossed the gardens and reached the bottom of the terrace steps, lit by lanterns and the light spilling from the glass doors. Henry stopped and looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. "What did you do to your wig?"

Elle's hands flew up to touch the woolly mess. "What? Did I put it on wrong?" She felt powdered ringlets cascading over her left ear, while the right ear was bare.

Two sausage rolls of curls sat atop her forehead.

He drew her back into the shadows, away from the lanterns, then twisted the wig into its proper position. "You had it on sideways."

"Oh." How embarrassing. Now that they were in the light where she could see him, she was reminded of his dark good looks and felt herself retreating. She suddenly wondered if she had a bit of food stuck between her front teeth.

They reentered the house, and Henry made their good-nights while Elle watched nervously by his side, waiting for someone to direct her. Mrs. Moore soon appeared, leading her out of the ballroom and up to a bedroom that she had not seen before. Marianne was waiting for her there, having directed the preparation of the room, and ready now to prepare her mistress for her first night of nuptial bliss.

Elle groaned silently. How was she going to get out of this?

Chapter Seven

With Marianne's help Elle undressed, washed the remainders of the makeup off her face and the sweat from her body, and put on a fine silk chemise embroidered white on white with vines and flowers at the hems. It was so thin that the shadows of her nipples and pubic hair showed through, and it was with some relief that she donned a short maroon-and-gold wrapper over it, held closed in the front by satin ribbons.

She sat in front of the vanity while Marianne brushed out her hair, and Mrs. Moore, who had been fidgeting throughout, finally found her voice.

"Eleanor, dear, there are some things I need to discuss with you concerning the duties of a married woman."

Elle raised her eyebrows, turning to look upon the distressed woman. "Duties?"

"I know that I have done my best to teach you the proper running of a household, but there are some lessons that a mother saves until this moment. I know you must feel a great deal of concern about what will happen when your husband comes to you tonight."

"I've been worrying about it all day," she said. But not for the reason you think. She pursed her lips to keep them from twitching. She had never thought to get the traditional maternal lecture on what to expect in bed.

"Yes, well, Lord Allsbrook is a healthy man from all accounts, and still in his prime for all that he is 30 years of age. You must trust him to lead you through this, and you must never deny him. Whatever he decides to do in the privacy of the bedroom you must agree to—however much it embarrasses you."

Elle couldn't resist widening her eyes at Mrs. Moore. "He's not going to want to see me naked, is he?"

Mrs. Moore's mouth turned down in distress, and her eyes strayed to the wall, the floor, anywhere but her daughter's face. "When you started your monthly, dear, I explained that it was part of being a woman, that it meant that your womb could receive the seed of a man. Well, to plant that seed, a man needs to be inside you."

Elle felt her eyebrows crawl up her forehead. Mrs. Moore made sex sound like gardening. "It sounds rather dirty."

"Oh, dear, I see that I have worried you. Eleanor, dear," she said, coming over and holding both of Elle's hands, finally looking her in the eye, "I know that you want children, and this is how you will get them. The experience need not be unpleasant. Men have great physical needs, but they lessen with time and familiarity. Eventually he will leave you to the peace of raising your family and running your house."

"I see."

"Do you, dear? I am so glad." Mrs. Moore sighed her relief, and dropped her hands. "He will be here soon. Do remember all I have said."

After the door had shut behind her Elle turned back to the mirror, mulling over the married life Mrs. Moore had described. Marianne pulled the brush through her hair a few more strokes, then set it down. She picked up a sleeping cap and placed it on Elle's head, then stepped back from the vanity.

"You look lovely, milady. His lordship should be pleased."

"I doubt that." He wouldn't be at all pleased when she refused him his marital rights. Studying her own reflection, though, she almost felt attractive. Her eyes were large and dark in her face, and the robe flattered her coloring, complementing even the faint freckles that covered her cheeks and forearms. In the soft light of the candles her hair hanging below the edges of the silly cap looked rich, its red and gold tones underlaid with deep hints of mahogany.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Elle looked about the room, at the bed with the covers turned down, the small table with the wine and fruit, and the fireplace where a low fire burned. There was nothing to keep Marianne here, delaying the inevitable encounter with a husband expecting to deflower his bride. Tatiana stretched and groaned on the floor beside the bed, drawing their attention.

"Shall I take the dog, milady?"

"Leave her." There was still a chance the fairies would come for her, and she wanted Tatiana with her if they did.

"Very well." Marianne left the room, the door closing with a soft snick behind her.

Elle removed the sleeping cap, then stood and walked over to where Tatiana lay, kneeling down to untie the sash that still trailed from her neck. "You're an awfully good dog, you know that?" she said, mostly for her own comfort, and scratched Tatiana's belly. "Do you think you could protect me from his royal husbandness?"

A short rap came on a different door than the one Marianne had used, and then it opened. Henry stood there. The wig was gone, revealing luscious black hair cut short, almost modern in length. She had thought him attractive before, but now her heart almost stopped in her chest. He was wearing a midnight blue robe, tied casually at the waist with a tassled cord, and apparently nothing else, if the dark hairs visible in the vee of the robe were any indication.

"Where did you come from?" she asked stupidly.

He gestured vaguely towards the door. "It is the dressing room—it connects to another bedroom. But you know that."

"Uh, yeah." That hadn't been what she meant.

He sauntered over to the little table and poured two glasses of wine, while Elle watched him warily. He picked them up and brought them over to where she still knelt by Tatiana, and held one out to her. She took it but did not drink. He seemed ten feet tall from her vantage point, and she dropped her eyes to his bare feet and calves. They looked strong, sprinkled with glossy black hair. Even his toes were well formed. She felt a feather-light touch upon her hair and glanced up.

"Elle," he said.

She scooted back abruptly, startling both Henry and Tatiana. She stared up at him, then slowly got to her feet, her mind spinning in desperate circles. Her hands were shaking, and she almost spilled the wine before setting it on the mantle over the fire. Handsome as he was, she would not sleep with a stranger, and she most definitely would not risk getting pregnant by one.

"I'm not ready for this," she croaked out.

He took a step forward, then stopped when she jerked back, farther away. He had never been with a virgin before, but he knew instinctively that he would have to soothe her like he would soothe a skittish horse. "You are frightened, I know," he said calmly. "I am not going to hurt you."

"I don't even know you."

"We will go slowly. I will not rush you." He reached out and touched her cheek, cupping it in his palm. Her skin was soft and warm and yielding, and he felt a stirring in his loins. This was the first time he had seen her without makeup or wig, and she was far lovelier than he had thought. The false hair and powdered face had obscured the warmth of her coloring, whereas now she glowed like the sunset.

For a moment she closed her eyes, her cheek pressing into his hand, then she suddenly snapped her head away and scampered behind a chair, holding the chair's back as if it were a barrier that could protect her from him.

"I don't want to do this."

"How can you make that choice, when you don't know what is being offered?" He held out one hand, beckoning.

"Get back."

He let his hand drop, then shrugged as if it did not matter. He walked over to the bed, put his glass of wine on the bedside table, then stretched out full length on top of the covers, stacking up the pillows behind his head so he could watch her. "I am not going to force you."

She narrowed her eyes at him, then slowly walked to the foot of the bed and looked down at him, a small frown between her brows. He smoothed his face into a bland mask, hiding a smile. Sometimes the best persuasion was none at all.

He watched her wet her lips nervously, her fingers playing with a fold of satin. "I feel I owe you an explanation," she said finally, and bit her lip. She fidgetted for another few moments before continuing. "I know that you're my husband now, and that this is part of being married, but I can't think of this, of making love, as a duty to be performed on demand. I don't want to lie there thinking that you don't know anything about who I am, and have no caring for me whatsoever."

"It has been my experience that sleeping together can do much to create a bond between a man and a woman. Are not the touch and the kiss the most basic expressions of affection?"

"In our case they would mean nothing, as there is no affection to express." «

"When we bring pleasure to each other, sentiment will grow."

"I think you're talking about lust, not affection."

"I am not an animal. I know the difference." One thing was for certain: His little bride had no difficulty expressing her opinion. He was beginning to enjoy this sparring match, especially knowing that in the end she would give in. "I also know that while you may be convinced that this is how you feel, most of your reluctance is based on the normal fear that most young women have about their wedding night. You are scared because this is new; that is all. You can trust me, Elle. I am your husband now and will guide you."

"You, Henry Trevelyan, are an ignorant toad!"

"Am I?" He sat up, then leaned forward until he was only a few feet from her. "Do you think I do not know how to touch a woman? That I do not know how to bring her pleasure?" He locked his eyes with hers, watching her pupils grow large, her lips parting.

She began to step away, and he reached forward and dragged her bodily onto the mattress, and had her flat on her back before she could muster more than a short shriek of protest.

He lodged one thigh between her legs, pressing against her through the thin layers of silk. He lay half over her, her right arm pinned beneath him. With her free hand she pushed at his shoulder, and he easily took hold of her hand, kissing the back of it before pinning it above her head.

"You said you wouldn't force me," she squeaked.

He could feel her heart beating against his chest. "And I shall keep my word." He bent to trace a feathery trail of kisses up the side of her neck to the base of her ear, where he paused briefly—not touching her—his face close enough so that she could feel the heat of his skin, the warmth of his breath.

She was holding her own breath, and only released it when he touched her again. He used his tongue this time, lightly painting circles on that tender skin. She squirmed, her movement pressing her against his thigh.

His left hand held hers above her head, and his right slipped through the opening of her robe along the side of her ribcage. His palm moved up to just below her breast, the pad of his thumb softly brushing the underside in slow strokes. Her back arched, inviting him to do more. He bent his head to capture her lips.

Deep inside he smiled to himself in satisfaction, even as he moved to explore the planes of her face with his lips. He had allowed her her protest, her arguments. She could feel that she had not given in without a struggle. Her pride would remain intact, even as she submitted.

She was young and inexperienced, he knew, and at heart she would want to be told what to do, no matter the defiance she showed him. It was his own response to her that now surprised him. He wanted to sink his fingers into the softness of her hair, to explore the gentle contours of her body, and to discover whether the warmth of her coloring extended into the heat of her passions.

He moved his hand up over her breast, gently teasing the nipple between his fingers. She strained against him, seeking more contact, and he knew he could release her hand and she would not fight him. He held it, though, allowing her to pretend to herself that she had no choice.

She opened her eyes as he pulled back to untie her robe, then pushed it open to gaze upon her hardened nipples, showing through the silk. He bent and took one aureole in his mouth through the cloth, the wetness soaking through the fragile fabric. He heard her suck in her breath, and felt her muscles tense, then relax. He reached down to pull up the hem of her chemise, grazing her leg on the upward journey. His own robe came open, and he let the raw heat of his arousal nudge against her.

She reacted as if he had pressed a knife against her. "Nooo!" she wailed, and jerked her hand free from above her head, and before he could stop her, she had rolled out from underneath him and off the bed. She backed away, pulling her short robe closed, covering the wet fabric over her breast. She stumbled into a chair and stopped, her breathing loud and ragged.

"I can't do this," she said, almost pleading. "I can't."

He sat up and looked at her, his body throbbing with lust that was quickly turning to angry frustration, which he fought to keep from leaking into his voice. "You can, and you were enjoying it. Sooner or later you will have to give in, Eleanor. Make it easy on yourself, and do so now. You cannot escape."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It should have been someone more suitable that you married, someone ready for all this. I'm not the right woman, no matter what they think."

"Is not an earl good enough for a merchant's daughter? Do not think you are going to escape this marriage by putting me off on our wedding night. The bargain was made, and I intend to seal it."

"Then you'll have to force me to do it," she said flatly.

He heard the finality in her voice. No challenge, no uncertainty. She meant every word of it. He felt the blood pound in his head as he realized that she was going to win this round, and for the briefest moment wanted to throw her to the floor and take her, to have it done with and let her know for once and for all that she could not have her way in this. She was his wife now. He quickly smothered the thought. He was not his father, to use violence to win his way.

He forced his hands and jaw to unclench. This was but a single battle lost. To show her that she had affected him as deeply as she had would be to risk losing the entire war. Control of the self led to control of the situation.

He got off the bed and went over to the table with the fruit and wine, picking up the small knife provided for cutting the fruit. "I cannot have you claiming our marriage was unconsummated, halting the transfer of all those funds and properties to my name," he said with false calm, his voice free of the emotions that boiled within. He sliced a small nick in his thumb.

He pulled the covers back from the bed, then let spill a drop of blood into the center of the exposed sheet. He pressed his thumb into the spot, smearing it slightly, then brought his thumb to his mouth to stop the bleeding. When he was finished he turned to her.

"Rather artistic, do you not think? Just enough to serve the purpose, and not so much as to make the maids believe you suffered unduly. Of course, you could always have a doctor check whether your virginity was indeed intact, but I would not suggest it, given the doubts that have already been cast on that subject." He paused to rein in his temper. "So you see, my darling Eleanor, there is no escape for you. There is no point in fighting when you will inevitably lose. Give in, before you make a complete and utter fool of yourself."

"No power on earth can force me to stay married to you. I'll leave, and you'll never figure out where I've gone."

"Well, it will not be home. Your father would never accept you back. You have not a penny to your name, and nothing to sell but your body, so unless your lover is waiting to spirit you away, which, really, he should have done before now if he was serious about it, you are out of options."

"You don't know half as much as you think you do."

"I will warrant it is half again as much as you. Come to bed, and I shall not touch you. Your supposed virginity has already been lost upon the sheets, and I will not take it a second time tonight."

"I'd rather sleep on the floor. Bodies have a way of rolling together in the middle of the night."

"And you would know." He peeled blankets and the top sheet from the bed and tossed them on the floor. It was beyond his ability to graciously offer her sole use of the bed. If she had a wish to sleep on the floor, let her suffer the consequences of having it granted.

"By the time we pile those back on the bed in the morning, they'll think we had a wild night of it."

He stared at her. "They will have no idea."

Chapter Eight

Elle spent several hours lying tensely on the hard floor, listening to each and every move of Henry on the bed. Was he even her husband, legally? She had married him under a different name. She had a feeling, though, that it was the person who mattered, considering that it was a personal vow made before God.

If she made it back home, she'd be a widow, Henry having long since died and rotted down to bones and a few silver buttons. She didn't like to think of him that way, for all that she had never had a more infuriating encounter with a man. Or a more erotic one.

She'd liked it when he'd pinned her to the bed, liked feeling his lips on her skin, his thigh between her legs. She'd never been intimate with a stranger before, and had had no idea how the excitement of it could course through her body. It was only when she'd felt his arousal against her bare skin that she'd realized the danger she was in.

It could take just once to get pregnant. A few minutes of pleasure was not worth the risk.

Tatiana got up from her corner and came to join her on her makeshift bed, and the comforting weight of the dog against her legs had a soothing effect. When she woke up she'd probably be home again. She'd fulfilled her side of the bargain, and married the man. Her eyes eventually drooped closed, and in short order the exhaustion of the day carried her to sleep.

In the early hours of the morning the door to the chamber silently opened. Sibilant whispering, almost beyond the range of human hearing, came from the two slender fairies that cautiously eased into the room. Tatiana awoke abruptly, ears forward to catch the sound. Her nose twitched at a familiar scent, and she left the blankets and her mistress to investigate.

The two figures, faintly glowing, separated. Mossbottom went to the far side of the room, giving a whistle like the high call of a bat, and dangled with distaste by two prim fingers a jointed bone with gobbets of flesh still attached. Tatiana trotted to the familiar fairy, leaving the way clear to Elle where she slept on the floor.

The second fairy stepped quickly to the sleeping woman, bent down, and brushed her hand across Elle's forehead, leaving a phosphorescent dusting of powder that quickly faded. She straightened, then gestured to Mossbottom, who gladly gave up the bone to Tatiana and ran to the door. They slipped out, the two sleeping humans none the wiser for their presence. Tatiana watched the door for a minute longer, then dropped the bone with a thunk on a spot of bare flooring and lay down to gnaw it.

That clank of bone on floor was enough to wake Henry, who had been but dozing lightly. He pushed himself up on his elbows, wondering what had awoken him, then noticed the dog off in the corner chewing. He lay back down and moved to the edge of the bed, rolling onto his side to peer over the edge at where his wife lay sleeping. Moonlight faintly glimmered on her forehead, making her look ethereal in her humble bed. She reminded him of one of the fairy tales his great-grandmother had loved to tell him as a child, the one with the princess who dressed in servants' clothes and slept outside the door of her beloved's room.

He slowly shook his head. She was no princess, and he most certainly was not her beloved. Still, almost in spite of himself he found he was somewhat intrigued by her. She was intelligent, which surprised and pleased him, given her shallowness at their first meeting. She had the courage of her convictions as well, not backing down despite all that was against her. There was the possibility she could make an adequate wife and countess, once she was brought to order.

He grinned in the darkness, watching her sleep, thinking of that day. From all signs, she would make a lusty bed partner. Perhaps there were more advantages to this marriage than he had thought.

She shifted in her sleep, a small moan escaping her lips. Her head rolled from side to side, a frown drawing down her brows. Henry continued to watch her, his own smile fading. She looked as if she was having nightmares. He hoped it was not his own face that tortured her in her sleep.

Elle was dreaming. The pink husband coupon was in her hand, and she was once again waving it at the dripping firs, spouting her demands for an arranged marriage. The landslide came, then the cave with her dead replica, and the confusing whisperings of the glowing fairies. It was all familiar, a replaying of the past, and then it changed. She dreamt now of her brother, Jeff, his face gaunt and ashen, walking down a tiled subterranean hallway. A white and steel room waited at the end, lined with the ovenlike doors of a morgue. An attendant opened one of the square doors and pulled out the shelf inside with a low rumble. He pulled back the sheet over the mound of the body, and Elle watched over Jeff's shoulder as the face came into view.

Elle woke screaming, with the vision of her own face vivid before her. She did not hear Tatiana barking in alarm, or Henry's anxious voice. She could only scream, and push her hands at the darkness, warding off that grotesque image.

Warm arms surrounded her, lifting her up onto the bed. Her head was pressed against a broad chest, the rich reverberation of a heartbeat below her ear. It was that which calmed her, more that than the hand that stroked her hair or the low voice murmuring soothing words. A heartbeat meant life, and she drowned herself in that sound, shutting out all else. She was not dead.

Still, she could not shake the power of the dream. That was not her on a slab in the morgue, but it could have been. It might have been, if she had not agreed to come here.

With sudden, eerie certainty, Elle knew that it was Eleanor Moore she had seen lying there, and that somehow she had been allowed to witness what had become of her life to everyone she knew and loved at home. No one was going to come take her away from here: The switch was meant to be permanent. She now belonged to a man she neither knew nor particularly liked. She was helpless. She was married. She was alone.

"What was it?" Henry's soft words finally penetrated her despair.

"I saw myself dead," she whispered against his chest, not caring for this moment that she was pressed so intimately against him.

Henry felt a chill run along his spine. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he glanced uneasily out the window at the night beyond, inexplicably feeling that there was a presence watching. He tightened his arms around her, the instinct to protect strong. He pulled her unresisting with him under the covers, never releasing her from his arms.

"It was just a dream. No one is going to hurt you." She did not struggle against his hold, but neither did she relax. He could feel tremors run through her, then short gasping breaths as she began to sob. She pressed her face to his shoulder, one hand fisted on his chest. She clung to him until the sobs devolved to hiccups, then slow deep breaths. He felt her relaxing, then to his astonishment realized she had cried herself to sleep, her mouth slightly open on his shoulder.

He lifted his head to look at her, but from the awkward angle it was mostly her nose that was visible. A beautiful, Grecian nose. Even in her sleep it suggested that she was not a person to be trifled with, no matter that she had just wept like a child over a bad dream.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow, his mind roaming. His hand soon followed suit, lightly tracing her thigh and buttocks, all that he could reach without shifting the arm wrapped around her. She was soft and rounded in all the right places, and he could feel her breasts pressed up against him.

The desire that he had felt earlier came back in a tingling rush, and he forced himself to keep his hand still on her hip. There was no use torturing himself. He was not about to wake her and try once again to seduce her, not when she had turned to him of her own volition in an expression, however unconscious, of trust.

He was logical; he was a tactitian; he was engaged in a battle that would be won by patience and planning.

That did not mean he could not think about it, though. He drifted off to sleep with fantasies of his wife pinned beneath him, accepting his thrusts with great moans of pleasure. A man could dream, after all.

Chapter Nine

Henry was gone by the time Elle awoke the next morning, and a feeling of dread nestled deep in her gut. Marianne, oblivious, was bustling about, a knowing grin on her plump face.

Elle sat up, noticing that all the blankets were back on the bed, albeit in a rumpled mess. It did indeed look like they had had a wild night of it, which was no doubt the cause of Marianne's cheerful amusement. Elle's mind slowly sought an answer for how she had ended up in the bed, and when the image from her dream returned she whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut, burrowing back beneath the covers.

"Here now, milady," Marianne said. "No need to be embarrassed."

Elle ignored her and pulled the sheet over her head.

With the memory of the dream and all it implied, her vague sense of dread found its proper shape. She was never going to see Jeff and his growing brood of monsters again, never going to see her friends, never going to drive a car or watch the news on TV. She had lost everyone and everything.

She sat up suddenly, pulling the sheet off her head. "Marianne, where's Tatiana?"

"His lordship took her outside, milady."

Elle threw back the covers and got out of bed. Tatiana was all she had. She couldn't trust the dog's care to anyone but herself. "Do you know where my clothes are?"

"Yes, milady, of course. Do you not wish to break your fast?"

"No, no time for that."

"Very well, milady." Marianne led her to the dressing room, where she had laid out Elle's clothes and accessories. Elle quickly used the chamber pot behind a screen, and realized that she'd never again hear the rush of flushing water. She felt tears sting her eyes.

On a stand behind the screen there was a basin and a pitcher of tepid water, and she took the time to give herself a brief sponge bath, tossing her chemise over the screen. She smelled of sweat, and she realized she'd have to wash herself three times a day to keep from exuding any trace of body odor. The thought of her underarm hair growing long depressed her even more.

"Marianne, a fresh chemise, please," she called, putting one hand out from behind the screen. Her mood made it easier to give orders, something she had been having trouble with. She stepped out from behind the screen and went to the vanity, picking up a brush and taking it to the snarls that had twisted themselves into her hair overnight.

"The fairies have been at you good," Marianne said.

Elle's hand stopped midstroke. "What was that?" she asked sharply, the blood draining from her already wan face.

"The fairylocks, milady. The snarls in your hair. Do you need some help?"

"No… no, I'm used to doing it myself." She continued brushing, more slowly, then without even thinking, sat down and began to put her hair into a loose French braid. It was a simple task for her practiced fingers, and in a few minutes she was searching for something with which to tie off the end. The best she could find was a ribbon, which she tied as tightly as she could, knowing that it would most likely slide off. They didn't even have rubber bands here.

She stood and let Marianne help her dress, knowing that she couldn't do it herself, and knowing as well that none of Eleanor's clothes would have a prayer of fitting her without the painfully tight stays. As Marianne tightened the laces and the pain increased, she felt a small bitter smile form on her lips. She'd spend every remaining day of her life bound in this device, unable to bend at the waist, unable to eat more than a few bites of food. It seemed a perverse, cosmic revenge for her dislike of exercise.

Marianne tied on her petticoat, the bustle, rolled on her stockings and tied the garters, then helped her into her dress. It was dark blue, of a thicker material than the wedding gown had been. It was embroidered in black along the hem and the edges of the overskirt, which was open in front, curved to the sides in an inverted V. The bodice was tight, as were the sleeves. Marianne poufed the handkerchief over Elle's bosom, the folds of linen reaching to just below her chin. Elle sat again for Marianne to put on her shoes, for she could not bend over to do it herself. She continued to sit as Marianne picked up a large, high-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat with ostrich plumes sticking up from the blue ribbon that circled the crown, ending in a fluffy excresence of flounces.

"Are you certain you do not wish me to do your hair, milady?"

"We've taken enough time already."

"Yes, milady, only…"

"What?" Elle asked, impatient to be gone, cranky in her misery.

"Nothing, milady." Marianne stepped forward and arranged the hat on Elle's head, carefully poking hat pins through it and the braid.

Elle stood and turned to go, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She looked awful. With her hair pulled back and close to the head, it made the pouf of handkerchief over her chest and the oversized, overdecorated hat look out of proportion. The styles were made for a great mass of frizzed and ringletted hair. Her face was but a small white blur caught between hat and kerchief.

Her heart hurt, her body hurt, and she looked terrible. Grief crept like arthritis through her bones. Her muscles were stiff with it, her joints creaked, and as she looked in the mirror, she could see the hollow loss in her eyes, deep and dark and without end, the flesh beneath her wounded eyes shadowed in violet.

Without another word to Marianne, she left the room, finding her way to the main staircase and down to the ground floor. Each detail of the house that differed from the familiar was a reminder that she was far from home, a reminder that she was trapped alone in an unknown world. For all that these people spoke English and lived in a culture that had given birth to her own, she did not know how to live amongst them.

She did not know how the house was cleaned, or the food cooked. She did not know how to mail a letter, or travel alone from one place to another, or what to wear at what time of day, or for what occasion. She did not even know how she'd deal with her period when it came.

Tatiana found her as she was plodding down the steps of the terrace, and bounded over to her in canine high spirits. Elle sat on the stone steps and let Tatiana lick her face and rub her white fur all over the dark blue gown, a reluctant smile coming to her lips. Tatiana at least would think this place a wonderful improvement over Portland. No more cramped apartment; no noisy, smelly cars and trucks to run her over; no visits to the veterinarian; and she would never be left alone while Elle went to work.

"The beast has found her beauty."

Elle looked up. Henry stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. A small clump of white fur was stuck to his breeches, marring an otherwise perfect sartorial statement. He looked well rested and in as complete control of himself as ever.

"Good morning," she said, bending her face to Tatiana's, letting the hat hide her from his view. She dimly recalled having sought comfort in his arms last night and didn't want to think about it. Anyone would have done just as well, as long as they were warm and alive. Henry just barely qualified.

"Good morning. It is rather odd, but no one seems to have any recollection of your dog before yesterday."

Elle peeked up from under the brim of her hat. What explanation could she possibly give?

"Still," Henry continued, "it is quite evident that she knows you. Curious, how such a remarkably noticeable animal could have so thoroughly escaped notice."

"Yes, quite curious. Are we leaving soon?" The longer she remained in Eleanor's home, the more likely she was to do things that Eleanor wouldn't, and have them noticed. At least when she was alone with Henry, he wouldn't know what was normal, and it would be the most natural thing in the world for her to ask questions.

"I had thought to give you some time in which to wish your family farewell, and then to be gone by the noon hour."

"Then I should go pack."

"Surely your maid has seen to that by now? I believe that several of your trunks have already been loaded on the coach that will carry both her and your belongings."

"Oh. Of course. It's just the good-byes that are waiting, then."

"Eleanor—"

"Elle, Henry. If you're going to call me anything, please call me Elle."

"My apologies. I thought you might wish to rescind that verbal intimacy after our wedding night."

"As I recall, it was intimacy of only the verbal sort that I was interested in pursuing."

"So it was. And now you have a full day in a closed carriage with me to indulge your wish."

Elle frowned at him. Was there humor in his voice? The man was so damn unreadable. "Right. I can hardly wait. Where are we going for our honeymoon?"

Although his answer came in a cool, disinterested tone and nothing in his composed stance changed, she had the feeling that the question made him uncomfortable. "A wedding trip will not be possible at this time."

"Oh." She wondered if money had anything to do with that decision. "So we're going straight to your place. Where is it again, exactly?"

"Dorset, near the Frome."

She had no idea where either Dorset or the Frome were. Or what, exactly, the Frome was. "What else is nearby?"

"Dorchester is not far."

She was afraid to ask any more. Something in his look told her she should know all this already. "Mmm. Well. I'm very much looking forward to seeing your home."

"Our home, now."

"Yes. Ours." It was a strange but not completely unwelcome thought.

The family good-byes, when they came, were remarkably easy. There was the same well-wishing, the same confusion of voices, the same promises to write as there were in the modern world. Several guests had come down to the front hall for the final farewell, adding a note of merriment to the more somber mood of the immediate family. The only person she was sorry to leave was Louise, who pulled her aside for a semiprivate tearful and melodramatic good-bye.

"My dear sister, you are married, and must now live under the rule of a man you despise! You shall write to me, and never fear but that I shall be here when you are in need of succor."

"For heaven's sake, Louise, he's not an ogre. He's not going to beat me."

"But you despise him, and how can the tender heart of woman survive in such a cruel, loveless environment?"

"I think the tender heart of woman will do just fine."

"Do you mean you have found some tenderness for him?"

"I didn't say that."

"I must admit, I was surprised when I saw him. You had led me to believe he was most uncouth, and disagreeable to look upon." Louise's voice dropped as she continued, "And he does look to be a cold man, but he is not without appeal. One wonders what goes on behind those black eyes, whether there are wicked thoughts that he hides from us."

Elle realized that Louise had never actually met Henry before the wedding: Whatever she had known of him had been based upon discussions that Eleanor had had with her. "I'm sure with a little training, he'll make a most civil husband."

"I am glad to hear I am not an intractable case," Henry said from behind her.

She felt the warm weight on his hands on her shoulders, a proprietary gesture that bespoke an intimacy they did not share, although she could not deny a reluctant pleasure at the touch. She smiled weakly at Louise, then turned. "They say that the first step in change is to recognize that you have a problem. I am encouraged to hear that you have surmounted that obstacle."

"With the patient guidance of your gentle hand, no doubt I will soon overcome all barriers to domestic bliss," he replied.

Elle narrowed her eyes at him. She was deeply suspicious he had meant that as a double entendre, only he couldn't have known she caught it. She set her jaw and suffered through the remainder of the good-byes, ignoring her husband as well as she could.

The carriage that awaited them was nowhere near so grand as the one that had taken her to the church, even to her untutored eye. There was no gloss to its black exterior, and the coat of arms on the door was faded and chipped. She realized with a queer feeling that that heraldic symbol was now hers, as well. Her family back in Oregon could trace their family tree for three or four generations at best, in only a few directions. Some of her great-great-grandparents were completely unknown, shadowy figures with neither name nor face. Henry probably had records of his family going back several hundred years.

The interior of the coach was no better than the outside. The leather seats were cracked in places, the cushions indented from the pressure of years of behinds. Tatiana promptly sat herself upon a seat near a window, panting happily at the bright scene outside. Henry followed the dog inside, apparently not caring that he was to share the carriage with a shedding canine. Elle reluctantly gave him points for not asking her to put Tatiana in the servant's coach, as someone like the loathsome Toby would have done if he could. Then again, it wasn't as if there was much damage the dog could do to the decrepit conveyance.

Elle sat beside Tatiana, her back to the front of the carriage. Henry sat across from her, his legs stretched out on a diagonal that, while not interfering with her own legroom, all the same left her very aware of his presence. There was a final chorus of farewells from the steps of the house, and then they were off, hooves clattering and springs squeaking.

Elle kept her face turned to the window, studiously observing the scenery as they rolled and jolted by. Her initial purpose was to avoid looking at Henry, but the trees and rolling countryside reminded her of Oregon, and soon she was lost in her own thoughts. Tears stung her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turned the slightest bit down despite her efforts to remain stone-faced.

She felt Henry's eyes upon her and stiffened, praying that everything about her posture suggested she wished to be alone. He seemed to take the hint and remained silent. After a time she risked a glance at him, and saw that he had slouched down in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes shut. He was napping. Insensitive clod.

Gradually, as the carriage rocked and jolted over mile after mile of uneven road, her stomach began to roil in protest, replacing emotional misery with physical. She was getting carsick. She took off her hat and tossed it on the seat beside Henry, then pulled the kerchief from her bodice to dab the sweat from her face. Sweating was a bad sign, as was the saliva flooding her mouth. Tatiana seemed in a similar predicament. The Samoyed was lying on the seat now, her ears flattened to her head, her white-rimmed eyes gazing up at Elle beseechingly, big and brown and unspeakably woeful.

A deep pothole gave the carriage a lurch that bounced Henry's head off the wall, waking him from his nap. His eyes went to her, taking in her dishevelment, and then Tatiana gave a little huffing cough. It was all the warning he needed.

"Stop at once!" he called out the window, rapping at the same time on the roof of the compartment. Before the wheels had completely stopped turning, he had the door open, the step lowered, and was quickly assisting her to the ground, Tatiana pushing her way past Elle's skirts. Elle tried to push him away, but he held tight to her, leading her to the ditch and holding her as she leaned over and retched. She heard Tatiana hacking in her own misery a short distance away.

Elle straightened up, her ribs aching. The convulsions of her muscles within the confines of the stays had been excrutiating. She couldn't remain in this century and live like this. She had to find a way home. She brought the back of her shaking hand up to wipe her mouth, her kerchief having fallen between the coach and the ditch.

"Let me," Henry said, pulling out his own kerchief and wiping at her chin, then cleaning off the back of her hand. She felt like a baby being cleaned of spit-up, and only wished she were as free of embarrassment. She stood staring with unseeing eyes at the trees and fields in front of her, trying to pretend this was not happening.

"Better?" Henry asked.

Elle blinked and tried to focus on him. She looked over at the carriage, a shudder passing through her. "How much farther?"

Henry called to one of the footmen for an answer. "We have just passed through Amesbury, which means we have another three or four hours to go. The inns around here are not particularly pleasant, but we could stop at one. Otherwise, there is a place a few miles ahead that would make a pleasant stop for a picnic. There is a hamper of food."

"I think I would prefer to be outside." The last thing she wanted was to eat, but sitting outside on the grass sounded about the speed she could handle. She could nibble some bread and drink some water, and breathe fresh air.

They returned to the carriage, Henry directing her to sit facing forward this time and to keep her eyes to the window. Tatiana's tail was low and motionless when the dog was called to return, but she came. Elle gave her a sympathetic smile, she looked so depressed.

They rumbled off, Elle keeping her eyes glued to the horizon. The fresh breeze felt wonderful on her face, and if it weren't for the taste of vomit still in her mouth, she could almost enjoy herself. Riding facing forward was a vast improvement, even if Henry now sat beside her. She almost felt sorry for him. She imagined she made an unappealing enough wife, without retching into a ditch. After that little performance, she probably didn't need to worry about him trying to exercise his marital rights.

They traveled for some twenty minutes more, then pulled to a halt. She saw nothing but a wide plain of grass from her side, with trees in the distance, and wondered what was so special about this location. Henry opened the door for her, once again helping her down, and led her around to the other side of the carriage.

Elle's mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened in surprise and joyful recognition. "Stonehenge! Oh, my God, it's Stonehenge!"

She left Henry standing there, and picking up her skirts, ran towards the tall stones, scattering a small herd of sheep. She was laughing to no one, Tatiana running and barking beside her. She knew where she was, had seen these rocks a hundred times in pictures and on TV. They looked exactly the same. Gloriously, wondrously, exactly the same. She reached the first stone and pressed herself against it, hugging it. It was rough beneath her cheek and cool. She closed her eyes. This piece of rock was still standing, just as it was at this moment, in her own world two hundred years from now.

The footmen came past her, carrying the hamper, and set up the picnic on a stone that was lying on the ground at the center of the circle. She felt Henry come up beside her and turned to smile at him.

"Thank you for bringing me here. You have no idea what it means to me."

"Other husbands buy their wives jewels when seeking forgiveness for their transgressions. I shall remember that I have simply to drag you to a pile of rocks, and all will be forgotten."

"You think it will be that easy, do you? Well, they have to be very special rocks. I have to have seen them in pictures, you see, and I have not seen many."

He took her arm and led her over to the picnic that was waiting for them. She sat on the edge of the stone and allowed him to serve her from the meats and other foods spread out on the cloth.

"Have you traveled much?" he asked.

"I haven't even seen London. But I've seen pictures… drawings, that is, of many places I'd like to see, both here and in France."

"And what places have captured your imagination?"

"Well, there's the Tower of London, for one." She thought for a moment. "London Bridge." Buckingham Palace? But maybe it had a different name now. "Loch Ness, in Scotland. Cornwall, I'd like to see Cornwall. The cliffs of Dover… Stratford-upon-Avon, and Bath. Winchester Cathedral." She'd heard of the cathedral in a song. Better to move on to France. Surely she could think of better landmarks there, having been a French Studies major in college. "I'd like to see Notre Dame, and L'Arc de Triomphe."

"L'Arc de Triomphe. I've never heard of it."

Elle bit her lip. It was an enormous arch at the end of the Champs Elysees, but when had it been built? Oh, God, Napoleon built it, and surely not for twenty years yet. "Oh, I just saw a picture of it once and thought it was interesting. It's a stone archway, but I don't really know where it is. Then I'd like to see Versailles."

"I saw Versailles once, many years ago. It is a magnificent palace, but the poverty that the peasants suffer in the surrounding countryside is almost enough to make one understand why they have revolted."

"The revolution." Here was semifamiliar ground. "The guillotine. Poor Marie Antoinette. Certainly she's been painted as selfish and stupid, but that hardly seems reason to have chopped off her head. I've often wondered what it would be like to die that way. I've heard that there is some awareness still, for several seconds after the head is removed. Do you think that is true?"

He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "No one has chopped off the queen's head. Where did you hear that? She is in prison, along with her children and the king."

"Oh. Well, if they haven't chopped it off yet, they will soon. The king's, too."

"You sound terribly sure of yourself."

"Would you want to die that way? I mean, if you had to choose an unnatural end, would you prefer the guillotine?"

"As opposed to being shot, hung, or beaten to death?"

"Well, there's drowning or freezing. If you get too cold, supposedly you get numb and then sleepy. That wouldn't be too bad, I don't think. Not as fast as the guillotine, but considerably less bloody. I wouldn't like to have to anticipate walking up those steps, like the queen must be anticipating."

"I hardly think the French people, as angry as they are, will take that final step. Royalty in France has a certain mystique about it that the British version lacks."

"I disagree," she said with all the certainty of history. "The nobles of France will be hunted down and murdered by the common people. The place will be chaos for years. The days of French royalty are over."

"You do not know that. Who would take the place of the king? Do you envision a government like that in the colonies? I hardly think such would work with the French. They are too used to a monarchy."

Elle raised her eyebrows at him, feeling rather superior. She was no history buff, but she remembered the basics from her courses, and although the dates were fuzzy, she did know a few things. "A young, charismatic leader could take over and bring the country together. When he has France under control, he could then turn his attentions to his neighbors, seeking to conquer them, eventually involving most of Europe. France could cause England trouble for decades."

"And do you do crystal ball readings, as well?"

"It's always reasonable to predict war, isn't it? I mean, how many years go by in any given century without one? About twenty?"

"If that. Still, I find it hard to see a continent-wide conflict erupting from France, a country that is falling apart as we speak."

"But that's just it. It will be so chaotic for so long, that when a dictator emerges who promises order and prosperity, the people will jump at the chance to follow him. They will be united by finding an enemy outside of their own country, and will be more than happy to trounce foreigners rather than each other."

He was quiet for a moment, considering her words. "You may have a point, at that," he said reluctantly, and regarded her with something akin to respect in his eyes.

She looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. She wasn't brilliantly deducing the fate of France: She was repeating information she had learned long ago in school. If Henry thought her intelligent, it was only because she cheated. She picked at the food on her plate, then fed a slice of roast beef to Tatiana.

Henry loaded his plate with meat and set it on the ground for the dog. Tatiana took a large piece in her mouth and carried it off.

"She's burying it," Elle explained. "She did this at home, but never ate the things she dug up later. At least she knows better than to bring a rancid pork chop into the house, much as she'd like to."

They watched in silence as Tatiana returned and ate the remainder of the meat on the plate. Meat tended to give Tatiana gas. Given the cool manner in which Henry had dealt with their motion sickness, she doubted he would so much as raise an eyebrow if that occurred in the carriage.

Henry had unshakable composure, but everyone had their limits. Sooner or later, with her as his wife, he would reach his.

Chapter Ten

Henry's mood darkened as they approached his home. Seeing the effect of years of neglect never failed to anger him or make him silently curse his father. He hoped the man was suffering the fires of Hell. How his father had been so content to let his ancestral home crumble and fall into decay—the fields lie fallow, the livestock sold off, furniture and paintings going to pay his debts—Henry would never understand. Even worse than the physical destruction was what his father's irresponsibility had cost the people for miles around.

The late earl had ensured that Brookhaven was anything but a thriving community. The majority of the aristocracy understood that their own fortunes depended at least in part upon those beneath them, and took care to maintain their end of the bargain. The late earl had been one of those foolish enough to ignore the bond, and as he spent the wealth of his estates, the estates had become less and less able to support his habits.

As the coach turned down the lane that led to the house, he saw it as a stranger would. The front gardens had not seen the touch of a gardener's hand for several years, and some of the windows facing the drive had been boarded over, since there had been no money to replace the broken glass. Grass and dandelions sprouted in cracks in the stone steps, and the drive itself was mostly rutted, potholed dirt, only scattered shards of crumbled oyster shell remaining. The facade was of dark red stone, with white stone accents on the corners that had not been washed in decades. There were domed turrets on the roof in whose window frames birds had built their nests.

He turned his attention to Elle, certain of what her reaction would be to her new home. She had grown up in wealth and opulence, the spoiled daughter of a rich man. She was undoubtedly appalled at the squalor to which he was bringing her to live, and regretting more than ever being forced into this marriage.

She was fairly gaping out the window at his home. "My God, this is where you live?"

"Yes," Henry answered flatly.

"And I'll be living here?" She turned to him, her eyes wide. "You said you were poor."

"Yes." How much of this would he have to endure?

"But this house, it's… it's…" she turned back to gaze at the house. "It's astonishing," she finished. She looked at him, her eyes bright. "You don't expect me to clean for you, do you? I certainly hope I brought you enough money to afford servants."

"I do not expect you to do any cleaning whatsoever," he said, jaw tight. He did not find her the least bit funny.

"Can we go inside? Yes, of course we can. What am I thinking? I'm mistress of the great pile of stones now," she laughed. The carriage stopped, and she fumbled with the latch, then scrambled out before he could quell his annoyance enough to give a civil response. Great pile of stones, indeed.

The front door opened before she had climbed halfway up the wide stone steps, and he saw her stop to look at the elderly man and woman standing there.

Henry joined her on the steps, taking her arm a trifle firmly and leading her the rest of the way up. "Elle, I would like you to meet Thomas and Abigail Johnson, butler and housekeeper for Brookhaven. They have been here longer than I have. Thomas, Abigail, let me introduce Lady Eleanor, the countess of Allsbrook."

Elle smiled and stuck out her hand, and Henry gritted his teeth. Why did she mock Thomas and Abigail? Abigail saved the situation by giving her husband a barely perceptible nudge, and he took Elle's hand and shook it. Elle then turned to Abigail and shook her hand as well, the two servants trying to look as if nothing unusual had occured.

Thomas and Abigail now bowed and curtsied to her, as was proper. Waiting just inside the door were several other servants, looking at their new mistress with eyes both wary and curious. Henry introduced them all. There were about twenty, in varying sorts of dress, male and female, their ages ranging from early teens to sixties. They worked here out of loyalty—and because it gave them a place to live, and a chance for a regular meal—rather than for the poor wages they were paid. Those wages would be one of the first things to be changed.

Introductions complete, he led her through the entrance hall, floored in a black-and-white marble checkerboard pattern that he had played upon as a child, leaping from one black square to the next. At the back of the hall were the many trunks of Elle's trousseau, waiting to be opened. A dark wooden stairway lead up to a gallery above the hall, where his mother used to walk on rainy days. A suit of armor stood at the foot of the stairs, and Elle stopped to look at it. She lifted the visor a few squeaking inches, then let it drop with a metallic clank. He hoped it met with her highness's satisfaction.

He led her up the stairs and down one of the corridors, seeing in his own mind how the house once had been, and watching Elle's face for her reactions to the wreck it was now. The floors were bare, unpolished wood, the walls devoid of any decoration but an occasional water stain. The hall was lit only by light reflecting through windows and bouncing off walls, leaving much of the corridor in obscurity. Their footsteps echoed on the hard floor, the boards beneath their feet letting out creaks of protest. Her eyes darted about, taking in details.

They turned a corner, and then came to the end of a hall. Henry threw open the door and watched Elle blink at the light that spilled out of the room. She stepped inside and gazed at the massive four-poster bed with the plain off-white draperies and covering, and at the marble fireplace with the ornate carving. There were a few pieces of faded, tapestry-covered furniture sitting about the room on the dark, polished wood floor.

"This is our room?" she asked him.

"It is your room. Mine is the one through the dressing rooms."

"Separate rooms?"

"You would prefer we share?" he asked.

"No. I just… I thought married people usually slept in the same room. You'll have to pardon my naivete. You'll find I'm ignorant on the most surprising topics." She gave him a mischievous smile.

"I had not noticed," he said dryly.

"Can we see the rest of the house?" Her voice was filled with that malicious enthusiasm. "I want to see if all of it is as lovely as this room."

His patience was wearing decidedly thin. "It has been a long day. Perhaps it would be better to wait until tomorrow." He should not care what she thought of Brookhaven. He loved the place, and that was enough.

"But there's exploring to be done! This really had not been what I was expecting, Henry. I thought you had no money, yet look at this place. And twenty servants! I never dreamt I would live in such a house."

That did it. He let loose. "Enough! I do not need you to point out all that is wrong—I can see it very well for myself. Brookhaven is in a sorry state of disrepair. I know that. Look at this room. It was the best that could be put together, and there is not even a carpet on the floor. The bed coverings are muslin, the furnishings are minimal at best, dented and scarred." He went to one of the chairs and rocked it on its uneven legs. "See?" He could not stop himself from pointing out the flaws. "There are no paintings on the walls, there is no clock on the mantel. We use rushlights instead of candles whenever possible, for beeswax is too dear, and you could not find a silver candlestick if your life depended upon it. The roof leaks, windows are missing, and the doors hang crookedly upon their hinges, when they hang at all."

"So? You have money now; you can fix it. What do I care for silver candlesticks? You sound like you don't even like the place."

"It is not a matter of liking. It is a matter of responsibility, and you need to understand that if you are going to be mistress here."

"Be responsible to your heart's content. I like my room; I love this house. You're not going to change my mind, no matter how you whine about leaky roofs."

She was accusing him of whining? Him? He looked long into her eyes, which met his with unflinching, joyful openness. "You like this house?" he asked.

"I love this house. It feels… well, like home."

It slowly dawned on him that she had not been being sarcastic, that she had meant every word she had said since setting eyes on Brookhaven. For whatever reason, however impossible it was to believe, she really did love the place, loose shingles and all.

Something twisted within him, and a warm flood of emotion had him pulling her into his arms. He bent and claimed her mouth with his own, her lips parting under his sudden assault, allowing his tongue to slide inside even as one hand slid down to cup her buttocks, lifting her and pressing her tight against his hips. He savored the warmth of her mouth, and the lingering taste of wine from their lunch.

She submitted at first, relaxing in his arms, but then she began to struggle against him. The warmth he felt quickly drained away, and he let her go, not quite certain why he had kissed her in the first place.

A small silence grew between them, which he finally broke in a voice that he hoped showed no sign of his momentary loss of control, or of a heart that had not yet slowed its rapid beat. "Well, then, I will leave you to rest before dinner."

Elle watched him go, feeling suddenly empty without him, then scolded herself for a fool. One ravishing kiss, of the type that made bones melt and inhibitions fly out the window, and she was ready to haul him to bed and chain him there. It was her loneliness that was making her so susceptible, that was all. She just had to remind herself that the man had the emotional range of a stick.

She went to the windows and looked out at the grounds stretched beneath her, a wild tangle that once had been a garden. Tatiana was pouncing through the overgrowth, on the trail of a rodent. A hundred yards off, a small lake shimmered under the effects of the breeze and sun, reeds bending and swaying along its shores. Beyond the lake the land rolled gently, the low green hills hiding what lay beyond.

She turned back to the room, wandering, touching the sparse furniture. The house had none of the elegant comforts of Eleanor's, but the smell of the wood that permeated the rooms reminded Elle of the old farmhouse she had grown up in, a house where the floors also creaked and the furnishings were simple. The faintly smoky scent from the fireplaces and the slightly musty air, coupled with the wax that had so earnestly been applied in an effort to ready the rooms, were familiar and homey to her, and gave her a sense of comfort that Eleanor's rich rooms had failed to do. From the moment she'd laid eyes on the house, she'd felt an inexplicable tightness.

She felt as she always did upon arrival at a destination after hours of traveling: too wound up to relax and as if she did not yet fit into her new environment. The room felt as if it did not yet recognize her presence, as if it expected her to pass through without disturbing it.

She kicked off her shoes, leaving them in the middle of the bare floor, then stepped over to the bed and sat down, testing the firmness by trying to bounce up and down. It didn't bounce much. She got up and examined the mattress, thick and heavy, feeling like an old feather pillow that had turned to sand. She lay back down and stared up at the wood and fabric canopy overhead. She rolled over, thoroughly mussing the covers, and climbed onto her knees. The hanging draperies were pushed to the four posts of the bed, and walking on her knees across the stiff and lumpy mattress she pulled them shut, then sat down on the pillows at the head of the bed and surveyed her cocoon.

A familiar sliver of distress at being stuck alone in this alien world started to surface in her mind, and she quickly suppressed it. She could not allow herself to panic, could not give in to her grief, not if she was going to survive. Better to take things moment by moment, day by day, and keep herself sane and healthy until she found a way to get home again. She would get home again. She was not willing to give up that hope, or to give in to the despair she had felt this morning.

A brief rapping knock came on the door.

"Enter!" Elle called and pushed one of the draperies open.

Marianne rushed into the room, her heels clacking loudly on the floor, followed by male servants hauling trunks. "Ah, milady, how glad I am to see you." She click-clacked quickly across the floor to the bed, then lowered her voice as if she did not want the male servants, busy with the trunks, to hear. "Are you well?"

"Whyever wouldn't I be?"

Marianne cast a quick, sly glance at the servants. They ignored her completely. "I thought, seeing you in bed, that the shock may have been too much."

"What shock?"

"The house, milady. I would not have thought that an earl would bring his countess to such a dreary place. You are used to much better than this. Indeed, even in my own home we were used to much better."

"What's wrong with you? It's a lovely house. You're going on about the place as if it were a ghostly ruin, ready to fall down about your ears."

"Ghosts?" Marianne's eyes grew wide. "Milady, do you think so?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Marianne." Elle didn't think of herself as domineering, but something about Marianne brought out her worst tendencies in that direction. "Why don't you see if you can find me some warm water to wash my face, and something more comfortable to wear. This wool is making me itch."

"Yes, milady." Marianne dropped a small curtsy, and quickly set about her duties. Elle watched her, almost envying her. At least Marianne knew what, who, and where she was supposed to be.

Marianne arranged for a bath in the dressing room and then unearthed an amber gown that was soft and slightly looser in fit than the others, which meant Elle's stays need not be laced quite so tightly. Elle directed Marianne to pull her hair to the back of her head, and let it fall from there in curls and ringlets to her shoulders. She hardly trusted the primitive curling iron that Marianne wielded with deft hands, heating it near the fire, but the maid apparently knew what she was doing.

By the time the two of them finished with the bathing and dressing and primping, almost two hours had gone by and the dressing room looked as if it had been lived in for months, not part of a day. It was warm and cozy, and filled with the scent of perfumed soap. Elle almost hated to leave it, but her stomach was rumbling with hunger, and she was eager to see something more of her new home, however temporary it might be.

She had directions to the dining room, but took her time along the way, opening doors and peering into the rooms that she passed. The rooms were as sparsely furnished as her own, what furniture there was covered in dust sheets. She moved on, going down the staircase to the first floor, and found a large room off the main hall with a cheery fire in the grate. Tatiana lay stretched before it, sound asleep. There were two ratty, high-backed settees on either side of the fire, looking much used.

She stepped back into the main hall as Henry came through another door, dressed in black evening wear. She felt her heart leap into her throat at the sudden sight of him, seeing him for a moment as a stranger would, dark and handsome and in control of himself and his environment. He moved with graceful surety, his carriage confident. She took a step backwards, irrationally seeking to avoid him, as she would have avoided a good-looking, successful man in her previous life. Men like this never gave her a second look.

"There you are. I have been waiting for you. That is the role of a husband, you know, waiting for his wife to dress." He smiled as he came towards her, and she felt her heart give a maddening thump. If she'd had a tail, she would have wagged it. Pathetic.

He took her hand and pulled her out into the hall, placing her hand on his arm as he led her to the dining room. She was close enough to smell the clean scent of his clothes, and the faint scent of a masculine cologne, just barely discernible when she leaned her head closer to him, close enough to feel the change in air temperature from the heat that his body generated.

The dining room was long and dark, the ceiling invisible in the gloom. A precious candle sat at either end of a warped table too small for the room, yet still large enough to seat a dozen diners. The candlelight illuminated the two place settings that were a good ten feet apart.

"My father could find no one willing to buy the table, else it would not be here either," Henry explained. "It was stored in a cellar that flooded, and thus the warping." He led her to her place and seated her. She watched him disappear in the darkness between the pools of light, then reappear at the other end of the table, his white collar and cravat glowing in the candlelight. His face and hands were visible, but seemed detached from one another, floating in the illusion of space created by his dark clothing.

"Is this where you always eat?" she called down to him, feeling alone in the dark.

"Breakfast is served in the breakfast parlour, as is luncheon, and tea wherever one happens to be."

"But dinner is here?"

"This is the dining room."

"And very lovely, I'm sure," she said in reply. "If only I could see it." She felt a cool draft blow across the back of her neck, and she shivered. A creaking door heralded the arrival of the first course, soup carried by a male servant in ancient livery that looked as if it was held together more by cobwebs than threads. Elle thanked him quietly when he served her and thanked the young girl who poured her wine. She was aware of their scrutiny, and their curiosity. She smiled politely at them and waited until they had left before she spoke again.

"I take it no one will be joining us for dinner?"

"No, not tonight. Freddie—my brother, if you recall—will not be coming for several weeks yet. Other than family, Brookhaven does not see much in the way of visitors."

The cool draft once again played with the hairs along her neck. She glanced into the darkness off to her side, but could see nothing but shadows. The room was silent but for her own breathing, and the clink of Henry's spoon in his consomme. It was as if the loneliness inside her had spread out into the room, surrounding her in a black well of isolation.

She abruptly stood, shoving her chair back with a rumble of wooden legs. Henry looked up at her, spoon halfway to mouth. She picked up her own bowl and spoon, and walked quickly down to his end of the table, set them down to his right, then returned to retrieve her chair and the rest of her flatware.

"I'm sorry. I was getting the creeps down there." She looked down the table at her empty place, a pocket of dim light in the darkness, the candle flickering in the draft.

"And here I thought you desired my company," he murmured and took another sip from his spoon.

"You wish."

"Clarence and Matilda, when they return with the next course, will—"

She interrupted him, her voice catching. "Clarence, you say?"

"Yes, Clarence and Matilda, the two servants—"

Her eyes filmed with tears. That was the name of Jeff's oldest child. Why did she have to be reminded, when she was already feeling so far from home? Her rotten, annoying little nephew, the first baby she had ever fed, the first diaper she had ever changed.

"Sorry," she said, blinking away the tears before they could fall and giving him a wavering smile. "I knew a little boy by that name once. He… was very special to me."

"He died?"

Elle waited a moment, then nodded. It would have been more truthful to say that she herself had died, but what sense did that make?

"I am sorry," he offered, and she thought she could hear a note of sympathy in his voice, the first true emotion other than anger or lust that he had shown her.

"Yes, well, never mind. It was silly of me to react to a name like that. Could we talk about something else?"

"It is lovely weather we have been having, do you not agree?" he asked, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry, voice back to its insufferably controlled tones.

Elle gave a short laugh. "Yes, my lord, quite lovely. And will it be the same tomorrow?"

The remainder of the meal passed in polite discussion, Henry describing the estate and some of his plans, proving himself a master at maintaining the flow of a harmless conversation. She discovered that the trunks she had noted in the hall were full of Eleanor's things, which were waiting for her directions to be unpacked. He did not reveal any further hints of emotion throughout the meal, much to her disappointment.

After dinner they adjourned to the room where Tatiana still lay by the fire, awake now, her tail thumping in greeting.

"We'll have to get you something to eat, won't we?" Elle asked the dog, as she sank down to the floor beside her.

"I have already spoken with Abigail. She will be sure that enough bones and scraps are found to feed her daily."

"Thank you," Elle said without turning to look at him, touched that he had thought of Tatiana. Now that she thought on it, even when angry he had been unfailingly solicitous, and she wondered for a moment if perhaps that was because he cared a bit for her. But, no, that was ridiculous. He hardly knew her, and her face was not one that inspired passion. Doubtless all young earlets were taught from the nest onward to be polite at all times, and she was, after all, his new wife and yet to be bedded.

Henry took a seat on one of the dilapidated settees, and watched Elle as she scratched Tatiana's stomach. The dog was flat on her back, forelegs bent, hind legs spread obscenely wide as her tail swished back and forth over the floor. Elle continued to scratch her, then stopped and blew on Tatiana's nose. The dog sneezed and flipped over onto her belly, leaning her head on Elle's leg and snapping playfully at her mistress. Elle giggled and continued to play, and soon white hair was flying and Elle was prone on the ground, laughing and fending off enthusiastic licks.

Henry watched, seeing not so much Tatiana as Elle's playfulness. She was the first countess he had seen roll about the floor with an animal. These past two days she had been lacking in pretension to the extent that there was almost something foreign about her. If he did not know better, he would swear she was not even English. But perhaps it was just that strange accent she had picked up that made him feel so. In time she would begin to speak normally again, and she would learn the rules of being a countess. She would cease surprising him, and life would become ordered and predictable, as it should be. He did not need the inconvenience of passions.

With her hair pulled back in that unfashionable, yet flattering style, curls spilling wildly over her shoulders, and the golden light from the fire warming her skin, he had to admit she was looking far from undesirable. Lust was not an unfamiliar sensation to him, but it was one over which he preferred to have mastery. He did not want his physical desires to interfere with his rational plans.

Already it was clear that when he backed off, Elle came forward. A plan had been slowly building in his mind since their wedding night. She had struggled today when he'd foolishly obeyed his whim and kissed her, but witness her behavior at dinner, when he had arranged for her to sit alone at the other end of the table. Of her own volition she had come to him. So, he would not play the part of her foe, pressuring her and giving her someone against whom to fight. He would, instead, back off and let her come to him.

Elle sat up, and Henry's eyes fell to the tops of her breasts. He was almost able to look down the bodice of her gown from his vantage point. Well, maybe he would not play too hard to get. He imagined touching the soft skin, kissing the two mounds, having her press her breasts together with her hands as he slid his manhood between them… He gave himself a mental shake, and raised his eyes to her face, relieved to see she had not caught him staring. If women had any notion of how truly base men's thoughts were, they would spend their lives in nunneries.

He gave an internal sigh, and looked into the flames of the fire. It was going to be a long, lonely night.

Elle gave Tatiana a final pat and looked up at Henry. Jane Eyre's Rochester could not have brooded better. His posture was relaxed, languid even, his face without expression, but his eyes said he was a thousand miles distant. For all she knew, he might have forgotten she was there.

She couldn't sit on the floor scratching the dog all night. These people must do something for entertainment without television. Even talking was better than this. "Henry?"

"Hmm?" He came back from wherever his mind had gone.

Making conversation with this man suddenly seemed a daunting proposition. "Do you want to do something?"

He raised an eloquent eyebrow. "What did you have in mind, my dear?"

She lifted a diffident shoulder. "I don't know. Play cards, maybe?"

"Cards." He sounded letdown.

"Do you have a deck?" she asked, getting off the floor to sit in one of the old settees.

"I believe so." He at last stirred, getting up and going to a battered cabinet, where he rummaged in a drawer. "Voilà. Cards." He held up a deck, then picked up a small table by its top and carried it over to where she sat.

She picked up the cards while he pulled the opposite settee closer. The cards were a little larger than she was used to and not quite as stiff. There were no numbers written in the corners. Apparently you had to count the number of symbols for yourself.

"Paper, to keep score'?" she asked just as Henry sat.

He gave her a look, then pushed himself up again, returning shortly with paper, ink, and a quill. "Anything else, madame?"

She waved him to his seat and shuffled the cards. "What shall we play?"

"Your choice."

"Gin rummy, then."

"I fear I do not know that game."

"I'll teach you." She went through the rudiments with him and a practice hand played with their cards face up on the table. He quickly learned the rules, and they settled in for a real game.

"What stakes shall we play for?" he asked.

She looked up from her handful of cards. She was having the devil of a time spreading all ten out so that she could see them. Without the corner numbers, she had to use two very awkward hands to keep them visible. "Oh, I never play for money."

"Nonsense. Everyone does, even if it be only a ha'penny a point."

"I don't like to gamble, even for pennies."

"The sums cannot make any different to you."

She shrugged and picked up a card from the deck, trying to fit it into her hand. "Maybe it's not rational." She started to make her discard and ended up spilling half of her cards onto the table. "Bother! How do you play with these cards?"

His eyebrows went up. "They are a trifle old—"

"No, no, it's not that." She spread the rest of her hand on the table and took up the quill, dipping it in the ink.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a much needed improvement." She took her ten of diamonds and penned in the appropriate number and symbol in opposite corners.

"Elle, you cannot write on the cards!"

"Why not?" she asked, blowing gently on the wet ink. "It would be better with red, though. Do you have red ink, Henry?"

It was a long moment before he finally got up and went to rummage in the cabinet, coming up at last with a small square of solid red watercolor paint. "Will this do?"

"Perhaps. Come back here and sit down. You can paint in the symbols while I do the numbers."

He scrounged up a brush and went for a glass of water, and then came back to sit down, looking for all the world, she thought, like a boy set an unpleasant task in a schoolroom.

"Are you going to tell me why we are destroying a perfectly good deck of cards?"

"Not destroying, Henry. Improving. You'll see when we finish."

She explained what she wanted, and he bent to his assignment, filling in the diamond she had drawn with neat, even strokes of paint. "You still have not explained why you will not wager on cards."

"It's just an irrational fear of losing even the smallest sum of money. Surely you have irrational fears, yourself? Everyone does."

"I cannot think of any," he said, examing his work, then setting aside the card and reaching for the next.

"When you were a boy, then. What were you afraid of?"

"My father."

She stopped and looked up, but his eyes were on the card under his brush. "That does not sound good."

"He was violent when drunk. I do not count my fear of him as irrational."

"No, I imagine not," she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

"There was one thing I feared, though, that you might call irrational."

"Oh?"

"I thought it lived under my bed."

"A witch? I was afraid there were witches under my bed. Sometimes I thought there were sharks, but mostly witches."

"No, this was worse. A shark, you could tell yourself there was no water in which to swim. Witches, there would not be enough space for them." He stopped, using the edge of his finger to remove a smudge of paint that had gone outside the lines.

"What then? What was it?"

"The chicken."

She opened her mouth, frowning at his bent head. "A chicken? You were afraid of a chicken under your bed?"

"Not just a chicken. The Dreadful Chicken." His tone was utterly serious.

She started to laugh. "How could you be afraid of a chicken? What was it going to do, cluck at you?"

"My nurse had to sweep a broom under my bed before I would go to sleep, and even then I could not rest easy. A chicken is a guileful creature. Perhaps it hid while she swept and crept back into place when she had gone."

"But it's a chicken!"

"Can you imagine, Elle, being alone under your blankets, the room dark, the coals in the grate all but dead, and hearing, coming from the shadows beneath your bed… braaaa brock brock brock, braaa. …"

She could almost imagine it, could almost feel the terror a small child might feel, and then he finally looked up at her, and she saw the merriment in his eyes. "You rat!" She threw a card at him. "I believed you."

He smiled crookedly. "Actually, I am told I was afraid of such a thing, only I was too young to have any memory of it now. Although sometimes, when the clock strikes twelve, and all is quiet—"

"You still hear the clucking of the Dreadful Chicken."

He grinned at her, then gestured to the cards. "Are you going to explain this now?"

She picked up a handful of those that had dried, and spread them in a narrow fan in her hand, showing Henry.

"My dear, what a wonderful idea."

She shrugged. "It wasn't my own. I'm afraid I stole it from someone else."

"Do not discount yourself. It takes a certain intelligence to know which ideas are worth stealing."

"I suppose I shall have to take that as a compliment."

There was an unfamiliar, warm light in his eyes when he looked at her. "I suppose you shall."

Chapter Eleven

Elle woke late the next morning, having laid tensely in her bed into the early hours of the morning, waiting for Henry to appear in her bedchamber. He never did, though, and in the end it was just she and Tatiana, the same as it always was. Perhaps he'd decided she wasn't really worth the effort to bed, now that he had her money.

She could hear the omnipresent Marianne rustling around in the dressing room, and rolled her eyes at the draperies overhead. She missed the perfect privacy of her own bedroom and bathroom, where she could make rude noises or pick at her skin, if she felt like it. Perhaps it was just as well that she couldn't.

Still, she was a countess now. That ought to be good for something.

"Marianne?" she called.

The maid bounced out of the dressing room, stays and stockings in hand. "Yes milady? Did you sleep well, milady?"

"Yes, very. Are you settling in all right yourself?"

"Mostly. I have my own room, did you know? I have never had my own room before; always had to share, either with sisters or other servants."

"That's a nice change for you, then."

"I appreciate it and all, but it is kind of lonesome, and in an unfamiliar house, when you do not know the noises, and you hear the floorboards creak like there is someone outside your door, and you lie there in the dark waiting to see if the knob turns, only you cannot quite make it out in the dark, so you do not know if it is your imagination saying it is moving—"

"Yes, I see," Elle interrupted. She did not want a reminder of her own lonely night, and the disappointment she should not be feeling. "I suppose you could always ask to share a room with someone, if it would make you more comfortable." It was a good thing the maid did not know about the Dreadful Chicken that haunted the house. She smothered a giggle.

"They would think me a fool, milady, that they would, what with all the spare rooms in this place. Not that I have one of the fine rooms meant for guests, of course. I just have one of the servant rooms. All the servants have one. No one sleeps in the long attic rooms, the ones with all the beds."

"Who are all those extra beds for, if there are enough rooms?"

Marianne laughed a bit at that. "Well, there are not all that many rooms for servants, milady. If his lordship hires on the proper number, those attic rooms will be plenty full."

"I thought we had more than enough people to take care of things," Elle said, perplexed. "I must have met twenty servants. Surely that is sufficient?"

"For the house as it is now, yes. Many more will be needed if the house is to be returned to a livable state."

"Forgive my ignorance, Marianne. About how many servants would you estimate are the normal number for a place like Brookhaven?"

"For just the house, or for the stables and gardens and livestock, the dairy, the laundry, all of that?"

"Everyone."

"Oh, well, I would not really know. Maybe a hundred? Maybe more?"

Elle's lips parted in shock. "A hundred?"

"It is only a guess, milady," Marianne backtracked quickly. "I know your home only had about thirty, if that, but Brookhaven is much larger."

"And we've only twenty employees at present… oh, my God." As mistress of the house, would she be expected to oversee the hiring? Was she expected to manage them? What did they all do? She had no idea.

"Did you want a bath this morning?"

"What? Oh, I don't think so. Just some water for washing, that'll do." If twenty servants were doing the work that five times their number usually did, she could hardly justify asking them to bring her a bath each and every morning, tearing them away from their other duties.

"And breakfast, milady?"

"Lunch probably isn't so very long from now." She didn't want to ask these people to wait on her, not when they had so much else to do. Her mind distracted by the servant question, she completely forgot her intention to tell Marianne to give her more private time.

An hour later and she was washed, dressed, her hair was arranged, and she was in a mood to explore the house. Henry had told her last night that he would be out inspecting the estate for most of the day, but intended to be back to eat lunch with her. He'd mentioned that she could ask Abigail Johnson, the housekeeper, to give her a tour of the house if she did not wish to wait for his return. She hadn't bothered telling him, but she'd rather wander through the house alone. She could take her time investigating the unfamiliar, dawdling over details that would seem commonplace to others.

Tatiana nosed her way through the door, which had been standing slightly ajar. She had burrs in her fur and dirt on her nose.

"Looks like we'll have to find you a proper brush, you naughty dog," Elle scolded. "Want to go look around? Go for a walk?" Tatiana bounced and scrambled in response.

An hour and at least thirty rooms and several staircases later, Elle had lost both her enthusiasm and her way, and was regretting turning down the offer of a guide. She felt dusty and grimy, and was certain that from the dozens of cobwebs she had walked through, at least two or three spiders had hitched a ride in either her hair or dress. She'd seen small rooms, large rooms, bare rooms, jumbled rooms, rooms with windows and without, with fireplaces or without, rooms that seemed to have no purpose and led from one to another, and hallways and staircases that dead-ended in boarded-over doors, or no doors at all.

She knew next to nothing about architecture, but it appeared to even her untrained eye that the front of the house was the newest section, and that much of the rest of the building was a conglomeration of periods and styles. Some rooms and halls were mostly stone, while others were wood. Still others had walls of some sort of stucco or plaster.

She'd had to backtrack near the beginning of her exploration and get a rushlight from a servant. It was a rush that had been dried and soaked in oil, then clipped to a stand and dish. Unhappy experience taught her to trim it as it burned and advance the rush through the clip.

Many of the hallways were shut off from light, or had only one dim and far-off window to illuminate them. She had glimpsed one section of cellar, dark and dirty and filled with the mounded shapes of unknown objects, and found to her dismay that she lacked the courage to go in.

God only knew what she'd find, or what creatures might be living there. In several rooms she had heard flurries and scrabblings of noise, some coming from the chimneys, others from the walls.

At the moment, all she wanted was to find her own section of the house and wash her hands and face. If she could find an exterior door, she could walk around the house to get back. In a pinch, she'd climb out a window, only the last few windows she'd seen looked out onto an interior courtyard, overgrown with weeds and with no visible exit.

She wandered back in a direction that seemed familiar, but soon proved itself not to be. The walls were paneled in dark wood, with brass sconces in need of candles every few feet. There were no cobwebs here, and the air smelled fresher than in other parts of the house, despite the narrower halls and the darkness.

"What's this, Tatiana? Habitation?"

The dog panted.

A heavy wooden door stood ajar halfway down the hall, carved with a twining pattern of leaves and flowers at head height, the hinges and the door handle and plate an ornate swirl of twisting ironwork. A faint spicy, herbal scent drifted through the doorway. Curious, Elle pushed the door open a few more inches. She felt oddly tentative about entering. Tatiana had no such compunctions and shoved her way in, the door swinging wide on silent, oiled hinges.

The room revealed was rich in color and texture. There was wooden furniture darkened with age, and on the walls, tapestries of dark green and burgundy depicted scenes from a hunt. The cushions on chairs were of patterned, multicolored brocade, tassled at the corners, their colors matching the occasional painted detail on woodwork. She was so dazzled by the furnishings, and by the warm golden sunlight streaming through the diamond-paned windows, that it was several moments before she noticed that she was not alone in the room.

"Oh, excuse me!" she apologized quickly to the shrunken, white-haired woman hunched under a multitude of shawls, sitting in a chair near one of the windows. "I didn't realize there was anyone living in this part of the house."

The old woman tilted her head slightly. Elle could hardly make out her face, backlit as she was by the sunlight. When she spoke, her voice was weak and gravelly, and Elle took several steps farther into the room in order to hear. "Yes, still someone living here." She lapsed into silence. Elle shifted from one foot to the other. Should she introduce herself? What should she say? "Hi, I'm the new countess. Who are you?"

"Hello, I'm Wilhelmina," she said instead, and could have cut out her tongue the moment she said it. What on earth had possessed her to give her true name?

The old woman seemed not to have heard her. Seemed, almost, to be sleeping. Elle stepped closer, inching her way forward until she was only a few feet from her. She tilted her head to one side and bent down slightly, trying to see the woman's face.

Cloudy eyes opened suddenly. Elle jerked back, a blush creeping up her cheeks. The woman's head nodded up and down in silent laughter. "Sit, dear. Sit."

Flustered, Elle pulled a decorative chair up to the window and sat down. Tatiana, at ease as ever, sat on the floor and leaned against the old woman's legs, shoving her nose up under one of the woman's limp and withered hands.

"Tatia, leave her alone," Elle scolded.

The woman stopped Elle with a small, eloquent movement of her hand, then began to scratch the top of Tatiana's head. She seemed absorbed in the task, and after a few minutes, Elle began to wonder if the woman had forgotten her presence.

"You have come a long way to us," the woman finally said.

"Yes," Elle replied, thinking the woman didn't know the half of it. Her accent must have placed her as a person foreign to this region.

"Is my great-grandson treating you well?"

"Henry?" she asked, startled.

The woman gave another silent laugh. "Such an amusing boy."

"Henry?"? Elle asked again, even more uncertain, then recalled his chicken tale of the night before. Still, she had a hard time thinking of him as amusing. Self-assured, polite—whatever emotions he had buried deeply under his controlled demeanor—that's what Henry was. But not, generally, amusing.

"You will make Henry a fine wife. You would not have been chosen otherwise, you know." She gave Tatiana a final pat on the head. "Do come back and visit soon." She put her hands in her lap and abruptly dozed off.

Elle stared at her for some moments, not quite believing the interview was already at an end. Well, the woman did claim to be Henry's great-grandmother, and that would make her how old? A minimum of ninety, surely. Old enough to fall asleep at a moment's notice.

Feeling slightly deflated, she got up to leave, Tatiana trailing along with canine reluctance at leaving a good head-scratcher. When she reached the door, the woman spoke again.

"I am glad they found you," she rasped.

Elle looked back at her, bemused. "They?" she inquired. A soft snore was the only response she got from the huddled form. She must have misheard. The woman had probably said "he," not "they." What could this old woman know of her life, and the fairy folk who brought her here?

It took less than five minutes to find her way back to the main part of the house. She seemed incapable of making a wrong turn, and opened with some astonishment a door into the front hall. From the hall side, the door was invisible, its outline following the creases of the linen-fold paneling. She was standing there on the checkered marble floor, dusting cobwebs from her skirts, when Marianne appeared, looking worried.

"My lady, I have been searching everywhere for you. You are late for luncheon."

"I can't be, I've been out of your sight for less than an hour."

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but it is three hours you have been gone."

"What?" She had a reliable internal clock and was almost never late. How could she have so seriously miscalculated? "His lordship, is he here?"

"In the breakfast parlour, my lady."

Elle followed Marianne to that room, pausing outside the door to push a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and scolded herself for her eagerness. He left her alone for half a day, and suddenly she couldn't wait to see him again.

A servant was removing the plate from in front of Henry as she stepped into the room, and her heart sank as she realized she was not only late, she had entirely missed the meal.

"Ah, there you are, my dear," Henry said, standing up. "Do sit down." He gestured to the place that was set across the small table from him.

The servant pulled her seat out for her and she sat, taking in the pleasant little room. A mural of a beach scene on some tropical island covered the walls, the picture faded and damaged by time, but Elle could still make out the palm trees and the sails of a ship. Dark figures rolled barrels to waiting longboats, and jungle creatures peeped from leafy foliage, their faces distorted by the inaccurate artistry of the painter. "I'm terribly sorry, Henry. Somehow I lost all track of time. I was exploring and—"

"No apologies necessary, my dear," he interrupted her, still standing.

"You're not angry?"

"Of course not. I do regret, however, that I will be unable to stay to keep you company while you eat."

She looked up at him, searching his face for some hint of his mood. He appeared blandly unconcerned. "Are you going out?"

"I have a veritable mountain of paperwork that I fear cannot be left another day."

"Oh." The sound was small and disappointed even to her own ears.

"You will excuse me, my dear?"

"Yes, of course."

"Until dinner, then."

"I won't be late again."

He smiled vaguely at her in response, and left.

Elle watched him go, feeling abandoned.

"My lady?" the servant asked, gesturing towards the cold meats and bread on the table. Elle nodded and he served her as she tried to look out the tall windows. There was an overgrown rhododendron just beyond the glass, and it cut off any view of the garden.

The servant bowed and withdrew, and she was left alone with her plate of chilled beef.

Chapter Twelve

After her lonely and unappetizing lunch, Elle took Tatiana for a walk through the overgrown gardens. Weeds shouldered their way past the few struggling flowers, and the paths had long since had their gravel devoured by mud. Fountains held stagnant pools of rainwater, leaves mouldering at the bottom, mosquito larvae squirming at the surface. The hedges were overgrown tangles of branches that grabbed at her as she walked between them.

She circled around the estate's lake on a narrow footpath, noticing the hoofprints in the dirt. She had grown up in a small town surrounded by farms and open countryside, and recognized that the prints were those of deer. If not for the wild animals, the path would most likely have been impassable.

A break in the reeds along the lakeshore revealed a small wooden dock, and she walked out onto it, testing the silvered boards. They thunked with reassuring solidity beneath her shoes. A weathered rowboat drifted half under the planks, tethered to a post. Bits of snarled line and a bailing cup floated in the inch of water in its bottom. Perhaps one of the staff used it for fishing. Certainly she could not picture the formal Henry ever doing so.

A dragonfly zipped in front of her and stopped, its frantically beating wings holding it motionless in the air, and then another appeared and chased it out across the water. She watched them, a smile on her lips, remembering her summers growing up and playing with the neighbor kids in the fields and woods. They had never managed to catch a dragonfly, for all their chasing.

If—no—when she found a way home, she suddenly resolved, she was going to look for a job in a small town. The pay would not be as good, but the rent would be cheaper. She had forgotten how much she liked the quiet of the countryside.

Making her way back to the house, she passed a number of outbuildings, whose purposes she could only guess. Coming into a walled garden, she at last saw signs that some care was taken of the grounds. Forcing pots covered a number of plants, and there were glass-framed beds that acted like miniature greenhouses for a number of seedlings. New leaves covered the espaliered apple trees that crept across the brick walls.

She wandered into the nearest building and found herself in a room painted entirely blue. Many-drawered cabinets lined the walls, and as she came closer she saw that each drawer had the name of a vegetable or plant neatly painted across its front. A peek inside revealed what she already suspected—seeds.

A sound from another doorway drew her attention, and she followed it into the damp heat of a greenhouse. An old man was preparing a set of pots, a tray of seedlings waiting by his side for the replanting. She remembered his face from her introduction to the staff, but for the life of her she could not recall his name.

"Good afternoon," she said. He didn't appear to hear her. "Good afternoon!" she repeated more loudly. This time he stopped and turned, frowning slightly when he saw her, and he sketched a very short bow.

"Good afternoon, my lady. Have you come to inspect my gardens?"

"I was just wandering about the grounds."

"Did you want a tour, then?" He sounded as if he hoped that were not the case.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to interrupt your work. Have you no one to help you?"

"There be a boy."

That hardly seemed like enough. She looked around her, at the trees growing down the center of the building, and the fruit that hung from their limbs. "These aren't lemon trees, are they?" she asked, surprised.

"Aye."

"But how do you keep them alive in this climate?"

"They have been growing here for one hundred and fifty years." He gestured to a brazier that she had not noticed, heat coming from the coals in the bottom of the raised pan. "I give the trees what they need."

He still had his trowel in his hand, looking as if he was waiting for her to finish her questions and go. She got the distinct feeling that she was intruding.

"Yes, well, and I see you do an excellent job of it. I won't bother you further."

"Thank you, my lady."

Was that "thank you" for the compliment or "thank you" for leaving him alone? She slunk out the door, feeling very much that it had been the latter.

She checked the clock when she got back to the house. She wasn't going to be late again, if she could help it, and the clock confirmed that there was no danger of that at the moment. She had at least two hours before she could even think about dressing for dinner. Two more hours alone, killing time. She checked on the staff who were busy emptying the trunks of Eleanor's trousseau—linens, silver, even dishes—but they had everything well in hand. What was a countess supposed to do all day?

She went in search of the library she remembered from her exploration. She'd do what she did at home, and lose herself in a book.

Tatiana followed her into the dusty room, and made herself comfortable on a ratty old sofa. Elle didn't bother scolding her. The furniture in the room was more fit for a dog than for humans. Even her own fondness for a clean room was overwhelmed by the library. The place didn't need to be cleaned so much as it needed to be stripped to bare floor and wall, and a bonfire made of the rubbish. Only then could a real cleaning begin.

But perhaps that would never be her problem. She wandered along the shelves, pulling out and replacing books. There were many empty spaces, and she imagined the late earl had sold those books that were in any shape to be sold. Certainly all that remained were books warped from damp, smelling of mildew, and in several unhappy cases, infested by small creatures that made a diet of paper. She shuddered, and wiped her hands on her skirts after one particularly unpleasant encounter with a half-eaten book.

And then, tucked behind a stack of mouldering Milton, she found a small book bound in stained green leather. Folklore of the British Isles was stamped across the front, the gold lettering all but rubbed away.

She sat down next to Tatiana, and opened the book to the table of contents. There, in between a chapter on ghosts and one on witches, was a chapter on fairies. She flipped quickly to the right page and read with greedy eyes.

Henry watched Elle pick at her dinner, poking the tip of her knife at the piece of fat that clung to the edge of her meat. Her nose was wrinkled. She had not touched the chopped liver in aspic, and the butter on her boiled vegetables was in danger of congealing, it had sat so long on her plate.

"If the food is not to your liking, you can talk to Abigail about it. I am sure she would welcome any direction you might offer. We do not have a proper cook as of yet, and she has been making do with what she knows."

"I don't know any woman who appreciates being given 'direction' in the kitchen," she said, abandoning her meat and reaching for yet another roll. It was her third, if his counting was correct.

"Elle, you are a countess now, not the daughter of the house. The staff expects you to direct them, not to wait upon their pleasure."

She spooned a healthy glob of strawberry jam onto her roll. "Which reminds me," she began tentatively, looking up at him from under her brows, her eyes huge and dark. The candlelight made her skin look like cream. "There are some things I'd like to ask you about my job description."

"Job description?" Her question did not succeed in distracting him from his perusal of her flesh. Was her skin even whiter beneath her clothing? He had almost felt guilty leaving her to lunch alone this afternoon, she had looked so woeful. Already his plan was working. By the end of the week she would be seeking out his company, and soon all that lovely skin would be his to touch.

"You know—what I'm expected to do, as countess. What will my responsibilities be? What do you expect me to be in charge of? What am I supposed to do all day?"

"The usual."

Elle put down her roll, her brows drawing together. "I think my parents may have misled you, if they gave the impression that I knew much about running a house. Maybe they thought I paid more attention than I really did. I don't know. The truth of the matter, I'm sorry to say, is that I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing with my time. I don't know how the food for the kitchen is purchased or cooked, or the dishes cleaned. I don't know how the laundry gets done. I don't even know how much anything costs. I don't know who I'm supposed to be directing, if I'm to be directing anyone at all. I am completely unprepared for this position. I just thought you should know."

Henry watched her list her incompetencies, his eyes on her mouth. She had marvelously straight teeth, white as proverbial pearls. And her lips were so full, so soft. They were slightly pouty now, indicative of her present discomfiture. Apparently she was not pleased to admit her ignorance of household matters. He listened to her with half an ear, more intent on those moist lips, and thoughts of what it would be like to have them touch his bare skin. His eyes moved to her neck, and he imagined placing his hand there, stroking her, then running his fingers up into her hair and pulling her to him, bringing her to him without resistance, even eager for his touch, her lips parted and waiting…

"Well?" he heard from a distance. The ringing of a spoon against the side of her water goblet brought him back to the real world. "Anyone home in there?" she asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. That should not be a problem." So, Mr. Moore had lied to him about her housekeeping skills. Apparently the good merchant had lied about a number of things concerning his daughter. At least the money was real enough, and the money had been the impetus for the marriage, after all. It would not do to become angry with Elle, when the mendacity had been her father's.

"I already have a steward," he continued. "He is in London at the moment, hiring servants. It may be a few weeks before he is finished. He can take care of the more mundane details of running the house, such as making purchases, keeping the books, paying the servants, and so on. Abigail and Thomas can direct the servants, as they have been, if you do not wish to do so."

"Then what is it that a countess is supposed to do?"

"She has only one absolutely necessary duty, and the rest are optional."

"And what's that?"

"To bear heirs, of course. Given your present reluctance to take on the preliminaries to that task, I suppose it is the optional activities you will have a greater interest in, at least for the moment. I hardly think they will prove as entertaining as the first would be, but I am determined to submit to the vagaries of my beautiful bride." He smiled mildly at her.

Her frown deepened. He wanted to rub his thumb between her brows.

"So what are these optional duties?"

"For the most part they are social and aesthetic. You can choose the style in which the house is refurbished, you can choose the weekly menus, you can decide on livery for the footmen, you can have a say in how the gardens are landscaped. You can send and receive invitations to visit friends and relations, and eventually plan parties and balls, and do your part to ensure that our future offspring are viewed as the civilized children of civilized parents. I imagine it is much how your mother spent her time."

"That's it? Lovely home, lovely garden, and teach the children manners. Throw good parties. At least it sounds like there is shopping involved," she concluded, sounding a bit letdown.

"There are also the charity visits. Bringing food baskets to tenants in need, and taking care of minor health concerns, if that is an area in which you have knowledge and feel inclined to act. But surely you know all this already?"

"As I explained before, I am ignorant on the most surprising topics."

"You are an intelligent young woman. You will learn." He took a sip of his wine. "Perhaps you would like to see some of the estate tomorrow, since you have already seen the house. You can ride, can you not?"

"Yes, actually."

"Splendid. Tomorrow morning, then, we shall ride out after breakfast. But for now, my dear, what say you to adjourning for our dessert?"

Elle put her hand on Henry's arm and let him lead her from the dining room, her mind stuck on the topic of riding. Yes, of course she could ride. Her neighbors had had horses, and she had often ridden with them. Bareback. Astride. This was the eighteenth century, though, and women here rode sidesaddle. Oh, joy. The last thing she was about to do, though, was admit to yet another thing that she could not do. How hard could a sidesaddle be, anyway?

Henry led her upstairs, and it wasn't until they were climbing their third set of stairs that she came out of her sidesaddle fog.

"Where are we going?"

"To one of the banquetting houses."

"Ah." Of course. That made perfect sense.

He laughed softly. "You shall see."

They climbed a final, narrow set of stairs, and Henry opened the door at the top. She stepped out onto a railed walkway, a lantern beside the door making a circle of yellow light in the darkness. Another lantern hung some distance away, beside a door at the base of one of the domed turrets she had noticed from the ground below. She was on the roof.

She leaned against the rail and looked out into the darkness. The sun had set some time ago, but the horizon to the west was tinged a light charcoal blue. The moon hung above it, fuller than it had been a few days ago, with bright-shining Venus close by. Above her, the stars were silver glitter thrown across an endless sky of midnight blue.

Henry stood close behind her, his legs pressing slightly against her skirts. He brought his face down close to her ear.

"I shall have to bring you back to watch the sun set."

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "It's a beautiful view even in the dark." Every fiber of her was aware of his presence. "Do you come up here often?"

"Not in recent years. As a boy I would sometimes come to lie on the roof and watch the stars."

"An amateur astronomer?" Her back tingled with his closeness.

"I was not such an intellectual. It was more of an escape, a place to be completely alone with myself… and my thoughts."

She recalled the little he had shared about his father. Perhaps he had often needed such an escape. "It's strange, isn't it, how solitude is a comfort for loneliness."

"You sound familiar with the experience."

She smiled a bit. "I doubt anyone is immune to it. There was a poem I had to read, as part of my schooling…" she trailed off, feeling foolish of a sudden.

"I will not laugh if you wish to recite it," he said, a tinge of humor in his voice.

"Just one stanza, it's all I remember."

"Then it must be the most apropos, as well as being blessedly short. Please."

She pretended to clear her throat, then paused, closing her eyes to dredge up Robert Frost's words and the proper tone.

"They cannot score me with their empty spaces Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places."

They were both silent, and Elle opened her eyes to look up at the stars far above, shining impossibly distant in the blackness of space. She let herself lean back until she lightly rested against Henry's chest.

"Mmm," he said, and for a moment, she thought she felt his cheek press against the side of her hair. "Not the most uplifting of sentiments, but painfully true." He stepped away from her, breaking the spell, and held out his hand. "Come."

She followed him down the walkway to the turret. When she looked up she could see faint light in the windows under the dome, and realized there was a room in there. She followed him through the door and up yet another narrow set of stairs, until at last she emerged into the turret room.

"The banquetting house," Henry announced, bowing to her.

She blinked about her at the room, done in a Moorish motif of tiled designs, the pillars between the windows as richly decorated as the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a built-in tiled table, no more than four feet across, and covered now with plates of fruit, tarts, marzipan, and an urn of either coffee or tea, kept warm by a spirit lamp underneath. A brazier like those in the greenhouse sat to one side, providing warmth.

"Henry, it's lovely," she said, enchanted. "Do all the turrets have such rooms?" she asked, tracing her fingers along the complex pattern on one of the pillars. Sleeping Beauty could have spent her century drowsing in such a place.

"They are in different styles. This one is in the best shape. Only one window is missing, and I had the bird nests cleaned out."

"I had no idea. I had thought the turrets were only decorations."

"My great-grandfather had plans to build a banquetting house in the middle of the lake as well, but my great-grandmother talked him out of it. She protested that she did not want to smell stagnant water while she was eating her sweets."

Elle let him hold her chair for her while she sat and accepted the cup of coffee he poured for her. "I met your great-grandmother today, while I was exploring the house. That's why I was late for lunch. She's an interesting woman."

Henry paused, half-lowered into his chair. "Great-grandmother? Lady Annalise spoke with you?"

"Briefly."

"What did she say?" He appeared unusually curious, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in an uncharacteristic display of interest.

"Not much. She said you were an amusing boy, and that I'd make you a good wife." Elle made a face and reached for a marzipan peach.

He looked distinctly unconvinced but took a seat. "Did she say anything else?"

"No, not really. She invited me back, but that's about all. Is there some problem? Should I not have disturbed her?"

"She has not said an intelligible word to anyone for the past two years."

Elle choked on her bite of almond paste. "What?"

"She just mumbles and sleeps. Or pretends to, I am never sure which."

"But she knew who I was, knew that you had married, and without my saying anything about it."

"You are telling me she has just been pretending to be deaf and dumb all this time?"

"How should I know what she's been doing? I'm telling you what she said, that's all. Are you telling me that I'm making this up?"

"That is not what I said."

Maybe it wasn't what he'd said, but it was clear to her that was what he had been thinking. He wouldn't believe her unless he talked to Lady Annalise himself. "Why does she live in such a distant part of the house, anyway?"

"She has always lived there, certainly as long as I can remember," he said, his tone becoming careless. "I think my father forgot she was even there. Either that, or she frightened him enough that he did not have the nerve to sell her furnishings when he gutted the rest of the house."

"I have a hard time thinking of her as frightening."

"Perhaps not now, but once upon a time she was known to have a way of getting what she wanted. Or so go the stories. I think the servants mostly forget she is there, all except Sally, who takes care of her."

"Sounds rather lonely."

"Like I said, she has not let pass an intelligible word for a couple years."

"And I wonder how much good it's done her confusion to leave her mouldering in an uninhabited corner of the house."

"No one left her to moulder," Henry said, his voice tightening. "If you think you can persuade her to join the rest of the household, be my guest and try. I guarantee you, you will not succeed."

"Did you try so hard, then?"

A silence grew between them. Elle felt shame creep up on her. What right did she have to scold him for his treatment of his family? She herself had hardly been the model daughter or sister. "Well, really, it hardly looked like she'd appreciate being moved," Elle conceded. "And if she's been faking senility, she must have the wits about her to arrange things as she likes. Maybe she prefers to be alone, I don't know."

"I shall ask her."

Elle had the uncomfortable feeling that she had just added yet another burden to his shoulders. Why had she ruined the evening, when he had brought her to this lovely room, and they had been getting along so well? "Never mind, I'll take care of it. I'm the one she bothered to speak with, after all. Isn't that what wives do, deal with family matters?"

"I am glad there is something you are willing to do in that role," she heard him say softly, and wondered if he had meant her to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

Elle winced at the faint creaking of her corset. The laces were holding on for dear life, strained to their limit. Eleanor's riding habit was a tight-fitting affair, consisting of a double-breasted, deep-lapelled jacket over a false shirt front with frothy jabot, and an oddly darted skirt. She felt remarkably unattractive in it, and the physical discomfort was almost enough to make her give up the thought of going for a ride, but she still felt bad about ruining last night, and she wanted to mend that if she could.

The hat was the only aspect of the entire ensemble she approved of. It was a tricorn, with a ribbon cockade on one side. She insisted that Marianne arrange her hair in a low single-ringlet pony tail and tie it with a black silk ribbon. With the hat on, she felt like Paul Revere.

She creaked her way down the stairs and let a young male servant lead the way to the stables. Good thing the horse would be doing all the walking: She'd black out if she had to breathe any harder. She was going to have to do something about these clothes when she got the chance. She really couldn't live like this.

Henry was waiting for her, along with two horses and stableboys. It was readily apparent which was hers by the odd-looking saddle with the hornlike protuberances. There was only one stirrup. How in God's name was she supposed to sit on that?

"Belle should suit you well. She's a bit high-spirited but gentle at the heart of it." The way he looked at her, it seemed he thought the description could apply to her as well.

Elle eyed both Henry and the horse with disfavor. She didn't like the sound of "a bit high-spirited." "She's lovely," she muttered uncertainly. The mare was a pretty color, dark brown with black legs, mane, and tail. She looked like a police horse. Beyond that, Elle had no idea of how to judge the beast. The simple fact that it had a sidesaddle upon its back made it sinister.

Henry went to mount his own horse while a stableboy led Belle up beside a portable set of wooden stairs. Elle quickly surmised that this was some manner of mounting block, and with a pained smile upon her face, she dragged herself and her heavy skirts over to it. She surveyed the stable yard one last time, as if expecting help would appear and save her from this fate. Her faithless dog was off sniffing a suspicious pile, looking like she was seriously considering either taking a bite or rolling in it. Henry was already mounted and was discussing something with one of the stable boys. At least he had his back to her.

She climbed the stairs, placed a hand on the saddle, and tried to make sense of the contraption. She knew that both her legs had to go on one side, which must mean… what? Did she drape one leg around the horns, or two? Or none? She lifted her skirt so it would have space to give, then turned half around and plopped herself, backside first, onto the saddle with the horns between her thighs. By the feel of it, she had not gotten it right. She shifted and spread her legs until she could get both of them under the curling ends of the padded horns, jerking on her skirt for more give all the while.

She stole a glance at Henry. His back was still to her.

"Milady?" the stableboy asked, holding up the reins for her to take.

"Thank you." She smiled crookedly at him, mentally urging him to give her advice. The psychic call went unheeded.

She shifted on the saddle, fishing with her left foot for the stirrup that was buried somewhere beneath her hanging skirt. She knew the basics of how to ride a horse. How hard could a sidesaddle be, really?

"Ready?" Henry called over to her.

"Tallyho!" Elle called brightly, giving up the hunt for the stirrup.

Henry set his horse at a walk from the yard, and taking her courage in both hands, Elle gave Belle a gentle tap on the side with both feet, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth in encouragement. "Giddy up" would probably only be understood by a bicultural British-American horse.

Belle started forward, more to follow the other horse than to obey her mistress. The movement sent Elle rocking, and she clenched her legs around the horns. Her left hand clutched at the back of the saddle. This could not be right. She was seated as if the horse were a bench, and she felt like she was about to tumble off backwards.

They reached a dirt road, overgrown except for narrow ruts of bare earth where wheels had packed the ground too densely for even weeds to grow. Henry urged his horse into a canter, and Belle gleefully followed suit.

"Aieee!" Elle screeched. Caught off guard, her legs flailed for purchase, her arms flapped in the air, and she found herself looking at the sky, her head bouncing on the rump of the horse. She was still mounted, thank God. She just happened to be lying down. Her legs had wrapped around the sidesaddle horns of their own volition, the crook of her right knee gripping the horns for dear life, her right foot hooking under her left leg for security.

Her mount came to a stop, and Henry's astounded face appeared in her line of vision. There was no trace of cool composure. He looked alarmed. He looked bewildered. He looked thoroughly un-Henry.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice cracking as he sought his usual tone.

Elle tried to sit up. Her corset wouldn't let her. She was stranded like a turtle. She looked at Henry's face and repressed the hysterical giggle in her throat.

"If you couldn't ride, you should have just said so. Were you trying to impress me?" He now looked very serious and concerned.

"Why, did I succeed?" she asked back and snorted with unladylike laughter. Her sides hurt, and she tried not to laugh in the corset while she was on her back, but the effort made her laugh even harder. "For God's sake, help me up, will you?"

He looked at her, his frown even deeper, and she howled.

"I'll have you know, I can ride," she asserted from her prone position, once she caught her breath. "I'm just out of practice."

"Apparently."

"I'm more used to riding astride, that's all. I've never had any fondness for sidesaddles."

"I can hardly believe your father allowed you to sit astride a horse," he said, finally pulling her upright.

Elle straightened her hat and unhooked her right foot from her left leg. "He doesn't know I ever did."

"I imagine not." He looked at her with consideration, as if assessing her sanity. "Do you want to turn back?"

"I can ride, I tell you."

He looked doubtful. She tried to return his regard with equal gravity, her lips pursed tight over the urge to smile. She wiggled in the saddle, testing her position. She could face forward more easily now, somewhat as she would have if she sat sideways on a wall. Her right leg was bent and up high, while the left dangled somewhat. She fished again for the stirrup and found it. With her legs in proper position, the odd darting of the skirt suddenly made sense. It fell in beautiful clean lines over her legs.

"Very well, then." He nudged his mount into a slow walk, watching Elle from the corner of his eye as she followed suit. She was aware of his scrutiny and tried to sit on the horse as if she knew what she were doing.

They proceeded in silence down the path, which soon led into the leafy green shade of woodland. The leaves were still the light green of spring, and belled purple flowers grew in swaths beneath the trees. A small cloud of golden dust shimmered in a shaft of sunlight, and Elle closed her eyes as Belle walked her through it. She almost imagined she could feel it tingling on her skin, and when she opened her eyes again, a feeling of dreaminess overtook her spirit. The forest was magically lovely, idyllic, pastoral—it was soft, and peaceful, and somehow tame. She had the sense that people had travelled this path for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Elle began humming under her breath. It was the tune that always played in the background of cartoons during nature scenes, especially those at dawn. She wished she could see herself from the outside and know what she looked like riding through this landscape in her jaunty tricorn hat. She looked down at her gloved hands, holding the reins. They didn't seem to be a part of her. She moved her fingers, watching them from a disembodied distance. How curious.

Her eyes moved to Henry, riding slightly ahead of her. She liked what he was wearing. His beige breeches were tight around his thighs, ending at a row of four buttons at his knees. His riding boots covered the bottom half of his legs, but there was just a sliver of white stocking visible between breeches and boots. She liked that men's pants only went to their knees: She liked looking at Henry's calves, watching them flex with each step. How long ago was it that men wore tights? Now, that would have been the time to live.

She glanced up at Henry's face. He hadn't noticed her perusal of his pants. He was probably busy mentally figuring expenditures for the house. She nudged Belle abreast of his horse. She felt him glance at her, but kept her eyes turned away, feigning interest in the forest.

When it was safe, she surreptitiously cast her eyes to his chest and hips. She liked the way his body moved, his hips rocking in rhythm with the horse. So, that was why men sometimes said they mounted a woman. She felt a prickling, tingling heat surface across her skin and could not help imagining her naked legs spread wide, and those clothed hips rocking between them, gently nudging her damp flesh, teasing her with a touch that never lasted long enough, the rough fabric a tantalizing barrier. What would it feel like, she wondered, to be completely naked and make love to a man wearing all his clothes? She would be so vulnerable, so exposed. She almost moaned at the thought.

Why hadn't she slept with Henry? Her mind felt muddied by lust and this peculiar dreaminess, an almost familiar dreaminess, that she couldn't place just now. For the life of her, she couldn't think of any obstacles to making love to him. It was as if all her inhibitions had flown away, leaving only the desire that had been simmering at the bottom of her soul since the first night she had seen him. She was married to the man, and he had certainly tried to take her to bed on their wedding night, which showed a certain willingness on his part. He would not refuse her.

She wanted to run her fingers across his chest, and to taste the spot where his neck met his shoulders. She wanted to touch that tender spot where his thigh met his groin, and cup his male flesh in her hand. She wanted to slide her hand over his shaft and feel it grow large and firm against the palm of her hand.

She brought Belle over closer to Henry's mount, until her own legs brushed against his. He turned to her, and she tilted her head to one side, looking up at him with her eyes slightly narrowed, blinking slowly like a cat in the sun, her lips curled in a sultry smile.

Flickers of emotion crossed his face, from neutral expectancy to surprised recognition of her subtle invitation, then an eyebrow rose slightly, in question. She let her lips part naturally in answer, and her reward was watching his face change its character, losing the aloof veneer, his eyes becoming blacker and his jaw muscles tensing.

He drew his mount to a halt, and Elle absently did the same. She became mesmerized by his lips and could almost feel them working their way down her neck, over the tops of her breasts, to suckle at her nipples as they had on her wedding night.

"Do you know what you're asking, when you look at me that way?" he asked her hoarsely.

"Yes." The word came out on a softly exhaled breath.

He looked like he wanted to question this abrupt change, then thought better of it. She leaned forward, wetting her lips.

"Please…" she murmured, shameless in her desire to feel his mouth on her own, and his hand between her thighs, stroking the folds of flesh she could already feel were swelling with desire.

"Are you ready to take on your full role as a wife?"

She smiled. "Always so serious. You make it sound like we're fulfilling a contract. This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"I had not thought to take you out-of-doors." He blinked about him at the woods. She was delighted that she had thrown him off-balance yet again.

"It'll be our woodland bower, like in the poem. How does it go? 'Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove…' " she trailed off, not sure of the rest.

" 'That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields,' " he finished for her. "Christopher Marlowe."

"Yes. I think this is what he had in mind, don't you?"

"I have no doubt."

"Do you remember the rest of it?" she asked dreamily. "I loved that poem when I was young. I won't laugh, if you want to recite it."

He dismounted and came around to her side of the horse. " 'And we will sit upon the rocks, seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,' " he said, reaching up and putting his hands around her waist. Elle drew in her breath at his touch, even muted as it was through her layers of clothing. " 'By shallow rivers to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals.' "

His strong hands lifted her from the saddle, and she put her own hands on his shoulders to steady herself as he lowered her to the ground. She could smell a faint, spicy masculine cologne emanating from his skin, tied in with the scents of leather and horse. She felt dizzy with it and leaned her head towards him to breathe it in more deeply.

" 'And I will make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies.' " She barely heard the words he spoke, feeling his voice instead, vibrating within her, invading her as he would with his body. Even from several inches away she could feel his warmth on her face, entwined with that alluring aroma that was uniquely his.

"How do you remember it?" she asked.

"I was once young as well, long ago. I have not the wit to be original with my poetry, so I borrowed Marlowe's work in my pursuit of… well, let us just say in my pursuit of feminine attentions."

"Were you successful?" She imagined him as a younger man in the gardens with a woman, rutting with her from behind to keep from crushing her skirts, shushing her to keep her from giving them away as they hid in the bushes.

"On occasion."

"Good." She slid her hands behind his neck, pressing her body against his, trying to rub her breasts against his chest. His breathing deepened, and the hand he raised to brush gently at a stray hair on her cheek was shaking slightly.

He reached up and grasped her hands, pulling them from behind his neck. "Come. I can at least do better for you than the middle of a road."

He led her off the path, the reins of the horses in one hand. He tied them to a branch, than took Elle farther into the forest, through ferns and soft undergrowth, until the gurgling of a creek could be heard. Cool, misty air rose up from the tributary, shimmering in the light, and encouraging the growth of deep mosses along the banks. There was a small clear area of deep moss, surrounded by foliage and yet warmed by the sun, looking as if it had been created expressly for the purpose at hand.

She watched him shrug out of his jacket and could not resist the urge to help. Her fingers went to the loose knot of the cravat at his throat, her action catching him unaware. He stood immobile, allowing her to untie his shirt and unbutton the vest that covered it. Her gloved hands shoved the clothing wide, her fingertips brushing lightly through the dark hair on his chest. She leaned forward and licked at his skin, her tongue moving up to the hollow at the base of his throat.

She heard him groan, and then his arms were around her, crushing her to him as his head bent down to capture her lips with his own. She felt a cool sliver rush through her nerves, making her knees go slack. She could feel the strength of him surrounding her, so much greater than her own, and abandoned herself to it.

His mouth moved to the side of her face, then beneath her ear, one hand knocking off her hat while the other untied her hair, combing it between his fingers. Her head was bent back with the force of his assault, and she felt as if she had conjured up a storm to sweep her away. His hands were clutching her buttocks, softly kneading, pulling her up against his arousal.

"Help me undress," she whispered to him. "I want to feel you against my skin."

She could feel his muscles coil even tighter in response to her words. "I should go slowly," he rasped, his hands stilling on her. "I do not want to hurt you. I do not want you frightened."

"I can't wait," she said softly, exhaling gently over his ear, then she touched the tip of her tongue inside his ear. "I want to feel you inside me."

He pressed his face into her neck. "Do not say such things."

"Then hurry, Henry."

He let go of her and began tugging at the buttons of her jacket, then at the ties of the false shirtfront. She closed her eyes, feeling his hands skim over the tops of her breasts. Cool air touched her skin, bringing out luscious goose bumps, the added sensation only serving to increase her arousal. Her skirt and petticoat fell to the ground, and she stood before him in her chemise and corset.

"Turn around," he told her. She obeyed, then couldn't resist pressing her buttocks against his thighs, bending forward slightly and rubbing herself against him. The chemise was thin, and she knew he could feel every warm curve of her.

"God, Elle…" he wrapped his arms around her from behind, straightening her back up, her arms immobilized within his. His right hand pulled up the skirt of her chemise, caressing her skin as his fingers found their way to her damp nest of curls. His fingertips were chilled by the air and were a startling invasion. She felt him combing gently through the curls, one fingertip discovering the nub of her sex. He slid the length of his finger against it, until she was resting entirely against the palm of his hand, the end of his finger seeking and gaining entrance to her body. She could feel her own slickness as the end of his finger slid in and out, his palm gently rubbing and pressing against her. She threw her head back, leaving her shoulders and neck bare to his mouth.

He released her and went to work on the laces of her corset, loosening them enough that the garment could be slid off over her hips. He turned his attentions to his own clothes, stripping them as quickly as he could.

Elle kicked off her ankle boots and stood in the sunlight, her arms slightly lifted, feeling the competing sensations of cool mist from the stream, wafting along her ankles and up her chemise, and the warm sun on her arms and face. She could feel Henry's eyes on her, sliding along the shadowed valleys of her body as surely as an actual touch.

She crossed her arms and grabbed opposite sides of her chemise, and then, with one hip thrust forward and standing slightly on her toes, she slowly lifted it up and over her head, tossing the garment heedlessly into the ferns. She wore nothing but stockings, tied with pale blue ribbons above her knees.

Her skin tightened in the mist from the stream, and she ran her hands over her belly, feeling the marks her tight clothes had made upon her, and up to her breasts, pushing them up between splayed fingers before letting her hands descend again, skimming the indentation of her waist, following the curve of her hips, then one hand briefly dipped to lightly brush her own curls, reminding her body of what it sought.

He watched mesmerized, and then it took him only one step to stand in front of her, his manhood erect. A trail of dark hair marked a path up to his navel, then on upward to where it spread, like the foliage of a luxuriant tree, across his broad chest.

His hand, large and strong and coated with fine ebony hairs, came up to lightly touch her breast, and she could feel the reverence in his touch, as if he thought her a work of art, or a gift from the angels. She leaned into his hand, her nipple brushing against the roughness of his palm, the hidden muscles within her contracting with pleasure.

His mouth followed his palm, the wet heat almost burning on her chilled skin. He suckled at her, gently biting, while one hand found again the rich nerves between her legs. She spread her feet wider, allowing him greater access, arching her back against his supporting arm as he slid his fingers along her slick folds.

Her own fingertips touched his thigh and traced their knowing way to his groin, tangling softly in the hair beside his shaft before she grasped that heavy smoothness in her small hand. It flexed within her grip, pumping to an even greater width. Henry groaned and pulled his hips away from her, and she felt the head ease through her fingers.

He sank down to his knees in front of her, and urged her with gentle taps to spread her legs still wider. His hands grasped her bare buttocks, and then he lowered his mouth to her, his tongue plunging through her curls to taste the heart of her. Her legs gave out, and she had to plant her palms on his shoulders, bending forward, to support herself against the wet thrusting of his tongue.

He lowered her to the ground in front of him, her knees raised and parted, her feet planted on the mossy ground. She raised her chin to the sky in bliss, the back of her head digging into the ground, as his mouth descended once again. It had been so long, so very long since she had felt this pleasure.

The strokes of his tongue were slow at first, languorous, frustrating her with the desire for more. He sucked her nub into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it, his lips massaging the base. He released her only to trail his mouth down to the entrance of her inner corridor, and her skin picked up the fine flexings of his tongue as it delved within her. Then again he stroked her, the caresses shorter and faster, his mouth anchored to her while one finger slid deep within her.

She felt her climax building within her, so close. Henry must have felt it too, for he removed his hand and rose above her. Knowing what was coming, and wanting it desperately, she reached down to help guide him to her. He dipped the tip of his manhood into her, then removed it, rubbing it against her, prolonging her torture.

"Henry, please…" she moaned. Her hand pushed at him, urging him lower.

He slid just within her opening, poised for the final thrust. He threw his weight onto his arms, braced on either side of her. "I do not want to hurt you."

She squirmed beneath him, trying to move him deeper. "You won't."

He inched himself slightly deeper within her, testing. Elle moaned, then wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled her hips upwards. With an answering shudder he sank himself within her, then began to move in the steady rocking for which she had yearned.

Elle opened her eyes. She was entwined with Henry's naked form, one of his arms draped heavily around her, one of her legs wedged between his. She frowned, trying to shake the dreaminess from her mind. It had faded a bit, enough for her to begin to question what had just happened. She pushed back from Henry, feeling her sweaty skin unstick from his.

She felt lips on her forehead as Henry kissed her. "You look golden in the light," he murmured. She reached up and touched her forehead where he had kissed her, brushing at a strand of damp hair. Her hairline was soaked with sweat. The touch of her own hand seemed to clear her mind even more. She put her whole hand to her forehead, trying to think, then ran her fingers back through her hair. Strangely, that seemed to help.

She rested her hand on Henry's muscled chest, staring absently at it while her mind woke up. He was right, she thought vaguely. She did look golden in the light. Her eyes narrowed on her hand, and she brought it closer to her face, turning it in the sunlight.

There was a fine shimmer of gold on her skin, like she used to find on her hand if she touched her makeup when she wore certain powders. She brought her fingertips to her cheek, then looked at them again. Her fingertips had picked up a definite coating. Only, she wasn't wearing any makeup.

She quickly disengaged herself from Henry and sat up, her reddish hair falling in damp tendrils around her shoulders. With both hands she wiped at her face, staring in dawning horror at the glittering powder that was revealed on her palms, and then at Henry, lying so gloriously nude on his side, his member now limply nestled in his thatch of black hair. She could feel the sticky dampness from their lovemaking between her thighs.

"Elle? What is it?" Henry's deep voice asked, still replete with sexual satisfaction. She rose to her feet, ignoring him, and stumbled to the stream. She stepped into the frigid water, her feet finding purchase on small stones in the mud. The water reached only to her calves, but it was enough. She squatted down and splashed water on her face, on her breasts, over her arms.

With each dousing of icy water her critical processes rose closer to the surface. She watched with wide eyes as the water swept downstream, its surface dusted with golden powder, as if a thousand moths had struggled on the surface.

She closed her eyes and fell to her knees, oblivious to the water that now rose halfway up her buttocks as she sat on her heels. Images of the past hour played across the screen of her mind. The dreaminess. Her blatant invitation to Henry. His face between her legs. Her moans. Her begging. His climax within her. Not once, but twice. She couldn't believe what she'd done.

Her stomach sank and her legs went hollow at the thought that she might have just gotten herself pregnant. The sex had been a dream, but the nightmare was in waking up.

"Elle?"

She jerked her head over her shoulder, and saw him standing on the bank, a couple feet from her. Her shoulders hunched, and she brought her arms up to cover herself. She was shivering from the cold water, her teeth beginning to chatter. She'd been drugged, or enchanted, whatever she wanted to call it. Those damn fairy people had been messing with her mind again. That cloud of glimmering light on the path, that's when this had started, when she had started to feel dreamy.

She wanted to tell herself that the fairies had made her into the sex-starved woman who had just seduced Henry, but she knew it wasn't true. Their magic had taken away the barriers in her mind, that was all.

And what if, at this very moment, a fertilized egg was splitting and dividing, multiplying its cells exponentially, intent upon forming a child? She ducked her head down and shuddered, unwilling to believe she had taken such a risk. Seven years of sexual activity, and she had never once had unprotected sex. Here in the 1790s, there was no morning-after pill, no sterile room for an abortion, no way out if she got pregnant, except somehow finding her way back home.

Henry splashed in beside her and pulled her up out of the water. "Elle, what's wrong? Why don't you answer me?"

His body was warm, but it was a comfort she was not willing to take. She shoved her way out of his arms, putting several steps between them. "Don't. Just don't touch me."

"Elle—"

"No, you don't understand," she cried, shaking her head wildly from side to side. She stumbled out of the stream and sat on the mossy ground, pulling her knees up in front of her, trying to cover herself. "I don't do that. I've never done that. Oh, God, what have I done?"

"Eleanor, stop it. You have done nothing wrong." He retrieved his jacket and draped it around her shaking shoulders, then knelt down in front of her. "You are married now."

"As if that makes a difference." She tried to scoot away from him, as if even being close to him would make her more fertile. "Doesn't it bother you that I wasn't a virgin?"

He sat back. "You were not?"

"Of course not." She'd drive him away however she could. She'd committed the act she'd had nightmares about since she was twelve, and she would not do it again.

"Who was it?" he asked quietly.

"No, not a virgin," she babbled unheedingly, vaguely aware she had lost control of herself. "Not eighteen years old, either. I'm twenty-five. Would you have guessed that? No? I've always looked young for my age," she giggled, tears on her cheeks.

"Eleanor, stop it. You are hysterical."

"Not Eleanor, Wilhelmina. You wouldn't believe half of what I could tell you." She glanced up at his striken face, worry deep in his eyes. He thought she was out of her head. Good. He wouldn't want to sleep with a crazy woman. "Tatiana. Where's Tatiana?" She crawled away and started gathering her clothes, and he did not try to stop her.

From far above, hidden in the branches of a tree, the small unhappy face of Mossbottom looked down on the human figures. What had started so beautifully had gone terribly, terribly wrong. How could he have guessed that she would react this way, when the spell had worn off? He felt the distance between the two people growing even greater than it had been before he had sprinkled that cloud of fairy dust onto Elle.

It wasn't fair. He had only been trying to help.

Chapter Fourteen

Elle dug through a pile of Henry's breeches, pausing at a dark green pair. "No, they don't like you to wear green," she muttered to herself and kept digging. She pulled out an old turquoise pair and held them up to her hips with shaking hands. They would do.

She picked up the shirt she had already filched and brought her loot back to her own dressing room. She shrugged off her robe and pulled the garments on over her bare skin, tugging for a moment to get the breeches up over her hips, afraid they would rip. Once on, they were looser than she had expected. She had thought for certain she was larger than Henry.

His shirt hung down to her knees, her unbound breasts dimly visible through the thin linen. She slipped on her shoes and swung a cloak over the ensemble, checking the effect in the mirror. The cloak was almost long enough to hide her lack of skirts. With any luck, no one would be looking close enough to tell.

She scooped up Folklore of the British Isles and two large scarves, and patted her thigh for Tatiana. The dog jumped off the foot of the bed and trotted over to join her as she peered into the hallway. All appeared quiet, and Marianne had obeyed her command to leave her alone until called for.

She glanced back at the four-poster. She should draw the bed curtains. If Marianne glanced in to check on her, she would assume her mistress to be asleep.

The task complete, Elle slipped into the hallway, Tatiana at her heels. Sweat filmed her body, her muscles feeling loose and disobedient as she tried to make her footsteps silent on the bare wood. She made her way to a set of back stairs and wound her way down and through a narrow hallway, emerging after several turns in the kitchen.

Abigail was nowhere to be seen, but a girl was scrubbing dishes in a shallow stone sink. Elle gave a silent curse.

"Milady!" the girl said, catching sight of her, and then dropped a curtsy.

Elle inclined her head to the girl. "Could you do me a small favor?" Might as well make use of her.

"My pleasure, milady."

"I should like a small jug of milk, a bowl, and a loaf of fresh bread. And a small pot of honey, if we have it." She tried to copy Henry's look of cool composure.

"Would you like me to bring them to you above stairs, then, milady?"

"No. Just set them here on the table."

"Yes, milady." The girl frowned a bit, puzzled but moved to do as directed.

Elle watched her, wishing there had been no one in the kitchen in the first place. A scullery maid was better than Abigail, though, who might be more tempted to ask questions.

She unfolded one of the scarves on the table top, placing the book in the center. The girl came back with the food, and Elle piled it on top of the book, then folded the corners of the cloth over the top and tied it all into a neat bundle.

"Thank you…"

"Betsy, milady."

"Thank you, Betsy. You've been very helpful."

The girl dipped in another curtsy and watched her as she left. With any luck, it would be some time before the news of this visit to the kitchens reached the ears of anyone who mattered.

This next step was the most dangerous. She made her way to the stables, holding the cloak closed in front with one hand. It was late afternoon, and cool enough to warrant the garment.

Once in the stable, she nodded to the boy who had helped her that morning, then quickly walked pass him before he could do more than pull at his forelock. There were not many horses at Brookhaven, and it was an easy task to find Belle in her stall.

The mare put her head over the boards, whuffling and searching for treats. Elle gave her a soft pat on the nose and watched from the corner of her eye as the boy moved about his work. After several minutes he took his pitchfork and moved off to another part of the stables.

Elle moved quickly down to where he had been and found the tack room. She grabbed a bridle from off the wall and hurried back to Belle. The door to the stall slid open with a low rumble of its runners, and Elle stepped into the thick straw on the ground.

"Now, be a nice horsey, Belle," Elle cooed. It had been at least eight years since she'd bridled a horse. She should have remembered to bring a carrot or apple.

Belle submitted to the bridle without fuss, though. Elle took her second scarf and tied it to her bundle, making a strap that she slipped on across her chest, then led the mare out of the stall.

She could hear the boy whistling somewhere in the stables and prayed he would stay busy with whatever he was doing. There was an old chair by the door of the tack room, and she led Belle over to it, the mare's hooves clopping on the cobbled floor. Elle cringed with each step, but the boy whistled on, undisturbed.

She used the chair as a mounting block. Henry's breeches allowing her to sit astride with ease. She bent low over the mare's neck and directed her out through the doorway and into the yard, and then kicked her into a trot heading for the wooded trail she had taken that morning with such disastrous results. Tatiana ran alongside them.

Henry sat at his desk and tried in vain to concentrate on the surveyor's map of Brookhaven and the surrounding countryside. He had already paid the fees for permission to enclose the land, and within the next week, work would begin on the planting of hedges to divide the fields and commons.

He abruptly pushed away from the desk and stood, turning his back to the papers. He strode to the windows and stared out through their panes at the unkempt gardens beyond. They distracted him for only a moment, and then his thoughts slid back to where they had been all afternoon: Elle.

Marriage had seemed like such a logical step. Find a wife whose income could help restore Brookhaven and who was healthy enough to provide heirs. In return, he would protect and care for her, ensuring that neither she nor their children should ever want. He had even privately vowed to be at all times civil to the woman.

Marriage was proving anything but logical.

The first time he had met Eleanor, he had disliked her. Vowing civility towards her had seemed almost magnanimous on his part. Now that first meeting seemed like the sanest moment of their relationship. At least then he had understood what was going on in her mind. Presently, he had no idea.

Images of the morning played across his mind, as they had been doing all day. Her half-dressed body, silhouetted by the sun; the feel of her soft buttocks rubbing up against him; the way she'd thrown back her head when he'd suckled at her breasts; and, finally, the sound of her moans, and her voice begging him to take her.

His body reacted to the images, growing into a hard state of readiness. He wanted to hunt her down, drag her into the nearest room, throw her on the floor, and take her again. And again and again, until he had drained this obsession from his mind, and proved to her and to himself that she was his wife and his alone.

Someone had taught her such wanton behavior, someone had been with her before he had, as he had suspected before her display of maidenly reluctance on their wedding night had made him think otherwise. Perhaps that was why she had grown hysterical. She felt she had betrayed her lover. Jealous fury coursed through his blood, and he clenched his fists for a long moment until he could bring it under control.

But that did not explain why she had claimed such outlandish assertions, like being older than she was and having a different name. He had not pressed her about it. Her behavior had unsettled him, frightened him even, and he had not known how to handle it.

And at the time, he could not help feeling partially responsible for her deranged state. He had not been gentle with her. He had behaved like a satyr, treating her with the debauched lust a man would show a whore, not a gently bred wife. Perhaps he had pushed her over some edge of sanity.

An ugly possibility appeared in his mind: It might even be possible that the real reason he had not seen her in the days preceding the wedding was that her family had hidden her. Maybe they'd been afraid he would sense some growing mental imbalance in her and call off the ceremony. Her father had been desperate to have an earl as a son-in-law. He already knew the man had lied about other things.

He turned back to his desk, but the papers there only reminded him of other lives that depended upon decisions he made.

Unbidden, the face of his great-grandmother came to mind. It had been too long since he had visited her. Even silent and senile as she was now—and she was silent and senile, no matter what stories Elle made up—her presence helped him to think more clearly. He strode from his office without another look at the pile of work on his desk.

He paid little attention to his surroundings as he headed down to Lady Annalise's rooms. He had learned as a boy that the easiest way to find her suite was to only pay attention with half his mind to where he was going. His feet seemed to follow the correct path only when his brain did not interfere. Ridiculous, really, that it could even be possible for him to make a wrong turn in his own home, but by long habit he kept his mind blank, and soon found himself at the heavily carved door with the fancifully wrought hinges and handle.

The door was ajar, as it always was when he came to visit. As a boy he had assumed it meant that she knew when he was coming, and had half believed that she held some special power. Now, older and wiser, he thought it most likely that she left it ajar at all times.

He rapped his knuckle against the wood, then pushed the door open. "Great-grandmother, 'tis Henry. May I come in?"

She was seated next to a wood fire, bundled in layers of clothes, her head covered by a brocade cap that tied under her chin, with a bedraggled tassle hanging from the crown. He had never seen such a thing except in her possession. When he was little, half the magic of coming to see her was in discovering the odd bits and pieces in her rooms. When there were no unusual knickknacks on display, there were the tapestries on the walls to examine, and the tempera paintings on and between the wooden beams of the ceiling. He never failed to find something new each time he looked, and had sometimes imagined that the pictures moved.

"Good afternoon," he said. Her chin was resting on her chest. He bent and tilted his head, the better to see her, and saw that her eyes were closed. He sat in the chair across from her and waited, unsure whether or not to wake her.

His problem was solved for him when she gave a sudden snore of sufficient volume to disturb her own rest. Her eyes fluttered open, started to close, then opened again as she saw him sitting in front of her.

"Good morning," he repeated. "How are you feeling today?"

She stared at him, her eyes cloudy.

Henry leaned forward and picked up one of her hands, dry and wrinkled, and as delicate as the wing of a bird. His thumb stroked across the back of her hand as he tried to look into her eyes, searching for some recognition. None came and he sighed, disappointed, and felt foolish for even hoping. He could not imagine what had prompted Elle to claim Lady Annalise had spoken to her, when it was evident that the woman was in no clearer a state of mind than she had been for years.

"If only you could see how confused I am, would you have some way of helping?" he asked her. Her eyes stayed on his face, as if she were listening.

"Marriage is proving a uniquely troublesome condition." He paused, thinking. "I am not inexperienced with women, so I know how irrational they are by their very nature. I was prepared for that." He turned his head and looked into the fire. "But Elle… I don't understand her at all. I have even wondered if she is quite as stable mentally as she should be."

He looked back at Lady Annalise and imagined he saw a shadow of disapproval pass over her features.

"She is a very unusual person, Great-grandmother. At times she seems quite intelligent. She has a sense of humor and has a sharp wit when arguing her point. On the other hand, to use her own words, she is ignorant on the most surprising of topics. At first I thought she was feigning ignorance, to annoy me and make me sorry I asked for this marriage. And now… I do not know."

"True, ignorance does not imply mental weakness," he countered against himself. "And she is also female, so her emotionality and inscrutability cannot be held against her. And certainly, I have no reason to believe myself an impartial judge of her behavior."

Henry released her hand and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and contemplating his situation. For some reason he could not understand, when it came to Elle he was incapable of the crystal objectivity he applied to all other matters. In the space of a week she had changed him from a man in control of his environment to one who frankly did not know which way was up.

He would not act yet. She was young. It had to be a frightening change for her, going from the safety of home to a new house, away from her family, and expected to play wife to a man she hardly knew. He would give her more time. If she settled down, fine and good. If her eccentricities showed a marked or troublesome increase, however… well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He felt a little better now that he had reached a decision, however provisional. He turned his attention back to his great-grandmother and the room around him, feeling the familiarity of it comfort him. He imagined it did the same for her, and any thought of moving her to another part of the house seemed cruel. If she no longer held memories in her own mind, then they were held for her here in this room. He would not take her away from them.

A door opened and Sally, Lady Annalise's waiting woman, came in bearing a tray.

"Your pardon, milord! I thought her ladyship was alone."

Henry rose and took the tray from her, setting it on the table next to his great-grandmother. "No apology necessary. Tell me, how has she been faring of late?"

"Same as always, milord."

"She has not… been talking at all?"

"She lets me know what she needs well enough, but I would not say she has been talking."

"Ah, well, I suppose it was too much to hope. And you, Sally? How are you doing? Do you need any extra help?"

"Oh, no, milord. Not at all." She looked alarmed at the prospect. "I would not have it any other way. I may be old, but I am still strong enough to look after her ladyship. I know her ways. She would not like someone new interfering with her things."

"We will be hiring new staff so if you change your mind, just let either Thomas or Abigail know."

"Thank you, milord."

Henry bent down and kissed Lady Annalise on the cheek. "Thank you for listening."

He straightened up. He would go find Elle. An afternoon's distance may have served to calm her down after this morning's events. It was unthinkable to go back to work, when she was somewhere in the house.

The door closed behind him, and the room was silent as his footsteps faded down the hall. When Henry was out of earshot, Sally spoke to her mistress. "Do you really think 'tis fair, what you are doing to him?"

Lady Annalise gave a knowing little smile.

Chapter Fifteen

The dirt road eventually led out of the woods to a small village on the edge of fields. Elle drew back on the reins, halting Belle at the end of the trees. She couldn't ride through that village, a woman riding bareback in men's clothing, a white dog alongside. She would be immediately noticed, and anyone looking for her might be able to find her before she had a real chance to escape.

She turned Belle back into the woods and retraced their steps to where a footpath led off into the forest. The book said that fairies preferred woodlands, and preferred hills. She had the proof of that from her own experience, and so it was that combination she sought.

The path grew narrower as they went, the undergrowth heavier. Tatiana took up a place behind her and followed in silence. Elle lost all sense of direction, and whenever the path forked, she allowed Belle to choose their way.

The woods grew dark as night approached, and still she had not come across a hill in the forest. Gentle rises and shallow depressions, yes, but nothing like the hill behind her apartment complex, or the hill near Eleanor's home. There had to be one here somewhere.

If she had to wander these woods for two days, she would. It had come to her this afternoon that there was still a way to reverse what she had done with Henry. If she could get home, she could make an emergency appointment with her gynecologist and get the morning-after pill. She wouldn't get pregnant. It was a thin thread of hope, but it was better than nothing.

It was getting hard to see the path. Rustling and crackling sounds in the woods that had not bothered her in the light of day began to play upon Elle's nerves, and her tension transmitted itself to Belle. The horse began to shy at waving branches and at the sudden call of an owl. It was dark enough that even if she came upon a hill, she might not see it.

She was considering the necessity of stopping for the night when a fuzzy dot of light appeared up ahead, bobbing through the air. She had read enough about will-o'-the-wisps to hope that this was one, no matter their reputation for leading one to an unfortunate end.

Elle could feel Belle's uneasiness about the wisp through her thighs. The mare's flesh fairly quivered with tension. She nudged the reluctant horse to a quicker pace, following the bobbing light, but when they came to a low-hanging branch that swayed across the path, the mare shied and would go no farther.

"C'mon, Belle, it won't hurt you," Elle tried to persuade her, patting her neck. "They're just leaves." She tried digging her heels into the mare's side, but Belle backed up, then sidestepped, her head jerking as she fought to turn around on the narrow path.

"Please, Belle, we'll lose the wisp." Still the horse struggled, snorting and pulling at the reins, and Elle began to worry she might not be able to control her mount.

The light bobbed back toward them, and Belle's ears flattened to her head. Elle was just beginning to hope that the wisp had come back to help when it flew past her and zapped itself against Belle's backside.

The horse became one enormous bunched muscle beneath her, and then Belle sprang forward, breaking through the overhanging leaves and charging down the path as if her tail were on fire. The wisp zipped on ahead, but while it went down one fork in the path, Belle chose another.

Elle clung to the mare's mane, flattening her body as the branches that overhung the path became lower and lower. She ducked her head and felt twigs drag across her scalp and down her back. They were not even on the path now. Belle raced through a portion of forest with mercifully little undergrowth, the ground rushing by beneath her frantic hooves.

Elle raised her head just in time to make out the dark shape of a tree limb. The next moment she was sprawled on the ground, the breath knocked out of her. After an agonizing minute of trying to gasp for air, her muscles obeyed and she breathed in the dank scent of the forest floor. She reached up and touched her forehead, but could feel no lump or cut skin. She could not tell where the limb had hit her, now that she had the bruises from the tumble to the ground to confuse her.

She sat up, and Tatiana came rushing out of the darkness, finally catching up to her mistress. Elle wrapped her arms around the dog, and rested with her face in the thick white fur. She had never been on a bolting horse before and needed comfort.

At last she raised her head and could see only variations of black and grey around her. There was no sign of Belle. She took off her makeshift pack and untied the scarves. The bowl had broken, and the small crock of honey had spilled its contents all over the book.

She wiped the book off as best she could on nearby foliage, then dumped the broken bowl and the crock, packing the rest back into the scarf. She stood, relieved to find that her legs still worked, for all that her thighs were damp with horse sweat and she felt bowlegged.

"Damn it, Tatiana, what am I supposed to do now?" The forest seemed a lot less friendly now that she was down on the ground and had only her own slow legs to rely upon. She stared into the darkness, trying to make out one direction that was more promising than another.

A small light bobbed into view.

"What do you think?" she asked the dog.

Tatiana panted. Elle shrugged and followed the light.

Henry pulled back the edge of the four-poster's drapery and frowned at the neatly made bed within. What the devil? Marianne had expressly told him that Elle was resting in her room and had asked not to be disturbed.

He looked around the bedchamber, as if it would tell him where his wife had gone off to. The room told him nothing.

He went and found Thomas, who had not seen her, and then Abigail.

"No, milord, but Betsy did say as how the countess had come to the kitchens some time ago."

"What did she want?"

"I do not know, milord."

He tracked down Betsy.

"Bread, milk, and honey, milord. And she wrapped it up in a scarf with a book, and looked as if she were going outside."

"An impromptu picnic, no doubt," he said, not believing it, and suspecting Betsy did not quite believe it either. He would not have the staff thinking his countess had run off if he could help it, but the tension in his gut was telling him that that was exactly what had happened.

He excused himself and made to the next logical place. The saddles were all in place in the tack room, but Belle was most definitely not in her stall. Bart, the stableboy, had seen Elle about an hour ago.

"She were looking at Belle, milord," the boy said. "And I went and mucked out some stalls. She were gone when I come back to the front here."

"And Belle?"

"I did not look, milord," the boy mumbled.

"Not to worry, Bart. She did not tell us she wanted to go riding again, is all."

The boy's glance slid to the sidesaddle hanging unused.

Dusk was creeping across the stable yard by the time Henry rode out on his own mount. He had briefly considered asking others to join in the search but had rejected the idea. He could not have a servant find her and know that she had deliberately run away—although he was beginning to think that hiding that fact was a futile endeavor. They must all be suspecting that something was seriously amiss.

He cantered down the road they had taken that morning, trying to put himself in Elle's mind and failing miserably. This made no logical sense. There was nowhere for her to go. Even if her former lover was out there, she must know she had little chance of reaching him traveling alone, bareback, and as far as he knew, penniless. She was not thinking clearly.

It was full dark when he emerged from the woods at the edge of the village of Brookhaven. An inner certainty told him that Elle would not have ridden through this hamlet, although he asked a farmer checking on his pigs anyhow.

"No, milord, not seen sight of a lady riding bareback, nor a white dog, neither, and sure it is that the missus would have told me if such a one had ridden through."

Henry thanked him and turned back to the forest, thinking as his horse trod carefully down the dark road, trying to ignore the worry that churned inside. She would not have ridden down the front drive, for fear of being seen, and would not have ridden overland for the same reason. She must have taken this road.

She was in the forest somewhere, on one of the paths that twisted through. He would never find her in the dark and could only hope she would be safe until morning. It had been stupid of him to come out here alone, without servants and torches. His thinking was as muddled as hers.

His horse suddenly whickered, to be answered by another in the trees to the left. There was a snapping of twigs, and then the dark shape of another horse spilled out onto the road.

Even in the faint light he could see that it was riderless. He rode close and snatched up the trailing reins. There was no saddle, either.

"Ah, Belle," he said, stroking the mare's neck. "What have you done with her, eh?" He tied the reins to the back of his saddle, new hope and new worries mingling in his mind. She might be close by. She might also be hurt.

He put his faith in his mount's eyesight, and turned down the narrow path that was no more than a shadowy break in the undergrowth.

Elle tripped, falling to her hands and knees. "Wait!" she called to the bobbing light. It seemed to hear her and bobbed in place while she dusted off her hands and pulled herself to her feet again. They were not on a path, and this was the second time she had tripped on roots or fallen branches. She should have paid more attention to the warnings about wisps.

"Are we almost there?"

The wisp moved off, and she plodded after.

She followed it through a dense tangle of brambles, thorns snagging her skin and clothes, and stumbled at last into a small grassy clearing. The ground was blessedly even beneath her feet, and in the center of the clearing grew a phosphorescent ring of mushrooms. The wisp bobbed above the center of it.

"A fairy ring," Elle said. "Of course."

She stepped into the center of it with Tatiana, and the moment they did the wisp vanished. "Wait! You can't go yet, I haven't had a chance to talk to you."

The wisp blinked on several feet outside the circle, and Elle moved to step out of the ring. She couldn't. Her palms tingled unpleasantly as she pressed against the invisible barrier. She sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged and trying to keep the panic from her voice.

"Okay, you want me to stay here. Fine. I've brought you snacks, though. Don't you want them?" She untied the scarves and took out the slightly flattened bread and the jug of milk. The book had said that fairies could not resist such temptations. "I had honey, too, but it spilled. Sorry."

The light bobbed closer, and Tatiana lept at it, jaw snapping.

"Tatia, no!"

The light bobbed to the edge of the clearing, and Elle reached after her dog, but the circle stopped her. her hand hitting that barrier.

"Here, girl." Tatiana stepped back within the ring. "Sit." Elle picked up Tatiana's paw and pressed it into the air above the mushrooms. It went through where her own hand could not. "Huh."

The light bobbed a little closer and lower, and Elle could almost feel it looking at the bread and milk. Then Tatiana barked, and the wisp zipped up into the air, into the branches overhead, and then became a meteor streaking across the forest ceiling and vanishing into darkness.

"Many thanks, Tatia," Elle grumbled. "Now what do we do, my wise friend?"

Tatiana lay down and put her nose between her paws. Elle wrapped her cloak around herself and snuggled up beside the dog. Tatiana had a point. There was nothing to do now but sleep and wait.

Henry smelled wood smoke, and coming around a bed in the path saw the source of it up ahead. A small fire burned off to the side of the path, and hunched beside it sat a weathered old man in a misshapen high-crowned hat. There was a patch over one eye, but the other was bright and friendly, looking up at Henry without the caution that one would expect from one lone man in the forest meeting another.

"Good evening," Henry said.

The man smiled, half his teeth missing, and gestured to his fire. "Come. Sit."

"I thank you, but regret that I cannot. I am searching for a woman lost in these woods. Have you seen her?"

"Ahh." The old man nodded and took a drink from the tin cup in his hand.

"You have seen her, then?" Henry asked, hope quickening.

"Drink?" The man offered his cup up to Henry.

Perhaps the man was some manner of simpleton. Henry dismounted and squatted down by the fire. The old man rummaged in his pack and brought out another cup and a jug, pouring out a generous portion and handing it to Henry.

"Thank you," Henry said, accepting. "The woman has a white dog with her. Has she passed by this way?"

The man tapped his finger at the corner of his good eye and nodded, then lifted his cup towards Henry before downing the contents.

Henry examined the contents of his cup—it was some dark liquid that smelled heavily of spices. He took a tentative sip, and his mouth filled with gentle warmth, his head becoming intoxicated with the scent of flowers. "Extraordinary," he murmured, and took a larger drink, losing his balance and falling back onto his rump on the ground.

He stared at the old man, then at the fire, watching the flames leap and fall as if they had been slowed by the hand of time. "Extraor…" he tried to comment again, but his tongue would not work in his mouth, and he forgot what he had been trying to say. He had never seen such fascinating flames.

His brain slowly began running again, and he shook his head to clear out the last vestiges of the wine. With a shock he saw that the fire was no more than ashes now, and there were birds singing to the dawn. The man had packed his things and was ready to leave.

"Green path," the man said, and pointed to a narrow swath of dense green grass leading into the forest. "Woman, dog."

"Thank you," Henry said and pulled himself to his feet, blinking around at the grey light of early morning. He could scarce believe he had spent the night drinking beside a fire while Elle was out alone in the forest.

The old man pointed to the grass again, nodded, then turned and hobbled down the regular path. He disappeared into the forest within a dozen steps.

Still slightly muddled. Henry led his mount and Belle down the narrow trail, the swath of grass no more than a few inches wide. His head was completely clear by the time he emerged into the small clearing.

Elle lay snuggled against her dog, asleep in the center of the clearing. Tatiana raised her head and gave a cheery woof. Elle raised her face from her arms, her eyes widening when she saw him.

"Henry!"

He dropped the reins and ran to her, knelt down and dragged her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. He had not known until this moment just how frightened for her he had been.

She began to struggle against him, and he reluctantly loosened his hold enough for her to lift her face from his chest.

"You'll get stuck, Henry. The ring!"

"Shh, you are safe now."

"The fairy ring, Henry! You've stepped into it."

He loosened his hold further, and she pulled away and pointed frantically at the circle of mushrooms around them. He followed the circle with his eyes, then lifted one of his knees to examine the crushed fungus underneath.

"Ooh, you've destroyed it," she said.

"Apparently so."

She reached her hand out over the mushrooms, then brought it back inside the ring and looked at him. He noticed the squished loaf of bread and the jug, and picked up the book, reading the title and then opening it to the dog-eared page in the middle. After a moment he looked up at her.

"You came out here to commune with fairies?"

She shrugged and looked down at her hands.

She had not been running away, was all he could think. She had not been trying to find an ex-lover. She had not been running from him. She had gone to the woods to talk to fairies, had been thrown from her horse and gotten lost, that was all.

He combed his fingers into her hair, cupping her head in his hands and turning her face up to his. "You silly, silly wench." He kissed her on the forehead, then moved his hands down to her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. "You have no idea of the fright you gave me. You should not ride out alone, even in the daylight, and most especially not without telling anyone where you have gone."

"I think I learned my lesson well enough."

He pulled her to her feet, then pushed aside her cloak. Those were his clothes she was wearing, smeared with dirt and marked with small spots of blood around the tears in the cloth.

"I didn't want to ride astride in a skirt," she explained sheepishly.

"Are you hurt?"

"Bruised, maybe. And scratched. That's all."

He heard the weary defeat in her voice and decided she had spoken the truth when she said she had learned her lesson well enough. There was no point in his belaboring the point. It could not have been pleasant to spend the night alone out here. He wanted to shake her, he wanted to hold her, but above all he did not want to upset her further. She was calm and coherent and unharmed, and for the moment that was enough.

Elle mounted Henry's horse at his insistence, as he took the saddleless Belle. She watched him, looking for more anger than the little he had shown. All she could see was relief and concern, and he had not even bothered to question her on why she had wanted to talk to the fairies. In fact, he was ignoring the fairy issue completely. It was quite peculiar.

This night she had learned that the fairies would not willingly bring her home. She would have to accept that, for now.

Later, she would find a way to force them to give her what she wanted.

Chapter Sixteen

Elle surveyed the conglomeration of animal parts, food items, and noxious potions that she had accumulated on the table in her dressing room. She had sheep intestines, she had bits of leather, she had vinegar and oil, lard, assorted herbs, a lemon, scraps of cloth, metal rings, flour, bread, a needle and thread, a half-empty bottle of what might or might not be gin, and several dusty bottles of unknown, oily substances.

She had asked Marianne to arrange to have the worktable brought in here, and the pot of water put over the fire. It had also required Marianne's help to lay her hands upon the majority of the items. Elle had been a coward and had the maid go ask the gardener for the lemon: She did not feel up to the stress of dealing with the crotchety man herself.

"Will there be anything else you will be needing?" Marianne asked, her brows beetling in perplexity. Elle knew she was having a hard time making heads or tails of her mistress's behavior. Henry had told the staff that she'd been lost in the woods overnight and left it at that. His mask of composure back in place, no one had dared to ask the dozens of questions that begged an answer. Marianne, Elle was sure, was fairly bursting with curiosity.

"No, I think this should do it. I'll call for you if I think of something else. You've done a wonderful job." Elle gently steered the woman towards the door of her dressing room.

"Are you sure you do not need any help?"

"Quite sure. I need to do this alone."

Marianne started to walk through the bedroom, then stopped abruptly, turning around for one last try. "You know I am good with my hands, milady. I like to help, truly I do, and if it is something private you are doing—well, I can keep quiet. A lady's maid knows how to hold her tongue."

Elle seriously doubted the veracity of that last statement. Marianne liked nothing better than to hear the sound of her own voice. She hadn't told Marianne what she wanted with her odd assortment of items and had no intention of doing so.

"I know you can be trusted, Marianne. You know what you could do, that would be a big help, though?"

"What, milady?" She was all eagerness to be involved.

"Take my dresses and let out the bodice seams. I know it's a big job and may take quite a bit of time. Do you think you can handle it?"

"You want them made bigger?"

"Yes, I do."

A slow smile spread across Marianne's face, puzzling Elle. She'd never known a woman so glad to be given a tiresome task.

"I shall start at once, milady!" Marianne headed back to the dressing room and opened several drawers in the clothespress, taking out dresses and draping them over her left arm. "I will leave you now, and let you get on with your, ah, business." With a radiant smile, she trotted from the room, her arms weighed down by the heavy gowns.

Elle followed her through the bedroom, then locked the door behind her. What was that all about? She returned to the dressing room, patting her thigh and calling to Tatiana as she went. "Come, Tatia. Come help me think."

The dog rose from her place by the fire, picking up the bone she had been ignoring and carrying it with her to the other room. She dropped it with a clatter on the wood floor of the dressing room and went to lift her nose to the table, sniffing at the new and intriguing smells.

"What I wouldn't give to be in your paws," Elle said, standing beside her and rubbing the back of a dog ear with her fingers. "You haven't a worry in the world, when it comes to the opposite sex. No naughty he-dog is going to fill you with puppies, no matter how he tries, is he?"

Elle squatted down and let the Samoyed lick her cheek, then pressed her forehead against the dog's, staring into the dark brown eyes. "You don't know how lucky you are, dearest. Truly, you don't."

She stood back up, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed the items before her. It didn't look promising. In fact, it looked downright unhygienic. Nonetheless, there had been only one thought that had filled her mind during the ride back to the house and the long bath that followed: birth control.

There might be methods currently available. She didn't know. Whatever they were, though, she had no idea how to get her hands on them, and she was highly doubtful that they would prove either safe or effective.

No, there was only one way to approach the matter. She must develop a method of her own, utilizing every bit of medical knowledge a health-conscious woman of the '90s had gleaned from her gynecologist, the television, contraceptive boxes at the drugstore, and that holiest of sources for sexual information, Cosmopolitan magazine.

She didn't know how long it would be before she could find a way back home. In the meantime, she needed protection.

She poked a fingertip at the length of clean sheep's intestine, grimacing at the slimy texture. Weren't some condoms made of animal membranes? They made sausage casings out of the stuff, so there must be a way of transforming the glistening mass into a sanitary condom.

Boiling sounded like a good start.

She cut the gut into foot-long pieces, then dumped the lot into the pot over the fire. The water was only steaming. She'd let it get to a rolling boil, then wait a good thirty minutes before removing her specimens. That ought to be long enough to wipe out any bacteria still hanging around.

She returned to the table, wiping her hands on the apron tied round her waist, and it suddenly dawned on her why Marianne had smiled so mysteriously. "Tatiana!" The dog lifted her head from her paws, brown eyes attentive. "She thinks I'm pregnant! Or that I intend to be soon, one or the other, silly wench."

Elle snorted at the thought, and picked up a scrap of leather and a metal ring a couple inches in diameter. Could she make a diaphragm out of these? She wondered if the metal would rust, and if the porous leather would become a breeding ground for bacteria. She discarded the items. She wouldn't risk it.

She picked up the lemon, considering. It was smaller than those she was familiar with, but it might work. She took a knife and cut it in half, then scooped out the insides with a small spoon, saving the pulp in a bowl. She peeled all the section skins out of the rind, until she had a clean little lemon rind bowl in her hand. Would it work as a sort of cervical cap? She'd need some sort of jelly or paste to seal it in place and act as a spermicide. Perhaps something in the assorted bottles might work.

She looked again at the lemon pulp in the bowl. Dim memories of science classes and lectures on pH levels came to mind. Lemon juice might be sufficiently acidic to act as a spermicide.

She began mixing oil with lemon, then sprinkled in some flour when the lemon and oil kept separating. She put a blob of lard in a new bowl and mashed both vinegar and lemon into it.

A microscope would have been a big help. And a semen sample, to test against her potions. She gave Tatiana a crooked smile. "Do you think he'd be willing to donate for the cause of science?"

She mashed the lard blob with a bit more viciousness at the thought of Henry and poured in a dollop of the gin. When it still didn't blend, she sprinkled in flour until it started to hold together. The resulting mess made her wrinkle her face in disgust. "There is no way on God's green earth that I'm putting this anywhere near my private parts."

Thinking of Henry had darkened her mood. She couldn't blame him for anything that had happened: She had shamefully vivid recollections of exactly how she herself had instigated the sexual incident. While she in no way blamed him, the thought of facing him across a mattress made her stomach flutter in embarrassment. He would be expecting the eager nymph of the woods, and that was not who she was.

She brought the bowl up to her nose and sniffed. Her eyes watered. She put it on the floor and watched Tatiana shy away from the strong smell.

The pot of intestines over the fire was making happy bubbling sounds, and she went to check it. She used a long fork to fish out an intestine and got a quick glance at it before it slithered off the prongs and back into the water, making a little splash. The white shapes roiled in the water, looking for all the world like a mass of squirming eels.

Her feelings about yesterday were still as confused as that tangle in the pot. Never in her life had she been so uninhibited. It had been wonderful in the moment, she could not deny that, but when she had come back to herself, she had been deeply embarrassed. She had often fantasized about losing her self-consciousness during sex and acting out wild and crazy scenarios, and someday she wanted to find a man she could trust deeply enough to show that side of herself.

What she had never wanted was to achieve that freedom through alcohol or, unbelievable thought, fairy dust sprinkled on her face. That had been her cavorting in the ferns, yes, but only half of her. She didn't want that freedom unless the relationship had earned it, and she could take part with her whole self. She didn't know how she was going to convince Henry he needed to go slowly with her.

She went back to the table and rested her fists on her hips, frowning at her ingredients. She picked up the piece of linen, rubbing it between her fingers. She could make it waterproof with the lard or the oil, and sew it into a sheath. Would Henry agree to wear it? Considering the protests twentieth-century males were known to put up against a bit of transparent latex, it seemed unlikely. Nor could she say she'd find it particularly comfortable on her end of things.

She picked up the lemon rind again, spinning it on top of one finger, thinking. There had to be some simple, effective means of birth control, didn't there? Well, besides for abstinence. Her mind touched upon the possibility that all this came too late, that she might already be pregnant, then skittered away from the thought.

There was no use scaring herself, when the odds were on her side. It was only while submerged in the calming waters of her bath that she had been able to recall an encouraging statistic. With one instance of unprotected sex, she had an eighty-five percent chance of not getting pregnant. She clung to that statistic, praying it was true, and that luck was on her side.

There was no point in worrying herself sick about something she could do nothing about. What she could do, and what this lemon rind might help her do, was to make sure she didn't have to spend sleepless nights thinking about the possibility.

She put the rind down, and picked up the bread, absently squishing the soft center between her fingers. Her last period had been how long ago? It was hard to remember. Time seemed distorted by all that had happened, and heaven only knew what sort of effect a two-hundred-year time-zone change had on a body.

The best she could figure, her period was due in about another week, which brought up a whole other issue: What did women in the eighteenth century use? History courses never covered the interesting bits of information, the types of things she would have remembered.

She looked at the bread in her fingers, then pulled a fresh piece from the loaf and wadded it loosely into the lemon rind. She poured vinegar into the cup, softening the bread. Would that work, to seal it in place? She stuck her finger into the bread and moved it, and watched the bread disintegrate.

She dropped the rind to the table in exasperation and ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. Food items were not proving helpful, and the more she thought about them, the more nauseated she became.

She went back to the pot and used a rag to lift it off the hook and set in on the hearth. With her fork she poked and prodded at the pieces of intestine, and managed to wind them around it and pull several of the fragments from the water. She let them hang and drip for a minute, like overlarge spaghetti noodles, then gingerly touched one. Boiling had toughened it. It was no longer as supple and elastic as it had been before its trial by water. Not nearly as slimy, either, but that was of no particular help.

Elle sighed. It would probably rip now, the way sausage skins easily tore after cooking. She shouldn't have boiled them. They gave a wet little squish as they slithered off the fork and landed in a pile on the hearth, where they sat, steaming malevolently at her.

She dropped down into the chair to one side of the fire to slouch and think. The miserable stays gave her a poke under the arm. She had once thought control-top pantyhose were the worst that could be inflicted upon a female in the name of fashion, but oh. how wrong she had been.

Tatiana sauntered over to the cooling entrails and sniffed uncertainly.

The attempt to make a condom had failed, the diaphragm was a no-go, lemon juice might prove an effective spermicide, but she had no means to keep it in place, and while a cervical cap was a possibility, she did not know how to devise a jelly. Outside help was the one thing she was determined to avoid. Henry himself had explained that the primary purpose of a countess was to provide little earls. At this point in their marriage, she assumed it would be scandalous if it were known she were trying to prevent such an occurrence.

She crossed her legs and jiggled one foot in the air, her shoe hanging off her toes. That left abstinence, the rhythm method, and withdrawal. Abstinence had already failed. She could hardly hope to put Henry off now that she had been the one to instigate sex, and she couldn't even trust that she wouldn't do it again, no matter how badly pregnancy scared her and how unwilling she was to bring sex into a week-old relationship she had no intention of continuing if she could find a way home.

The rhythm method could be employed, but the size of devout Catholic families attested to its high-failure rate. It might help her odds, though.

And then there was withdrawal. Again, imperfect.

The shoe fell off her toes and hit the floor with a loud thunk. Tatiana barked in surprise, searching the room for intruders.

Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. She dropped her head back onto the wooden top of the chair and stared at the ceiling. Her stockinged foot rolled the discarded shoe back and forth under her sole. And she had to worry about her period, too. That crude phrase "on the rag" may have had literal beginnings.

Elle's nostrils flared and her mouth turned down at the edges in repugnance. It was too miserable to contemplate the chafing and messiness that such a means would present.

A piece of advice on the topic from a travel book suddenly came to mind, and she sat up straight, her eyes opening wide at the possibilities it presented. She jerked her head over her shoulder, staring at the copper tub that sat empty and waiting for her next bath, the rack over its middle holding soap and a sea sponge.

Her roommate in college, Sarah, had been preparing for a summer traveling in Europe. One of her travel books had a section called "Advice for Women."

"My god, listen to this!" Sarah had squealed from her bed, where she was lying on her stomach reading. "They suggest using a sea sponge instead of tampons. They say you can rinse it in a sink and reuse it. I'm so sure! A sea sponge? I don't think so."

Elle didn't bother to put her shoe back on. She stood and hobbled over to the tub, picking up the sponge and turning it over and over in her hands. Cut into the right size pieces and soaked in lemon juice… it could be a contraceptive sponge. Maybe not one hundred percent effective alone, but if she charted her cycle and avoided sex for a few days around ovulation… it might work. It really might.

Relief flooded through her, making her knees weak. She sat on the edge of the tub, looking at the sponge in her hands. She had done it. She had the means to protect herself from pregnancy. If she truly wished to sleep with Henry, with proper planning, she could.

"What's that smell?" Henry asked from behind her. "Vinegar?"

The sponge flew into the air and Elle jumped, almost falling off the edge of the tub. "God, you scared me half to death! What are you doing in here? How'd you get in?" She stood up and smoothed down her skirt, then tucked stray wisps of hair behind her ears.

"I came through my dressing room. What is all this?" He looked curiously at the array on the table, then met her eyes.

She stared dumbly back at him, like a child caught in a forbidden act. "Huh?" she said.

"What are you up to in here? Are you making something?"

"It's… uh… not finished yet."

"Oh?" He arched one eyebrow, and waited for more. He felt something hit his foot and looked down. Something white and wet was draped across his shoe. The dog panted up at him. He lifted his foot and shook the limp piece of matter onto the floor.

"Good God, what is that?"

"Errr…"

He nudged it with his toe, and it made little squishy sounds. Tatiana cocked her head to one side, watching.

"Elle?"

"I believe it's a sheep's intestine."

He stopped squishing the thing and looked at her. "Sheep intestine? What on earth are you doing with sheep intestine? You're not trying to make sausages up here, are you?"

"I don't know how to make sausages."

Tatiana picked up the rejected gut and carried it over to the hearth, where she lay down near the soggy pile of cooked innards. She held the end between her paws and began chewing it, pulling and shredding like a child with taffy.

"Then what is it for?"

Elle looked at him for a long moment before speaking. "I was trying to devise an effective means of birth control. The gut was going to be for you to wear, so I wouldn't get pregnant."

He looked over at the hearth, where Tatiana was happily devouring the erstwhile condoms, and winced. "I hope you failed?"

"No, actually I think I've found a semiacceptable solution. It involves a sponge cut into the correct size and the addition of freshly squeezed lemon juice—"

"Elle," he cut her off. "Do you think we could talk about this?" He took her by the elbow and steered her into her bedroom before she could answer, shoving her down into the chair before the fire. He remained standing, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. Could she not go half a day without a ludicrous new scheme?

"First off, where did you get such ideas? How do you even know anything about condoms?"

"You know that word?"

"Where did you learn about them?"

"What are they made of?"

"Elle, please answer me. Where did you learn about these things?"

"It wasn't from a man, if that's what you're worried about. Women have been known to discuss these things amongst themselves, you know."

"Am I to believe it was your sister or your mother, and not the man who took your virginity?"

"Do you use condoms? Do you have some? Can I see them?"

"Elle!" He felt his cheeks heating. By god, she had managed to embarrass him. "Stop trying to change the topic. This is most irregular, and it is quite inappropriate for you to be asking such questions."

"On the contrary, it seems entirely appropriate."

"And it is even less appropriate that you should have been attempting to devise such an item from foodstuffs in your dressing room." He paused a moment, then realization hit him, along with a wave of hot anger. "And why the hell would you want to keep my child from growing in your womb?"

He loomed over her, fists on hips, infuriated by the implications of what she had been doing. "You claim to know nothing about being a countess, but the one task as my wife that requires no wit to accomplish, you set your wits to defeating. I have not asked much of you, Elle. Is it such a burden that I ask you to let nature take its course in this one instance? Is it too selfish of me to ask that you fulfill your basic function as a mother?"

"Enough!" She bolted out of her chair to glare up at him. "It is not my duty to bear children! I will have children only if and when I desire them!"

"Is that the way the merchant class thinks, then? Is that what your mother taught you? Well, things are different here, Countess. You will bear an heir, several if you are healthy enough to do so, and you will bear them as quickly as I can place them in your belly."

"I am not one of your sheep, Henry. I can't be bred year after year."

"You can be and will."

"It's inhuman. It's barbaric. I refuse to be reduced to a breeding machine. I am worth more than the number of offspring I produce."

"You make motherhood sound like prostitution."

"No, I don't make it sound like that. You do, when you make it clear that the price I must pay for my place in this household is the sacrifice of my body to your purposes."

"What sacrifice? I am speaking of motherhood."

"Henry, in case it has escaped your notice, bearing a child is neither as easy nor as much fun as creating one. It's dangerous, and painful, and there are risks involved."

"You are a strong, healthy young woman…"

"Henry, my grandmother died giving birth. My aunt died of toxemia during pregnancy. My mother died of complications after a miscarriage when I was twelve years old." Tears were in her eyes, and her voice rose an octave as she continued. "They were strong, healthy young women, too. Do you think I want to risk that? Do you think it's worth it to me, to risk my life getting pregnant to please a man I hardly know, just because he thinks it's my duty?"

"But your mother is alive…"

"Mrs. Moore is not my mother!"

"She is your stepmother? I did not know."

"She's nothing to me! This isn't about her; it's about me. Have I gotten through to you? I do not want to get pregnant, and I will do whatever I can to prevent it from happening. Maybe someday I'll be willing to try, but not now. Not today and not tomorrow. I just can't."

He stared at her red-eyed, furious face, tears streaking down her cheeks. He saw terror there, under the furor. He had never understood a person as little as he did her at that moment.

"Do you still think it was worth it?" she asked more softly. "Marrying me? Was the money worth a wife who may be unwilling to give you children, or who will most likely die in the process?"

She looked into his eyes, searching them for a response he was unable yet to give. She turned away and went to the bed, her back to him, leaning against a post, her arms folded around her as if she could protect herself from her own fears.

The floorboards creaked under his weight as he approached her, and he saw her duck her head lower, tensing. He paused behind her, raising his hand to touch her, then he let it drop again and walked past her to the dressing room.

He stopped in the doorway and spoke quietly. "I will leave you alone. We will discuss this later." He did not know what else to say, did not know what he felt, and so he turned again and left her, the image of her huddling alone beside her bed tearing at his heart.

Chapter Seventeen

Elle took dinner in her own room, picking at the greasy meat dishes with less than her usual tolerance for such fare. She was now intimately acquainted with English puddings, which she used to assume were just like the chocolate and butterscotch Jell-O varieties at home. English puddings, however, were more like cooked pancake batter, served with meat and gravy, and she was heartily sick of the things.

What she wouldn't give for a pizza or fajitas, or even for some vegetables that had not been boiled to oblivion and drowned in a pool of melted butter. Steamed broccoli danced through her mind, taking on alluring qualities it had never before held. A bowl of tomato soup appeared in her imagination and a small stack of cheese sandwiches. Rice Krispie treats. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It had been years since she'd had one, but they suddenly sounded irresistable.

Her room was dark, even with several candles burning and the fire in the grate. The windows cast back flickers of light from their uneven surfaces, but beyond them all was darkness. The only sounds were the clink of her fork and knife on the plate, and the crackle of the fire. The quiet rang in her ears, hummed in her blood.

She gave up on the dinner and pushed back from the small table. The food was sitting heavily in her stomach, her tension doing nothing to help her digestion. She did not know what Henry's eventual response would be to her determination to avoid conception, and the longer she kept herself alone, in voluntary seclusion, the more her imagination produced unhappy scenarios.

After she had calmed down yesterday, her practical side had once again asserted itself, prodding her with uncomfortable truths. As her husband. Henry could probably do whatever he wished to her, short of killing her. She couldn't imagine him becoming violent with her, and for the most part he had been astonishingly patient with her oddities, but everyone had their breaking point—and like he'd said, this was the one duty a countess was absolutely required to perform.

The wish she made on the coupon came back to taunt her. She had her civil husband who did not expect love, and she had her big house. Her wish had come true, and here she was, alone in a poorly lit room, worried sick. The ring on her finger looked more like a golden shackle than a comforting pledge of protection and security.

A brief knock came on her door.

She looked up, half dreading, half hoping. "Come in."

The door opened and Marianne came in, followed by two maids, who set about clearing the table. Elle went and stood by the fire, waiting for her heart to slow again.

She heard the click of the latch, and turned to see that the maids had left. Marianne was humming happily under her breath, moving about in the nightly routine that already felt familiar to Elle, turning down the bedcovers and tidying the room. When a knock came again, Marianne went to let in the maids who appeared in the shadowed doorway, buckets of heated water in their hands.

Several minutes later, Elle was standing in her dressing room, letting Marianne tug loose the ties of her gown and corset.

"Did Henry ask after me?" she finally asked.

"Yes, milady, when you didn't appear for dinner. I told him you had a headache and would not be down."

Elle didn't reply. What had she expected, that he would come and check on her? He had probably rightly assumed that she was hiding from him, as she had been for more than a day now.

She stepped into the tub and sank down into the warm, scented water. The warmth of the fire heated only one side of her, turning her pink, while the other side felt the chill of air on damp skin.

The fire crackled, glowing orange in the dim room, its flames sending shadows dancing on the ceiling. The water splashed with the movements of her arms, as she lifted the sponge and soap and reached for knees and feet. Marianne's heeled shoes made erratic beats on the floor. She was beginning to feel that she had lived this way all her life. The antiseptic whiteness of her apartment bathroom seemed a million miles away.

Marianne poured the last rinse of water over Elle's hair, and Elle rose, accepting the sheet of toweling from the maid without embarrassment over her own nakedness. She had already grown accustomed to Marianne's presence during such times.

The warm bath had relaxed her. She slipped on the clean shift Marianne held out for her, then sat by the fire untangling her hair as the maids returned and drained the tub through the spigot at the base.

"Thank you. That'll be all, Marianne. Go on to bed."

"Is your headache any better, milady?"

"Yes, much. Don't worry about me. I'll be perfectly fine."

She pulled her chair a little closer to the fire, propping her bare feet up on a footstool and feeling the delicious pain of the intense heat on her soles. She stared into the flames, absently combing through the last of the tangles in the heavy wet hair that lay across her breast.

A floorboard creaked loudly from behind the door to Henry's dressing room. Her eyes flicked to the doorknob, watching its levered handle to see if it would move. She sat up straight and put her feet on the floor. Her fingers rested motionless in her hair.

The floor creaked again, more softly, and she discerned muffled footsteps. She waited. More time, more faint noises. Her ears strained, waiting to hear him come to her door, and then, almost inaudibly, she heard the click of a door latch and then silence. He had left the room. She felt a crushing disappointment.

She stood up, staring at the closed door. She stepped over to it and put her hand lightly on the latch, and then her hand as if of its own volition opened the door.

The room was black but for the coals of the fire, burning too low to cast light upon the room. A faint line of light seeped from under the door across the room. It was cooler in here, and smelled faintly of the soap and cologne she associated with his skin.

She crossed the room to his bedroom door, where she stopped, listening. She could hear no one moving within. She didn't examine why she was doing this and didn't even try to stop herself. Quietly and carefully she turned the latch, waited, then eased the door open a crack.

His room was even more bare than her own. There was a chair by the fire that looked like an allwood version of a wing-back chair, devoid of cushions; there was the bed, immense and shadowed by dark hangings; and there was a small table beside the bed, where a candle burned. The walls were of dark panelling, soaking up what little light there was, and the deep windows were hung with open curtains that looked black in the dim light.

She stepped inside, looking curiously at his meager furnishings. She had not been in his room before and was a little surprised that he paid so little heed to his own comfort. She looked at the bed hangings, touching them with her fingertips. They were heavily embroidered with animals and vegetation, but there were jagged rips in them, where the threads had given way. In the full light of day they were probably a sorry sight.

"They were made for Queen Elizabeth's visit to Brookhaven, two hundred years ago."

Elle caught her breath and turned to the sound of Henry's voice. She could make out only shadows by the windows, until one of those shadows moved and came towards her in the shape of a man.

" 'Tis nigh a miracle they have survived as long as they have," he continued, stopping a couple feet from her and touching the draperies. "Half of the house that was here then was destroyed in a fire: These hangings were amongst the few things saved." The fire sent flickers of orange reflecting in his dark eyes, as his finger traced the outline of an embroidered stag. Elle stood motionless, as if she were a deer transfixed by that light.

"Brookhaven has been the seat of the earls of Allsbrook for over three hundred years. The Trevelyan family can trace its roots back until at least the twelfth century. The line of descent is unbroken, and the estate has never left our hands. Do you realize how remarkable that is?" He turned his fire-glazed eyes to her.

"I can barely trace my family three generations, and our name was made up by my grandparents. They thought their real name was too difficult to pronounce in English."

"Then perhaps it is foolish of me to hope that you can understand." He stared into the dark for a moment. "It is as if I, and the efforts I make to preserve my home and continue the line, are but a page in a book. No more important than what has come before, but still necessary for the continuation of the story. I have lived my life knowing that there would be pages after my own: many pages. It has been my comfort and a source of strength."

"Then I envy you that. My page has been torn free and is blown by the wind. Not that it was much of a book to begin with."

He turned to her, meeting her eyes with his own, which were dark and compelling. "Elle, when we married you became a part of that book that is my heritage. Our children—and our children's children—will continue on long after we are gone. A hundred years from now, a young boy will walk the gallery of portraits of his ancestors, searching out his face in those that came before. He may have eyes the color of the forest, and he will pause before your portrait, seeing that you are the source of those eyes. His father will tell him who you were and tell stories about you that have become a part of the family history."

An unbidden image came to her, of the line of Henry's ancestors stretching behind the two of them, and another line, equally long, of descendents stretching before them, the two lines meeting at she and Henry, as if they were trapped between two mirrors, reflecting each other into eternity.

"Where I come from," she said, "the future is one of uncertainty. I may know what today looks like, but tomorrow will be different. What was here will be gone, something new replacing it. No one lives in the same place for more than a few years, and families are scattered. Permanence exists only in fantasy. Where I come from, we are all loose sheets of paper, tossed and blown. There is no immortality through family for us."

He touched her cheek. "It sounds frightening."

"And your world sounds confining."

He sighed and dropped his hand, then moved to the wooden chair and sat, slouching down slightly, his legs stretched in front of him. He was wearing the robe he had worn on their wedding night, and it parted to reveal one knee and part of his thigh, lightly shadowed with black hair.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, and there was neither impatience nor exasperation in his voice.

She sank to the floor between the fire and his legs, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Be patient, get to know me, let me do as I wish."

He laughed without humor. "And what do I get in return?"

"I'll be patient, get to know you, and let you do as you wish."

"That is not exactly what I had in mind. Unless, of course, doing as I wish includes this," he said, and leant forward, his fingers sliding into her damp hair, cupping the back of her head and bringing her towards him. The kiss was slow and gentle, his lips languorous on her own. Her eyes closed and random, colored images played across her vision. She was lost in the sensation of his mouth on her own, the warmth and strength of his hand, the press of his leg against her arm, and the feel of his own silky hair when she reached up and touched it.

He ended the kiss long before she was ready and drew away from her, his fingers tracing a light trail across her face as he sat back. "Why did you come in here?"

She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. "I heard you in your dressing room."

"You thought I had gone."

"I wasn't sure."

"Have you changed your mind about what we discussed?"

Elle gave him a sharp glance from under her brows.

"Ah, well, I thought not. What was it, then, that made you come?"

Her hand gestured vaguely in the air, her glance skipping from his shoulder to his chin, to the back of his chair, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know. Curiosity? Boredom?" Loneliness? she added silently. She met his gaze. "Sometimes an argument can be as much of a bond as anything else. I was tired of wondering what you were thinking."

His mouth tugged into a small sardonic smile. "I had not believed my thoughts mattered to you."

"Don't let it go to your head. I don't like feeling that someone is upset with me, or that they've misunderstood me, that's all. And we are married, so it's not like I could count on either you or the problem to go away."

"That is a practical view to take."

"I'm not often impractical, not that my recent behavior would show it. Your company seems to bring out the worst in me."

He laughed. "It is an affliction that we share."

"You're not angry with me, about the children thing?"

"Frustrated, perhaps. Angry with the situation and with your fears, but I cannot blame you for having them, and perhaps I am relieved that you explained yourself to me. I had never considered the situation from the woman's point of view."

"It's not that I don't ever want to have children. I'm just not ready yet to take the risk."

"And when will you be?"

"I don't know."

"Elle… I will try to be patient, but in this matter there are limits. Eventually, you will have no choice. If you cannot master your fears on your own, then at some point we will have to proceed despite them."

Anger born of fear sprang up within her, and she bit it down. She knew it was there because she was helpless. "I am willing to share your bed on occasion if I can use the method I tried to tell you about, the one with the sponges. How much time will you give me before we try for children?"

He looked at her, and she could sense the considerations he weighed in his mind. "Six months."

"Two years."

"That is completely unacceptable. Nine months."

"A year and a half."

"Impossible. One year. No more."

"One year," she repeated. A lot could happen in a year. She could even hope that a way home would reveal itself in that time. If not that, perhaps by then she would know enough about this world to escape her marriage and live on her own terms. Or maybe she would be so unhappy that she wouldn't care if she died in childbed. "I can accept that."

"And in the meantime, you will share my bed every night."

Her lips parted in protest.

"We will take the precautions that you are so set upon. For one year."

"But every night! It's far too risky." It was not just pregnancy she was thinking of now. She might grow close to him if she spent every night pressed against his body. God, she might risk falling for him, and that could only end badly. Either she would go home and miss him, or she would be stuck here and have her feelings unrequited.

"Come, Elle, you cannot have everything your way. You cannot tell me that you are too shy to share my bed." He looked at her knowingly, and she felt the color rise in her cheeks.

"I'm not set up to sleep with you, not yet. I have to get my materials in order, cut up the sponges, squeeze lemons, count the days of my cycle…"

"There's more than one way to make love to a woman." He cocked his head to one side and rubbed the small of her back with the toe of his foot. She sat up straight and tried in vain to avoid the toe.

"Don't!"

He chuckled and dropped his foot back onto the ground. Before she could relax, he had his hands under her arms and was hauling her up into his lap. She sat as stiffly as she could on his thighs, trying to ignore the ridge of flesh that pressed against the side of her buttock. He pulled her closer to his chest with one arm, the other resting across her belly, the hand cupping her breast. He pressed his nose into the hair just behind her ear, and she squirmed as his tongue drew a line across her flesh.

His hand kneaded her breast, the thumb stroking gently over her nipple, and to her embarrassment, she felt a tingle and contraction in her loins. She didn't want him to know he could arouse her so easily—she didn't want him to know she was so vulnerable to his touch.

"Stop it," she said, not as firmly as she had hoped. She covered the hand on her breast with her own.

"I do not think you want me to," he breathed into her ear and licked her again. She raised her shoulder to her ear, trying to squeeze him away from her.

"This can only lead to trouble," she pronounced primly, leaning away from him.

In answer he stood, lifting her easily in his arms. "Yes, but trouble for whom? I think you are afraid of your own reactions, my dear."

The room swayed around her as he turned and strode to the bed, her legs dangling over one arm. "No, I'm afraid that you'll get carried away," she protested. He lowered her into the bed, the covers already turned down. He shrugged out of his robe and joined her before she could think to move. His heavy arm pinned her to the mattress. He rose up on his other elbow, looking down at her.

"Now that is an eminently reasonable fear." His hand crept up and played with her nipple through the cloth of her shift, and his face, barely visible now that the candle had burned out, took on a devilish cast. "However, I beg the chance to prove that it is yourself you fear more than the advances of your humble husband."

"I really think I should sleep in my own bed tonight."

"I suspect that what you think you should do and what you want to do are two very different things."

"And what would you know about it?"

He let his hand glide down over the swells and indentations of her body, then stroke lightly over her belly. She felt shivers race over her skin, and her eyes gave a slow blink in reaction to the pleasure. "I know that, contrary to what you pretend, you enjoy my touch."

"Maybe," she grudgingly admitted, as his hand moved to her thighs, brushing lightly at where they joined before moving down her legs. He kissed her, his lips gentle against hers, asking rather than demanding. She responded to the request, her hand coming up behind his head, holding him more firmly against her, her lips seeking pleasure from his own. It was just kissing, she told herself. Surely harmless.

He raised his mouth from hers, smiling. "I will not annoy you with my slavering, lustful behavior. Unless you ask me to."

She felt his hand pull up her nightgown, his warm palm sliding up her skin. She let her thighs relax and fall slightly away from each other, opening herself to him in a subtle invitation. A few inches more, please… she silently coaxed him. His thumb skimmed lightly over her, then his hand moved on, cupping her hip and then her waist.

She wanted him to touch her there. She knew it, but did not want to say it. Instead, she took hold of his hand and moved it to where she wanted it, closing her eyes and turning her face into his shoulder as she did.

He put his mouth to her exposed neck, kissing his way up to her earlobe, then softly pushed his fingers through the curls of hair over her womanhood. He spread his fingers in a vee around her inner folds, gently massaging up and down. "Is this what you want?" he whispered in her ear.

She nodded against him.

"Tell me."

"Yes," she said.

His fingers slid lower, dipping inside her, then using her own wetness for lubrication. It was just petting, she told herself. She had done as much in high school. Harmless. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers, hungry for him now. She felt the ache of emptiness inside and pushed her hips against his hand.

He broke away from their kiss. "Tell me what you want."

She tried to bring him back down to her mouth, but he resisted. "Tell me."

"More. I want more." She wanted to be naked against him, without the nightgown niched about her waist. She wanted to feel his hips spreading her legs wide. She wanted him to take her without asking. She wanted the wantoness of the forest joining. But she knew she should not have any of that now.

He seemed to understand something of what she meant, though, and his mouth on hers was harder, pushing beyond leisured seduction. He plunged one finger deep inside her, stroking within as his thumb stroked her without.

She turned from his kiss as she built to her climax, pressing her cheek to his, her arms holding him tightly against her, and then the shuddering waves came, and she clenched her thighs around his hand, to keep him from moving.

When she had relaxed, he slowly withdrew his hand and pulled her nightgown down, then brought the covers up over them both. He kissed her damp brow and turned her on her side, fitting her backside against him. She could feel his arousal pressed against her, but felt strangely certain that he would not seek his own satisfaction tonight.

She took his hand and held it between her own against her breasts, snuggling into his hold. "Thank you," she said softly.

"My dear, for this there are never thanks necessary. The giving is as much a pleasure as the receiving."

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertips, then settled it back between her breasts. No man in her limited experience had ever given without expecting repayment the same night.

"All the same, I thank you."

He chuckled softly behind her, and she slept.

Chapter Eighteen

Another day, another battle with her clothing. A sigh escaped Elle at the thought of the time, effort, and discomfort it would require for her to get dressed. She could remember days when she had thought it was asking too much for her to match leggings with a suitable sweater.

There was nothing to do but submit.

Forty minutes later she was prepared to meet the day, in a dark green gown that was looser fitting than it had been two days ago. Marianne had done an excellent job with her needle and thread, and Elle's midriff was deeply appreciative. On her head she wore a doughnut-shaped turban affair of green and beige, with a pair of foot-long ostrich plumes standing straight up from her forehead. They bobbed when she moved her head and made her look, she thought, rather like a rabbit.

On her way down to the breakfast room she noticed there was an air of activity about the house that had been missing previously. Servants were moving about, disappearing through doors and walking purposefully down hallways. Tatiana trotted up to her, smiling her Samoyed smile. Elle paused briefly in the doorway to the breakfast room, a small frown between her brows, watching three young men go by in the hallway carrying bolts of fabric.

Thomas, the butler, stepped into the room as she was perusing the assortment of dishes on the sideboard. He cleared his throat with a polite little movement of phlegm before speaking. "Lady Allsbrook?"

She turned, a pastry in her fingers. "Ah, Thomas! Good morning. What's going on? Why is everyone rushing about?"

"I believe his lordship would like to discuss that with you in his office, when you find it convenient."

Curiosity battled with hunger. Curiosity won. She piled pastries and a few strips of bacon on a plate, donated an extra strip to Tatiana's eager mouth, poured herself a glass of sour orange juice, and carried the lot past Thomas, whose eye twitched involuntarily at the sight of her carrying her breakfast down the hall.

She stopped a few feet down the hall, suddenly remembering. "Oh, and Thomas?"

"Yes, milady?"

"Would you be the one to ask, if I wanted to purchase several new sea sponges? Or do I have to go through the steward?"

"His lordship has already put in the request, milady. It will require a few days, to purchase the sponges in Southampton, if that is acceptable?"

"Yes, quite. No hurry."

"Milady?"

"Yes?"

"If I might have someone carry your breakfast for you?"

She looked down at the food in her hands. An image came to mind, a footman with a silver tray and her orange juice, another footman with a tray and her plate, and then herself, rabbity feathers bobbing, followed by a prancing Tatiana licking up whatever crumbs fell on the floor, the sweeper at the end of the parade.

"Never mind. I'll just eat the scone." She went back into the breakfast room, put her plate on the table, surreptitiously dropped the rest of her bacon to Tatiana, grabbed a scone off her plate, and quickly left the room, her ears pink under Thomas's distressed gaze.

The sound of male voices in animated conversation reached her when she was still several feet from Henry's office, and she paused, the half-consumed scone partway to her mouth. She brushed at the crumbs on her bodice, and then cautiously covered the remaining ground and peeked her head around the door just as the voices erupted into guffaws of laughter.

A small crowd of men met her view, their coats ranging from deep teal velvet to serviceable black wool. They wore their hair powdered white, tied in back, and all wore white stockings beneath their knee breeches. Henry's short, rich black hair stood out among them, and she cocked her head at the realization that he had rebellious tendencies of his own toward fashion.

The movement of her ostrich plumes drew his eye, and before she could escape the intimidating gathering, he had stood and called her name.

"Eleanor, there you are! Please come in. There are some people here I would like you to meet."

The men immediately turned to see to whom Henry was speaking, and upon seeing her each stood.

Elle took a step back, shy under their sudden scrutiny. She wished she'd left the scone in the breakfast parlor. She put the hand holding it behind her back. A warm, moist muzzle skimmed her fingers, and she released the scone into Tatiana's waiting mouth.

She gave Henry a tremulous smile, avoiding the eyes of the men, and stepped farther into the room as Henry came around the desk to meet her. He took her left hand in his own and turned to his companions.

"Eleanor, I would like you to meet my good friend and business partner, Richard Ralston, viscount Atherton." The man in the teal velvet stepped forward. "Richard, my wife, Eleanor, the countess of Allsbrook." The viscount had unusual eyes, honey-colored in the center, that looked into hers with deep interest as he bent over her right hand, not quite touching the back with his lips.

"Milady," he murmured.

He was awfully good-looking, she couldn't help but notice, but there was also something smooth about him that suggested he wasn't entirely honorable in his dealings with women. She unconsciously leaned a little closer to Henry, as if seeking protection at his trustworthy side.

The viscount released her hand and stood aside as the other introductions were made. The other men were Lawrence Peabody, "A type of waterworks engineer, landscaper, and builder-architect," Henry explained, and Cyril Tey. "My steward." It was not such a crowd as she had first thought. The men all apparently knew one another, based on their relaxed air of familiarity.

Elle tried to think of something witty and welcoming to say, and failed utterly. Tatiana, never shy, pranced past her and went to inspect the men. She brushed against Mr. Peabody's black breeches, leaving a coating of white hair, then went and sniffed Viscount Atherton's crotch. He gently pushed her nose away, and she sat, panting up at him. When the man did no more than look at her, she scratched his velvet-covered leg.

"She wants you to pet her," Elle explained weakly, mortified at Tatiana's display of bad manners. She felt out of place enough as it was in this room filled with men from the past.

"Mmm, yes." the viscount said, and reached out gingerly with the tips of his fingers to scratch at the top of her head.

Henry excused them from the men and led her out into the hall. He called Tatiana, who had no trouble tearing herself away from the viscount's reluctant attentions. Elle could hear the male voices resume their conversation as soon as the door shut, and she wondered if she were the topic of their discussion, and what poor impression she had made on these friends of Henry's.

"Viscount Atherton and Mr. Peabody will be joining us for dinner this evening. They are both old friends of mine and have been looking forward to meeting my wife." He raised an eyebrow at her. "You will not be having any headaches today, will you?"

"Not to worry, I'll be on my best behavior, just as you were last night."

"I am reassured," he said, and there was a trace of humor in his voice. He continued in a more businesslike tone. "I also wanted to tell you that the tailor and seamstress have arrived. They are going to make the new livery and clothes for the servants, and I thought you might like to oversee their efforts, help choose the fabrics and styles and so forth."

"Sure, why not?"

"Your enthusiasm warms me."

"No, really. I'd like to have something to do with my time. Is there anything else? I mean, it won't take that long to choose uniforms, I don't think."

He glanced at the closed door, behind which the voices were now raised in heated argument. "If it is a duty you feel capable of handling, I would appreciate if you would oversee the redecorating of the house. And if there is anything in particular that you had in mind for the gardens, Mr. Peabody will be designing a new layout along with his other work here and would take your ideas into consideration."

"In other words, you'd like to be free to focus on the structural improvements to Brookhaven and wish to leave the aesthetic, less-important decisions to me." She saw his eyes go to her feathered turban.

"Subject to my approval, of course. There are certain traditions of style I want to keep alive in this house, traditions you might not be aware of…"

"You think I have bad taste?"

"No, it is not that. It is just that I have certain ideas of how I would like the house—" He cut himself off at her muffled snort of disbelief.

"Be honest, Henry. You're afraid your house will end up a mess if I'm given free rein." When he couldn't come up with an immediate reply, the devil in her came to life. She knew she had poor fashion sense and wouldn't trust herself to decorate her own home.

"I would of course feel much more as if I belonged here if I could fully take on the responsibilities of my station, now that we have reached an agreement on, er, that other topic," she said in utmost seriousness. "Do other countesses ask their husbands for approval before choosing an upholstery pattern? Do they ask permission to have a bed of roses planted? I think not. And what will the staff think of me, if every time I make a decision, I have to amend it with, 'If his lordship approves, as I haven't the wit to decide for myself?' What type of marriage can we have, if you cannot trust me to perform my most basic duties?" She stared up at him, trying to maintain an air of wounded innocence and sincerity.

A long moment stretched between them, and beneath his composed mask, she could detect currents of emotion. Anxiety, mostly, which faded into a sort of hopeless acceptance. "Very well, then," he said abruptly, "I leave the house and grounds to you." He sketched her a short bow and disappeared back into his office.

She stared at the empty space where he had been standing. Little as she knew him, one thing she already understood was that Brookhaven was holy ground to Henry. And yet, he had chosen to trust her with it. She, Elle, the one who couldn't dance or ride sidesaddle and who got lost in the woods chasing fairies.

She could not now let him down. It wasn't her own pride or desire to prove herself that she cared about; indeed, arranging furniture seemed a hollow way to show one's worth. It was that she was responsible for that which Henry held dear to his heart.

Feeling somewhat burdened by the task she had set herself, she flagged down a passing maid and had her lead her to where the tailor and seamstress had set up shop. If she had bad taste herself, she was going to have to rely heavily on the artistic sense of the professionals.

It was to be such a Herculean labor, this regarbing of the old and new employees of the house and grounds, that a long gallery room on an upper floor had been given over to the task. Long windows lined one side of the room, providing quantities of sunlight that would make the task of sewing easier.

Old worktables were being set up at intervals, and on one long one against the wall, there were bolt after bolt of fabrics. Even as she watched, young men came in and deposited several more on the growing pile. As she observed the activities, it became apparent that there were two factions controlling opposite ends of the room. The end closest to her was under the supervisory eye of a small, wiry man that she took to be the tailor. At the other end, a young woman with flyaway platinum hair escaping from her cotton cap was overseeing the placing of a screen and the arrangement of several large portfolios, with sheets of paper escaping from their edges. The dress she wore had a high waist and was less structured than those of her companions.

The wiry little man noticed her first and straightened up. "Lady Allsbrook!" he exclaimed and bowed sharply. "Casper White, tailor, at your service."

"Who is the young woman over there?" she asked, indicating the busy blonde.

Mr. White followed her pointing finger. "Ah, now she is a girl who knows what she is about, when she cares to. That is my daughter, Charlotte. She will be taking care of the women's clothes, milady. Charlotte!" he hollered across the room. "Come here, and be quick about it."

The young woman flashed a look of irritation at her father but obeyed quickly enough when her eye lit on Elle. She threaded her way through the workers and tables, and dipped a low curtsy. Her eyes were a lovely gray-green, set off by the sprigs of light green in the print of the dress she wore. Her face was otherwise colorless, but the eyes made up for the lack. They were filled with intelligence and life, and bespoke a creative mind beneath the mob cap and wispy hair.

"Charlotte, is it? Come, show me what you have in mind for the women," Elle said, threading her arm through that of the startled young seamstress and leading her away from her father. Mr. White was undoubtedly in charge of all this and competent at his work, but Charlotte's empire-style dress had caught Elle's eye.

The drawings Charlotte showed her were beautifully executed, and the dresses themselves lovely and simple. They were in the style with which Elle had become familiar: tight bodice, narrow sleeves, a long skirt given only slight fullness by the petticoats or bum roll underneath.

"You obviously have talent for your work," Elle complimented the young woman, who stared somewhat lifelessly at her own drawings. "I was wondering, though… do you perhaps have some designs that are a little more innovative?"

Charlotte flashed a sidelong glance at her, then glared across the room at her father. "Innovative in what manner, milady?"

"Oh, I don't really know. Designs that are a little more distinctive, a little more original?"

"These do not suit, milady?"

"I like what you're wearing. Did you design it yourself?"

"I design all my own clothes." Charlotte's eyes were beginning to spark. "Father does not approve, of course. He would like it if we all still wore panniers, for God's sake, milady."

"Do you wear a corset under that?"

She didn't seem embarrassed by the question. "Father would truly whip me if I did not."

"Mmm." Elle was disappointed.

"I have my personal designs here, if you would like to see them, milady?" she offered tentatively, the hope fairly vibrating in her voice, her hand resting lightly on a battered portfolio off to the side.

"I would like that very much."

She and Charlotte quickly became so caught up in discussions of dresses and fabrics, undergarments and shoes, that they decided to adjourn to a more private room where tea and food could be brought in as they sat and conspired. Elle had complete respect for Charlotte's sense of style and her knowledge of fabrics and construction, and Charlotte was fascinated by Elle's real concern for comfort and her ideas on proper undergarments. Hours went by, and they were not even half finished when Marianne appeared, reminding her that she needed to change for dinner.

With great reluctance she set aside the drawing on her lap and rose. "We'll meet again tomorrow morning, to continue?"

"I will look forward to it, milady."

When she had her new clothes, Elle decided, she was going to have a corset-burning party.

Elle suffered housewifely shame over the quality of the meal served at dinner and vowed to talk to Mr. Tey, who apparently did the hiring. A proper chef must be found and Abigail liberated from the kitchen before they all expired of indigestion.

Mr. Peabody, the architect-engineer, seemed quietly, inexplicably fascinated by her throughout the meal, contributing little to the conversation. He had a freckled face, wide nose, fine bones, and hazel eyes that watched her whenever he was not watching his plate.

Richard, viscount Atherton, was less obvious in his interest, but she felt the effects to a greater degree. He asked her questions about her home and upbringing, questions that were perfectly acceptable, only she didn't know the answers. She evaded answering his questions directly and had the distinct sense that he would catch her in any lies she told. Her evasiveness seemed only to intrigue him the more.

Henry, for his part, looked as if he found the byplay amongst the three of them rather amusing, like a biologist watching a family of chimpanzees.

Her ordeal did not end with the flavored jellies served for desert—they bore a remarkable resemblance to the familiar Jell-O of home, rather than the jam she half expected—for afterwards she was required to go sit alone in the room across the entrance hall while they drank their brandies, made toasts, and smoked, and wait for them to join her.

Her dinner had not settled well in her stomach, and she was tired after the long day poring over dress designs and enduring the tension of a meal with strangers. What she really wanted was to adjourn to her own room with a book, change into something warm and comfortable, and huddle under the covers reading by candlelight.

She sat at the end of the ratty couch nearest the fire, and let her head rest against the high back. Her eyes began to close. Tatiana lay at her feet, a paw over the toe of one of Elle's shoes.

A small noise disturbed her, and then a shiver suddenly ran down Elle's spine, accompanied by the sensation of being watched. She opened her eyes, her head snapping forward, and scanned the room. Tatiana lifted her head, ears pitched forward, dark eyes staring at the mullioned windows.

A low growl started in Tatiana's throat, and the dog stood, her tail held motionless behind her. Elle felt the hairs on the back of her own neck begin to stand, and slowly turned towards the windows.

The windows were dark, reflecting only faint glimmers of fire and candlelight. But down in the bottom corner of one window, almost hidden by the folds of the open curtain, there was a smudge of face-size paleness. The indistinct shape moved, then vanished.

Tatiana gave a sharp bark, then rushed at the window, yapping and howling, her paws up on the sill. Sweat trickled down Elle's sides.

Elle slowly stood, her knees shaky, and joined the dog at the window. Taking her courage in both hands, she unlatched the casement window and pushed it out, peering into the darkness.

It might have been a curious person, snooping about. Or it might have been one of those fairy people. She was certain that the latter was the case.

She could see nothing in the darkness outside, and Tatiana had stopped barking. The dog sniffed the air, then dropped back to all fours, her interest gone. Elle closed the window and brushed her damp brow with shaking fingers.

She wasn't going to wait here alone for the men to join her and then try to make small talk. The day had been too long, and a face watching from the window was too much, whatever its intention had been.

"Tatiana, come." She strode from the room, across the checkerboard hall, and pushed open the door to the dining room.

"Henry, excuse me, but I'm not feeling altogether well—" Her speech was interrupted by the loud clatter of a metal pan hitting the floor. Her eyes flew to Mr. Peabody, standing near the dilapidated sideboard with his back to her. A small cupboard door was open, and the pan that had dropped was obviously a metal chamber pot.

"What?" she asked, not understanding what she was seeing. Mr. Peabody made the distinctive motions that, even from behind, told of a man tucking his privates back into his pants.

"You were relieving yourself in my dining room?" she screeched. "What do you think this is? A barn? We eat in here, for God's sake!"

Henry was suddenly at her side, trying to pull her from the room. She hadn't even seen him approach.

"Animals! Men have always been, and always will be, animals. Disgusting, I call it! And look at that, it's spilled on the floor. Do I have to eat my dinner in a room that smells like a urinal? And what are you laughing at, Mr. Smart-Ass?" she snapped at viscount Atherton. The target in question put his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. Mr. Peabody had his shoulders hunched, and peeped over his shoulder at her, his face scarlet.

Henry finally had her out in the hall and firmly shut the door behind them.

"You let him do that in my dining room?" she challenged him. "Pee?"

"For God's sake, Elle, do not try to tell me you do not know that men use the pot after dinner."

A look of horror came over her face. "Oh, Henry, don't tell me… not you, too?"

"Did the men in your home never relieve themselves?" he asked in exasperation.

"Not in the dining room!"

"Be thankful times have changed enough that he waited until you had left the room. I want you to go back in there and apologize to Mr. Peabody. You have deeply embarrassed our guest."

"He was peeing."

"Elle!"

Her face set in a mutinous expression. "Very well, then." She stomped back to the door, swung it open, and declared loudly, "Mr. Peabody, I'm sorry I scolded you for urinating no more than a couple feet from the place I eat my meals. I was not aware that you, and all other men, were raised with the sensibilities of baboons. It is not your fault, for no one taught you better. Please forgive my outburst."

Mr. Peabody mumbled a stunned reply, his face still beet red, and didn't meet her eyes. The viscount had tears rolling down his cheeks and was audibly gasping for breath. Elle felt Henry's grip on her arm, and she was dragged back out the door.

"You are being irrational and unforgivably rude! You will go to your room and stay there, until you are willing to make proper amends to Mr. Peabody."

Elle pulled back from him, and glared up into his glowering countenance. "You can't tell me to go to my room like a child. I'm a grown woman, and I have more sense in my little toe than the lot of you have in your arrogant, self-important heads. Just because you've always used the dining room as a toilet doesn't mean that it's a good idea. It's disgusting, and it's unhygienic, and it's not going to happen in my house. I've wondered why I was brought here, and by God, maybe I've found the reason. You'd all poison yourselves with your own filth if I didn't do something about it."

"Go to your room." Henry repeated firmly.

"There are going to be some changes made around here," Elle prophesied darkly. She gave Henry a final glare, then turned and marched up the stairs.

Henry let out a long breath of air as Elle disappeared up the stairs. He had thought he had made progress in understanding her. Upon reflection, her fears of childbirth had explained so much about her behavior—why she didn't want to marry, her unwillingness to be touched on their wedding night, her hysterical reaction after they made love in the forest, the attempt to control her fertility—but that could have nothing to do with this inexplicable outburst. And then there was the night she spent searching for fairies, but he did not want to think about that.

He wondered if Elle's sister, Louise, was as ignorant and as peculiar in her ways. Maybe Louise, too, thought fairies were real. Could it simply be the result of the class of society in which she was raised? Perhaps if Louise were here, he would have a better idea. She might prove a soothing effect on Elle as well—someone familiar, with whom she could talk about her troubles. And someone as well who might tell him if her sister were behaving in her normal manner.

He rejoined his friends. Lawrence Peabody was huddled miserably in his chair, playing with the stem of his brandy glass. Viscount Atherton was mopping his face with a lace-edged kerchief.

"I see you have complete control over your new wife," Richard commented. "I had always wondered what type of female you would eventually choose to marry and confess that I thought it would be someone much more sedate. A docile, conventional sort of girl, rather dowdy. A practical choice that would fit the neat order of your world. But this woman—you have surprised me, Henry, truly surprised me."

"I have been in a constant state of perplexity since the marriage ceremony, so I can understand your sentiment." He turned to Mr. Peabody. "Lawrence, my wife begs your forgiveness—"

He was cut off by Richard's laugh. "I am afraid that will not work, my friend. We heard everything."

"Richard, will you allow me to at least pretend that there is some civility left in my household?"

"Do forgive me." Richard waved his kerchief negligently in the air. "Please continue."

"As I was saying, Lawrence, my wife extends her apologies. She will no doubt express this sentiment to you personally, but in her absence I wish to do so myself."

Lawrence raised his head and made an attempt to appear unfazed by the scene with Elle. "Apology accepted. Do not concern yourself about it." He briefly met Henry's eyes, then glanced at Richard. "Of course, I may never again be able to make use of a dining-room pot without my bladder shrivelling in fear…"

Richard hooted in a most unaristocratic manner, and even Henry cracked a smile. It was several brandies, a room change, and three games of cards later that Lawrence Peabody made one final comment on the matter.

"And you know, she may have had a point."

Chapter Nineteen

Elle slept in her own bed and wasn't surprised when she was awoken in the small hours of the morning by a shift in the mattress as Henry climbed in next to her. He had said they would share a bed, and he was a man of his word. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide, waiting for his touch upon her skin.

Her anger with him had faded when she'd reached her room and had time to settle down. If she hadn't been so tense and in such a bad mood, perhaps she would not have reacted so strongly to the sight of Lawrence Peabody making himself one with nature. And then, if she did not have such a fetish about cleanliness, she might not have been so horrified.

She would apologize to Mr. Peabody in the morning because she wanted to, not because Henry ordered her to. The poor man, he had been mortally embarrassed. She felt guilty just thinking about that shamed look on his face, like a puppy who hadn't made it to his papers.

The minutes passed, and Henry made no move to roll towards her or to touch her. Wasn't he going to do anything? Not even a kiss goodnight? She started to fume, her jaw clenched. He could at least acknowledge her.

She stared into the dark a while longer, and listened to his breathing deepen. He'd probably sedated himself, drinking with his buddies.

She kicked him in the calf. She rolled over, shifting as roughly as she could. She fluffed her pillows. She tugged at the covers.

A soft snore was her answer.

She sat up and peered into his face, barely able to make out his features. It was sorely tempting to pinch his arrogant nose between her fingers, and cut off that self-satisfied snore.

In the end she threw herself back to her side of the bed, disgusted more with herself than with him. What was wrong with her? She should be rejoicing that he was ignoring her.

She turned onto her side, her back to him, and tucked her hands up between her breasts. She told herself the position was to keep her hands warm, but she knew what the truth was. It was to keep from reaching out and touching her sleeping husband.

"I believe your countess has won back the affection of the impressionable Peabody," Richard commented.

Henry joined his friend at the window and looked out into the gardens. Elle and Lawrence were sitting on the edge of a ruined fountain, heads bent together over paper. Lawrence was drawing and gesturing with an animation such as Henry had rarely seen, and Elle's posture bespoke an attentive and engaged listener.

"Lady Allsbrook is having a transformative effect upon our Lawrence. One might almost say she had swept him away with her feminine charms."

"He would be a stammering pool of jelly if that were the case."

"My mistake. You are correct; he does not look the least bit flattered by her attention."

Henry narrowed his eyes as Elle laughed at something Lawrence said. "She is trying to make amends for embarrassing him."

"And doing a lovely job of it."

"She is not flirting with him, Richard, if that is what you are trying to imply."

"I had not thought that she was."

Henry could not tear his eyes from Elle and Lawrence. "Then why are you going on about it? They are discussing the fountains. There is no harm in that."

Richard laughed, and Henry finally turned from the window, scowling at his friend. "What, pray tell, do you find so amusing?"

"You, Henry. I had thought you above such inferior emotions as jealousy. Indeed, for the past several years I had thought you above all emotion entirely."

"I have never been above emotion. I remain master of it, is all."

"Aye, well, I think you have lost the upper hand."

He did not deign to reply.

It was while changing for dinner that Elle noticed, with both delight and dismay, that her much-anticipated period had at last arrived. Marianne reacted to the blood-stained petticoat as if it were a tragedy.

"Milady, I am so sorry!"

"It will wash out, won't it?"

"The baby, milady…" There were genuine tears in Marianne's eyes.

"Come now, Marianne. It was too much to hope for, wasn't it? A baby this soon? There's plenty of time yet."

"You are so brave."

"One does what one must." Marianne continued to brush at her eyes, so Elle continued. "A countess can't afford to take these little setbacks to heart, you know. And neither can her maid." Marianne's back straightened. "I need you to be strong for me, Marianne. I need you to go on as if nothing has happened."

"You are right, milady," she snuffled. "I need to be as strong as you."

"Now, I'll need some fresh water to wash with…" She trailed off and let Marianne get to work.

True to form, Marianne neatly laid out the items necessary for the situation, and when it came time to dress once again, Elle had only to make a vague gesture implying she wanted some privacy, and Marianne obeyed. The maid was getting used to her mistress's ways.

It took only a few minutes to figure out the items on the dressing table. There were, as she had feared, rags. And a belt, and pins. The arrangement looked uncomfortable, and that quickly proved to be the case.

No matter that her roommate Sarah had laughed at sea-sponges for dealing with that time of the month. When the sponges arrived, they were going to be used for more than just birth control.

After dinner the men adjourned with Elle to the drawing room without their customary break for private indulgences. They protested that they did not wish to leave her delightful company and that it would be too ungallant to leave her alone while they drank and conversed amongst themselves.

"And we have learned not to let down our guard," Henry told her under his breath, as he escorted her across the hall.

Lawrence engaged Henry in a game of cards, and Richard brought his snifter of brandy over to where Elle sat by the fire and settled down beside her.

"Henry introduced you as his business partner, Lord Atherton, and I was curious, in what type of business are the two of you engaged?" She was not really interested, but his questions were wearing her down. It was time to turn the tables.

"A number of ventures. Property speculation, international trade, manufacturing."

"I take it Henry is a small investor?"

"Actually, he has much more invested in them than I do, and I can only thank God I had the wit to go in with him when he first suggested we pool our resources."

"You've done well, then?"

"Thanks to your husband. He taught himself the ways of business over his father's protests that the heir to an earldom should not engage in any manner of trade."

"I had thought Henry was completely without funds. You know it's why he married me."

The viscount swirled the brandy in his glass. "It is a relative question, how much money is enough. In my case, I need only enough to support myself and maintain my town house. I have a minor title, but no lands to go with it, and I only stand to inherit an estate if several distant male relatives meet an untimely demise, God forbid." He smiled wickedly at her. "My style of life is more, ah, extravagant than Henry's, to be sure, but that is a matter of priorities."

"Are you telling me he has money? That he's not the pauper he claims?"

"As I said, it is a relative question. The profits we have made in our ventures together, while substantial, are nowhere near enough to repair the damage to the estates done by his father. Of course, he could always sell the lands, but Henry does not see that as an option. He takes his responsibilities rather seriously. Too seriously, I often think." He took a sip of his brandy, then continued. "I do not make it a habit to discuss the financial affairs of my friends, and certainly not with their wives. I thought it was important, though, that you understood."

"Why?"

"Because I want to see him happy, and I like you well enough to think that you have a chance of bringing that to him."

And despite herself, what Richard said played through her mind as the night wore on. It did matter to her that Henry had been successful on his own, that he knew how to handle money. It mattered, too, that he easily sacrificed his own comfort to fulfill his responsibilities to others. It must be a genetic female trait, being impressed by a good provider.

She shivered. She was beginning to think like a future mother.

Henry appeared in her bedroom late that night while she was lying on her stomach in bed, reading a warped copy of Daniel Defoe's Moll Flanders. After a day of walking around with that chafing rag, worrying about whether or not blood would leak through and show on her skirts, it was no longer a mystery why women had once spent the week of their period in bed.

"I thought we had an agreement?" he asked.

She looked up from her book. "I don't think you want to share my bed tonight."

He came over to the side of the bed and took the book from her hands. "Move over."

"Henry, you really don't want to."

"Do you care to explain why not?"

"It's a female thing, if you get my meaning."

"And female things are supposed to keep me away? Move over." He pulled back the covers, and she scrambled to the other side of the bed. He got in, and his strong arm reached out and dragged her back beside him.

"Henry, don't!"

"I will not molest you beyond reason, my dear. We do have an arrangement."

She struggled against him. "Just let me sleep on my side of the bed. Don't hold me tonight, please?"

"Are you in ill? In pain?"

"No…"

He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. "Then what is it?"

She turned her face away from him. "It's that time of the month," she mumbled.

"And?"

She didn't answer. She felt bloated, plumped up like a sausage. Her tummy and thighs felt like they'd gained fifteen pounds, and she thought she might just curl into a ball and die if he accidentally touched the bulky, bloody cloth fastened between her legs.

His finger trailed down her cheek. "You know, there is something appealing about you when you are being shy."

"I feel about as appealing as a pudding at the moment: I'm spongy and full of fat."

He kissed her cheek and her temple. "I like puddings."

"Do you like flabby tummies and lumpy thighs as well?"

"Are you referring to these?" His hand moved over her thigh, kneading the flesh, then moved upward to gently caress the softness of her belly.

"Yes," she gritted between her teeth, pushing at his hand. Why hadn't she gone on a diet? Why hadn't she locked her door?

He slid down until he could nuzzle her breasts through her shift, then dropped dozens of kisses over her belly. "I would not have you any other way." His fingers dug gently into her hip, and then around to the fullness of her buttocks.

"I should lose weight," she groused, unable to enjoy his touch as she worried about whether he would feel the belt tied around her hips.

The kisses stopped, and his face appeared above hers, almost angry. "I forbid it."

"I should do some exercise, build some muscle tone."

"Absolutely not! You will remain exactly as you are. I will not have my wife possessing the body of a field-worker. You think a man does not like something soft to hold?" He rolled onto his back, then pulled her against him so that she had her head resting on his shoulder and was forced to lay one leg over his for balance. He kissed the top of her head. "Silly woman. Go to sleep."

"Yes, master." She dozed off with a smile on her lips, her rounded belly pressed to his side.

Viscount Atherton left the next day, and during the following week, Henry noticed with some relief that Elle was settling into a routine of meeting with the seamstress and the craftsmen and salesmen who arrived daily. Cyril Tey reported that she had spoken to him about hiring new kitchen staff.

A couple times a day she would appear at his side, asking questions about what he and Lawrence were doing. He began to become accustomed to her brief visits, and to look forward to them.

One afternoon she found him and Lawrence looking over the drawings for the new housing he planned to build for farmers dislocated by the enclosure of the open countryside. She sat quietly at the end of the desk, listening to them talk, and he wondered what she could possibly find so interesting about water sources and the difficulties posed by pollution from human waste.

It was a surprise when she finally spoke. "Why don't you put in some sort of sewer system, if you're going to be constructing new houses? Or even a decent septic tank and drain field, if the houses are going to be too far apart?"

"Sewers are precisely the source of the trouble," Lawrence explained to her. "They clog and waste backs up, flooding houses and streets, unless men or children are sent crawling inside the sewers to clean them of accumulated filth."

"A proper septic tank would not flood," she said. "It would drain into channels under the ground. And sewers drain if they're constructed properly. I mean, if the Romans could do it, why can't the English?" She leaned over and looked at the plans. "Wait a minute…" She picked up the plans, dragging them onto her lap. "What are these square things?"

"The sewers, of course," Lawrence said.

"You mean they have flat bottoms?"

They both looked at her. "Of course."

"Then no wonder they don't drain. You can't have a flat-bottomed sewage pipe. It has to be round! Or at least I think it does." She looked again at the plans. "Well, I don't really know, but it seems to make more sense. I mean, the Romans got sewage to flow, and they used round pipes, didn't they? Or did they?"

"The Romans had water rushing through their sewers and drainage systems to get things moving," Henry said. "Lawrence, what do you think?"

He looked up from the paper where he had been sketching. "Round pipes. Or maybe even more narrow at the bottom…" He went back to his internal world without answering, his pen scratching across paper, losing himself in possibilities.

"And the water?" he asked his wife, curious for what answer she would give.

"You have hills. Build a reservoir or a cistern of some sort, and let gravity do its job."

"And where will all this waste go? I do not want it sent into the river."

Lawrence answered that question, his eyes coming up from his papers. "To the same place it did in Athens. It collected in a tank, and then was diverted into the fields. Good irrigation, good fertilization."

"I never heard that." Henry said.

Lawrence looked slightly offended at the comment. "I know my field. I just had not thought of applying such ancient principals to a modern problem. And there are new pumps that could help…"

Henry turned his attention back to Elle, until she began to fidget under his gaze.

"What?" she said.

"I am impressed. Judging by his enthusiasm, I believe you have set Lawrence upon the path to a solution."

Lawrence continued mumbling to himself, his eyes unfocused.

Elle shrugged. "I've only pointed out an idea that has been around for centuries."

"An idea that we were both aware of, yet had not the wit to use. Once again," he said, "you have proven you know well when to apply an idea gleaned elsewhere to a present situation."

He saw her cheeks pinken with the compliment and was struck anew by her loveliness. It seemed to grow daily. He hoped those damn sponges had arrived.

She left a few minutes later, and half an hour after that Lawrence gathered up his papers and left as well, leaving the door ajar. He was just out of sight around the door when Henry heard his wife's voice.

"Lawrence," he heard her whisper loudly. "Lawrence!"

Curious, Henry came around his desk, and cautiously peered around the door just in time to see Elle shush Lawrence and pull him quickly into a room down the hall, shutting the door behind them.

He stood motionless as he processed the information. There was no doubt but that she had not meant for anyone to see that. In his mind he saw her sitting on the edge of the fountain with Lawrence, saw her teasing him at dinner, saw her hanging around when he and Lawrence were working together. He had assumed, somewhere inside, that she paid those visits to be near him, her husband. Not his friend.

He had suspected from the beginning that she was not innocent about men and had had the proof of it from her own mouth. He had convinced himself, though, that it had been a single affair long in the past now that she was married.

His stomach churned with acid. More fool him. This is what came of letting emotions infect the brain. At least he could trust his friend not to behave dishonorably.

"The door's open, Lawrence," Elle called from her dressing room at the sound of knocking. It was a few days and many secret meetings after that discussion about sewers. She was studying the fireplace and the bathtub. Her bedroom door opened and closed, and then she heard footsteps crossing to the dressing room door. "How'd you manage to sneak away so soon?"

"He did not."

Elle whirled. Henry stood in the doorway, a black expression on his face. "Oh. I wasn't expecting you."

"Obviously."

"Where's Mr. Peabody?" she asked nervously.

"Funny, I thought you called him by his Christian name. You two have become quite close, have you not?"

"He's a nice man."

"You meet together in secret, you exchange little knowing glances; I see you two with your heads bowed together, whispering. And now I find you waiting for him in your dressing room."

"What are you implying, Henry? Do you think I'm in love with Lawrence Peabody?"

"Is there another reason for inviting a man to your room?"

"You're jealous!" she said, hardly believing it. "You're jealous, and you're being irrational. The reason I invited him here is none of your business."

"Do you make a habit of affairs, my dear? Or is this the first since we have been wed?"

"What is wrong with you?" She stared at him in consternation. This was not the Henry she was familiar with. Where had the cool, composed man gone, the one who made sense? "You're not acting like yourself. Are you ill?"

He approached her, and lifted her chin in his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Tell me, Elle. How many other men have there been in your life?"

"None since I met you."

"Before me."

"Why does it matter? There've been women before me, haven't there? It's not like you were a virgin when we married."

His face darkened. "Just tell me."

"It's the past, Henry. Leave it alone. It has no bearing on what happens between us."

"And all that talk about being afraid of pregnancy, was that a lie? Or was there someone else for whom you were saving your favors? Or several someones?"

"No!"

"Or maybe it was true, but the real reason you are afraid of it is that you have been through it before."

"Did you see stretch marks on my skin? No, you did not. And if I was going to have an affair with Lawrence, don't you think I'd be a little more clever than to do so in my own dressing room? Get a grip on yourself, Henry. You are insulting me."

"You admit to having previous lovers."

"My life has not been what you think." She was angry now. "Yes, I've known other men. I already told you that. I believed myself in love with them at the time. We expressed our feelings physically, like any normal couple would."

"Did they teach you things? In bed?"

"Of course they did! And I taught them. I read, I have an imagination, I have fantasies just like anyone else. I'm a grown woman."

"A woman without honor."

"Don't you dare be hypocritical about this, Henry Trevelyan! You've been with women before, and I wouldn't even think of holding it against you. I'm glad for it! It means others have taught you, and I reap the benefits."

She could not bear the closedness she saw in his eyes. "If you would just open your mind a bit, maybe you'd see that a little experience is a good thing." She took a step closer to him, so that her chest lightly brushed against his, reached up, and softly stroked his face. "I can prove it to you."

He grabbed her hand, stopping the caress. Her other hand, still free, crept around to stroke his buttock. She could not stand for him to reject her, not for this. If he did not want her, let him not want her for something that mattered, not a sexual history about which there was nothing wrong.

"Men are not animals, Elle," he told her in a choked voice. "Lust cannot wipe all thought from my mind."

She gently disengaged her hand from his and pressed her palm to his chest, rubbing small circles. Her hand slid down, then around to join the other, and she slowly pulled his hips against her belly, gripping and kneading the smooth contours of his buttocks. She stood on tiptoe and licked the bottom of his jawline. She brought her hands up to the back of his neck, massaging the base of his scalp, and pulled his head down to her. The tense resistance of his muscles began to give way. "You're my husband, Henry, and I want you."

He reached up, his own hands digging into her hair, his mouth coming down to hers.

She pulled back from him. "I touch you. You do nothing, unless I say so."

"I will do what I—"

She covered his mouth with her hand, then slid one finger into his mouth. "Suck it," she softly commanded. He closed his eyes and obeyed, and she pressed herself against him. After a few moments she stepped back, took a bottle off the dressing table, then pulled him into the bedroom.

She set the bottle by the bed. Henry still looked angry, but an unwilling curiosity was holding him in place.

She started with his coat, slowly stripping him, dragging her fingers over his skin at every opportunity. When his torso was bare, she licked trails across his flesh, letting her body and hair brush against him as she went.

She unfastened the double set of buttons on his breeches, carefully sliding them and the linen liner down over his hips, freeing his manhood. She went down on her knees and for only a moment took him into her mouth, her hands caressing his buttocks at the same time. His manhood flexed in response, and she released him, her hands going to the buttons at his knees, her cheek lightly touching his erection as she worked.

Henry felt caught in the web of pleasure she was weaving over his body, his mind wound tight in his own anger and lust. He wanted to take control of her, but at the same time wanted to do nothing more than submit to her hands and lips. He wanted her to prove to him that she wanted no one else, that she had no desire for his friend or any other man.

She grasped his hips and forced him to sit on the edge of the bed, then removed the rest of his clothing. She placed one of his hands palm-up on his thigh and straddled his leg, pulling her skirts free. She lowered herself onto his hand, and he could feel the dampness of her, a dampness there for him. She rocked against his palm, and took his face in both hands and kissed him, playing with his mouth, instructing it to open with her tongue. Her breath came in little gasps.

She leaned away from him and began to unbutton her dress. Her stays had laces in the front, and she unfastened them to her waist and then untied her chemise. She was bare from her breasts to the top of her belly. She stood, and with gentle hands caressed his manhood in her hand.

"Kiss them," she ordered, leaning forward, her head high. He did as she directed, laving her breasts as she ringed his manhood with her hand, pulling back and forth.

She drew away and picked up the bottle, and with his eyes intently on her, she slowly dripped several drops of the oil over and between her breasts, then smoothed it over her skin with her fingertips, coating her breasts with the shining oil. Her eyes locked again with his, she sank to her knees between his legs. She licked the tip of his manhood, then leaned forward and surrounded it with her breasts, using her hands to press them together and keep him in place between them as she began to move up and down, just as he had fantasized doing with her on their first night at Brookhaven.

His hands moved towards her, and she shook her head, stopping until he leaned back, his breathing heavy, every muscle in his body tense. His eyes slipped from her face to what she was doing, his body jerking with each change of pace as she varied her movements against him.

He was losing control, and he tried to pull away from her. She would not let him; his body was her prisoner. She clasped her hand over the head of his manhood, still between her breasts, and held him motionless while he found release in warm bursts against her palm.

He gave a long shudder. "I am sorry," he said, recovering, his eyes going to the small mess.

She said nothing, but released him, and then traced a finger through the creamy substance that had spilled onto her chest, no revulsion at all on her face.

He groaned, deep in his throat, and hauled her up onto the bed. He clenched her to him; his arms were bands around her back, his naked leg pinning her clothed ones to the mattress as they both sprawled across the bed. His mouth took command of hers, his tongue delving deep. His hands moved at will over her body, pulling up her skirts, and she let him have his way now, revelling in the passion she had aroused.

Within minutes, the excitement that had only half faded with his release was back, pressing against her as his hands and mouth harshly mapped out the contours of her body. She felt one of his ringers sliding into her, massaging her. She wanted his energy, his lack of control.

He pushed back her skirts and guided himself to her. The stretching force of his entry burned for a moment, and then he was deeply embedded within her, and moving. He raised her hips off the bed, his strong hands cupping her buttocks, and she surrendered to the power of his thrusts.

She felt his hand move on her buttocks, and he pulled her up off the bed, so that he was sitting with her straddling his thighs, and continued to move deep within her. His mouth once again took hers, his insistent tongue claiming entrance.

Penetrated by him so fully, the nub of her sex rubbing against him with every thrust, her unbound breasts brushing against the hair of his chest, she became the one helpless to his commands. The overload of sensations quickly brought on her climax, and she tightened around him in the long, undulating waves of release. He grasped her tightly to him, holding her motionless as he spent himself within her.

After a long moment frozen in the culmination of desire, they crumpled together onto the bed, drenched in sweat. Henry pulled the coverlet half over them and nestled her against his body.

Elle stared at his chest, stunned by his taking of her and the sensations it had aroused. She didn't know who had won this battle. Did this coupling mean he would be able to accept her history? She looked up at him, and whispered a quotation she remembered from one of her French literature courses.

"C'est une des superstitions de l'esprit humain d'avoir imagine que la virginite pouvait etre une vertu."

He was quiet, apparently on the verge of sleep.

She repeated the quotation and was gratified by a very faint chuckle, rumbling deep in his chest. It gave her hope. Given time, he might adjust to her past. And maybe he would see the wisdom of Voltaire's words.

"It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue."

Chapter Twenty

"Charlotte, it's wonderful! You're a genius, an absolute genius." Elle turned around again in front of the cheval mirror, admiring the first of the gowns that Charlotte had finished for her.

"I did steal the design from a drawing I saw. The style has been growing quite popular, ever since Marie Antoinette wore it in that famous portrait, poor woman, though it certainly brought her nothing but grief. They called her a whore for it, you know, saying she was running about dressed in nothing but her chemise."

The dress was made of lightweight white cotton. It had a plain scoop neck, and full sleeves gathered once mid-bicep, and a second time at the elbow just before the wide, soft ruffle. The bodice and skirt were loose and full, given shape by the wide sea-green sash around her waist. It was flattering, it was comfortable, and best of all, she wasn't wearing stays. Charlotte had designed a sort of half corset for her that served the purpose of a bra and was only lightly boned.

The other gowns they had designed together were not yet finished. They tended toward the empire styles Elle could remember from the spate of Jane Austen movies in theaters. It would probably be several years before they were popular in this time, but they should prove comfortable with those high waists and loose column skirts, and it never hurt to be a little ahead of the fashion game.

Figuring that the maids and other female employees of the household had even more need of comfortable clothing than she herself, Elle and Charlotte had designed dresses and undergarments in a similar vein for them. The Allsbrook colors were red and royal blue, and the dresses were going to be in several prints that incorporated those hues, with white aprons and caps.

In a good mood due to her new dress that allowed her to breathe, Elle sought out Henry and Lawrence. She and Henry had avoided discussing the issue of her past relationships these last few days, and she was more than content to leave the topic alone. She worried a bit about the unprotected sex they had had, but if the rhythm method had any validity, it should have been a relatively safe encounter.

Both men proved to be out of the house, gone to inspect their various projects on the estate. Her mood had to be shared with someone, and her mind lit on Lady Annalise.

She couldn't find the hidden door that came out onto the great hall, so with candlestick in hand she set off with Tatiana into the maze of the unused portions of the house. It took her less time than before to become lost, as she was not stopping to look at every room through which she passed.

"I give up, Tatia. You find her."

As if the dog could understand, she trotted ahead and turned down a corridor. Elle followed, and minutes later found herself outside the richly carved door to Lady Annalise's suite. The door was half open, as if she had been expected.

Tatiana pushed her way in, as she had on the last visit, and Elle barely had time to knock a warning on the door.

"Come in," a faint voice called.

Elle pushed the door the rest of the way open, then closed it gently behind her. Lady Annalise looked as if she hadn't moved from the last time Elle had seen her. Even her clothing looked the same. Tatiana had her head resting on the old woman's knee, her eyes shut in bliss at the scratching her head was getting. Lady Annalise weakly waved Elle forward.

"You are looking well," the woman said, peering at her through squinted eyes. "It looks like Brookhaven agrees with you."

Elle shrugged noncommittally. "I'm adjusting."

"You have my great-grandson flustered."

"Henry?" She smiled. "I suppose that's true. I don't think he knows what to make of me." Lady Annalise was proving much more talkative than last time. How could Henry have thought the woman was senile?

"Maybe he will stop trying to decipher you and simply accept."

"Possibly." She shrugged. "I don't fit the world he's used to."

Lady Annalise remained silent a few moments, then asked softly, "Are you sorry you came here?"

Elle wandered to one of the tapestries on the wall, touching the woven face of a woman mounted on a horse, a member of a hunting party. "I don't know. I feel as if this marriage was not my wish, but in part I suppose it was. I'm not sure if this is a better life, or a worse one than that I left behind."

"If only we could see what our wishes would truly give us. Those tapestries tell a story about a wish."

"Do they?" The tapestry face under Elle's finger suddenly turned, and for a fraction of a second the hunting party surged forward, horses at the gallop. Elle stepped back, eyes wide.

"It is just the light, my dear. It makes them look alive."

Elle looked at Lady Annalise, then back at the tapestry. The mounted woman was facing as she originally had. The hunting party was motionless.

"The story starts with that hunt. It was led by Bartholomew, a terrible man, and a very rich one. He hunted for the brutality of the sport, as so many do." Lady Annalise's voice took on a strength it had not had before, and Elle had the sense that she had told this story many times before. "He set man traps in the forest, to maim the legs of poachers, and he set his dogs on trespassers. Not remarkable behavior for the time, but he took an unholy pleasure in it.

"On this day, he had spotted a white stag. It was beautiful, pure snowy white, like nothing of this earth."

Elle found the white stag in the tapestry, and blinked as he bounded up onto a boulder to look down upon his pursuers.

"The poor folk of the countryside knew of it, and hungry as they ever got, they never tried to hunt it. They saw it as an emblem of their faith in God. It was just a deer, but they needed to believe it was more. And maybe it was—if one believes something, who is to say it is not true?

"The poor folk were not the only ones who loved the stag. There was also a fairy woman, still young by the way they reckon age, still foolish. Tisk may not have loved the stag as the humans did—I do not know that she was capable of such an emotion—but she appreciated its beauty and had no wish to see it despoiled by the likes of Bartholomew.

"She also, it is true, wanted a good story to tell her friends, who made a competition of causing mischief, and so she decided to interfere in the hunt and save the stag.

"The hunt was long and arduous, and one by one the pursuers gave up and returned to the castle. By the time the stag began to slow, there were only the dogs and Bartholomew left.

"The dogs cornered the stag against a rock wall. Bartholomew lifted his gun and readied to fire. At once a vision appeared before him, of a heavenly woman garbed in robes of light. It was Tisk, of course, masquerading as an angel." Elle found the glowing vision and watched the fairy woman raise her hand, commanding Bartholomew to stop.

"She declared that this stag was the protected of God. A lie, of course. Fairies have nothing to do with religion. 'Go from here and leave this holy creature in peace,' she commanded.

"Unfortunately, Bartholomew was a thoroughly wicked man. He was of the belief that God had already blessed him, and he did not need heavenly creatures telling him what to do."

Elle moved down the tapestry, and saw the stag lying on the ground. Blood began to run in pulsing rivulets from its wounds, and a hound tore at its flank. The other hounds pursued a flitting white figure, that appeared and disappeared between the trunks of the trees. Elle followed it through several inches of tapestry.

"He shot the stag, then set his hounds after Tisk. Fairies have no power over animals, did you know that? The dogs snapped at her heels, they tore her garments, and Bartholomew thundered after them on his horse. She had no time to escape through magic, for the dogs would have had her at any pause.

"A hound sunk its teeth into her thigh and brought her down. Bartholomew caught up and dismounted, and tore away what remained of her clothes. The dog's teeth in her leg prevented her from vanishing in the fairy way.

"He set the dogs to hold her by arm and by leg, and he fell upon her, as men who are weak in their secret hearts will do.

"When he rolled off her, and the dogs released her, she disappeared into a small ball of light. Bartholomew tried to capture even that, but she was too quick now that she had regained her senses and was free of the dogs. She left him sitting there on the forest floor, only torn remnants of her clothes to tell that he had not rutted with the dirt."

Elle came to the end of that tapestry, the ball of light floating off into nothingness. She moved to the other side of the bed, to where the tapestries continued. "What is this castle? Surely Bartholomew did not get away with it?"

"Several months later Evangeline, Bartholomew's wife, came to bed in childbirth. In the small hours of the morning she brought into this world a baby boy. Bartholomew had been drinking with his companions in the hall below and was too drunk to awaken, even to see the heir he had been awaiting for many years.

"Dawn came, and the women who had fallen asleep at Evangeline's bedside awoke. There was a light in Evangeline's eyes that scared them. She held her baby in her arms, and she said to them, 'Look, do I not have a beautiful daughter? My lord will be so pleased.' The women told her, 'No, milady, you have a son. A strong boy, to grow up like his father.' And Evangeline uncovered the child, and it was a girl.

" 'I would not sentence a child of mine to live as my husband's son. The boy is gone. This child I shall raise as my own and cherish her every day for freeing my son.' "

Elle watched as the tapestry woman bent her head and kissed the infant in her arms. "What happened to the boy? And where did the girl come from?"

"Tisk had borne Bartholomew's child. A creature half human and half fairy, the baby girl could not stay in the land of her mother. Tisk was not attached to the child, but she had some small feeling for it.

"She decided that as suitable punishment for his crime, Bartholomew should have his precious son taken from him, and put into the home of poor crofters far away. Tisk's child was placed in the boy's stead, a changeling, ever the worst fear of a human parent. Any parent but Evangeline, who was glad enough to make the exchange. Knowing that her daughter's life would be a hard one, Tisk left her one gift, which she carefully explained to Evangeline.

"The child shall have one boon, a wish of her choice to be granted by the fairy folk. Tell her of this, when she is old enough to understand and to use it wisely.'

"Evangeline was a good woman, and she raised that child as her own. When the girl was old enough, she explained the gift and the truth of her birth to her. Life in Bartholomew's castle was not easy, and many times the girl wished to escape, but always she knew that she had that boon. It gave her strength, for she knew that if ever life got bad enough, she could use it. The unendurable became bearable, for she knew it was her choice to endure, not her sentence to do so.

"The years passed, and she was married to a man who proved to be far less wicked than her father, and while not all that she could have wished for, she had found a comfortable enough life for herself. She bore children, and no matter the hardship that came her way, she held tight to her boon, and she never used it."

"Why not?" Elle asked, watching the young woman walk along the shore of a lake. "Wasn't there anything she wanted?"

"There were many things. She was always afraid, though, that someday she would need it, if not for herself, then for someone she loved. And as she grew older, she began to see another truth.

"We cannot forsee what will happen to us. We cannot forsee when a calamity will transform into a blessing, or a blessing into a calamity. What if she used the boon, and despite her good intentions the results were evil? It seemed the wisest course not to use the gift her fairy mother had given her."

"Be careful what you wish for," Elle said, "for you just might get it."

"Yes, that was her fear. She grew old and watched the tragedies of her family, and chose not to alter so much as a single event."

"That's the end of the story?" Elle asked. She had reached the edge of the final tapestry, where a woman sat in a window, her face older than it had been in the garden. A breeze moved her hair, and then died down, and the tapestry returned to being mere cloth on the wall. "That's not much of an ending."

"But it is interesting, do you not think?" Lady Annalise asked. "Most fairy stories tell of wishes granted and fulfilled, not a wish that is never used. Do you think you would have used the boon, had it been granted to you?"

Elle smiled. "I sincerely believe I would have been too foolish to resist."

Elle stepped from the secret door out into the front hall and found a flurry of activity.

"Ellie!" a female voice called joyfully. "Oh, I am so happy to see you!"

Elle barely had time to focus her eyes upon Louise before her ersatz sister was upon her, hugging her and showering her with kisses. "Louise. What a surprise. What brings you here?"

"Your brother-in-law and a coach, if you want to speak literally," Louise laughed, gesturing to Henry's younger brother, Frederick, who was being assisted from his greatcoat by a smiling Thomas. "An invitation from your husband and the unbearable situation at home, if you want the more figurative truth."

"Henry invited you? He didn't tell me."

"Of course not, silly. He wanted it to be a surprise. He wrote to Father, saying that he was certain you would enjoy the company and implying that he might be of help in finding me a suitable match. I think he said that last part only to prod Father into permitting my visit," Louise confided. "Father would love to marry me off for less money than he had to expend to get the earl of Allsbrook into the family."

"Weren't you involved with some young man? George something or another."

Louise took on a tragic expression. "Father found out, the day after you left. 'Tis why I have not written. I have been too overcome by my loss."

"Yes, I can see the grief is still subduing your spirits. I take it George wasn't up to battling for your hand."

Louise wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I have had an awakening in regards to poets. They are more interested in putting words together than in honoring the sentiment behind those words."

Elle laughed.

"We have so much to talk about, Ellie," Louise sighed. "I am so happy to be here. I thought Mother's fussing was going to be the end of me, now that she does not have you to worry about."

"I'll have Abigail bring you to your room, and then later we can have a long chat, after you've recovered from your journey."

As if sensing her summons, Abigail appeared at Elle's side and led Louise off up the stairs. Elle watched them, her put-on smile sinking at the corners. How long would it take Louise to figure out that all was not as it once was with her sister, without an impending wedding to distract her?

"Do I call you 'sister' now?" a male voice asked her from behind.

Elle turned to Frederick, who was much as she remembered him from the day of the wedding, and still apparently consumed by an irrational dislike of her. He was the same age as she was supposed to be, eighteen, but her seven years of hidden seniority negated any threat he might pose. She could handle him with her eyes closed.

"Lady Eleanor will do for now, Frederick, and welcome home. Thank you for escorting my sister to me: I am relieved to know she was in such capable hands." There was nothing like good manners to ruin a bad attitude.

"The pleasure was mine," Frederick said, frowning at her, and then his face softened. "Your sister is a delightful young lady, so gentle of heart… with the eyes of a doe."

"Do you by any chance happen to write poetry? I'm certain she would love to hear some, if you do."

His face colored slightly. "I must find Henry. If you'll excuse me, Lady Eleanor?"

"By all means, brother Frederick." He sauntered away, but his lanky frame lacked the grace and confidence of his brother's. He'd be a piece of cake.

"You wanted a word with me, Lord Allsbrook?" Louise asked.

"If you have a moment." Henry stood and gestured towards a chair in his office. He had forgotten he had invited Louise to visit, what seemed like a lifetime ago. His mind lately was capable of focusing on nothing but Elle. "Did you have a pleasant journey?"

"Quite pleasant, thank you," Louise said, seating herself. "Your brother made a charming escort. I would like to take this opportunity, if I could, Lord Allsbrook, to thank you again for inviting me to visit, and so soon after the wedding. You cannot know how I have missed Eleanor."

"You two have always been close, then?"

"Yes, although perhaps not always amicably so. We had awful rows when we were children. I think we have learned since then to accept each other's faults."

"You knew that she did not want this marriage."

Louise colored slightly. "We discussed it. She did not know you, after all. And what girl wants to have her husband chosen for her with no regard to her own wishes?"

"An understandable position. One day she is happily ensconced in the home she has known all her life, and the next she has been whisked away by a stranger, to live far from those she knows and loves. I think Eleanor might be in need of a bit of familiar female company."

"Has she been nervy, then? She always could be irritable, and she was ill shortly before the wedding, you know. Father did not give her a chance to effect a full recovery."

"So she was not her usual self?"

"I do not see how any young woman could be, at such a time. But do not fear, my lord. I see clearly enough what you are asking. If my presence can in any way ease Eleanor into her new life here, then I will be most happy to listen to her concerns and lend a sisterly shoulder of support."

After she had gone, Henry sat and rubbed his face. He was sorry he had sent for Louise. His wife was like no one he had ever met, and their relationship frustrated him to the point where his jaw ached from the constant clenching, but he did not need her sister to know that Elle had all her faculties intact.

Lately, he had been the one losing his grasp on reality.

"I almost think you like her," Frederick accused. Henry cast a bland eye on his brother. "Is that so unforgivable in a husband?" It was late, and the rest of the household had retired. They sat alone by the fire, cravats undone, enjoying the quiet.

Freddie's company was not the only reason he was in the drawing room instead of his bedroom with his wife: For the past few nights, ever since Elle had brought him to his knees with the skills learned from other men, he had been avoiding joining her in bed until he was certain she would be asleep. He did not know if he was afraid of her or of himself. All he knew for certain was that he had no idea what he felt.

How could he berate her for the knowledge that had brought him yet another sexual encounter the likes of which fantasies are made? And at the same time, how could he either accept or forget her decidedly checkered past?

"She does not seem quite as bad as I had thought," Freddie admitted. "Although her sister is much more to my taste."

"I noticed."

"Do you think she did?"

"I would not worry about it." While Freddie had been moon-eyed over Louise, Louise had had eyes only for Lawrence Peabody and had plagued him with questions and flirty comments throughout dinner and the inevitable hours of socializing in the drawing room. Lawrence, his mind filled with drainage systems, had been oblivious.

The most curious element of the evening, though, had been Elle's behavior towards her sister. From his talk with Louise, it sounded as if they were close to one another. Elle, however, almost seemed uncomfortable near her sister. He even got the sense she resented Louise's presence.

Freddie gave a loud yawn and stood, clapping Henry on the shoulder. "I am to bed. I must have my wits about me, if I am to capture the heart of the fair Louise before you force me back to school."

Henry grimaced. "Lord save us from poets."

There was no point in delaying any longer. He went up to his own room and was surprised to see Elle asleep in his bed, one of the new beeswax candles burning low on the bedside table. It looked like she had tried to wait up for him, judging by the book lying open on the covers.

He left his clothes in his dressing room, and came back to the bed, standing and watching her. She looked both vulnerable and strong, a Greek goddess caught sleeping. An ancient sculptor could have used her as his model, for there was something timeless about her. He smiled, looking at her hair spread wildly about her head. She never wore a sleeping cap.

She stirred when he climbed in beside her and woke completely when he pulled her to him. To his dismay she looked vividly awake. He did not want to talk about what had happened the other day, if that was what she was here for. He would like to forget all about it and go on as if there were nothing wrong between them.

"I haven't had a chance to talk with you all day," she said. "What with Louise, and all."

"We can talk in the morning," he murmured, burying his face in her hair and trying to look tired.

"Don't be so wary. I'm not going to bring up the issue. I wanted to tell you about Lady Annalise."

He raised his head at that.

"I went to go see her today, and she was a hundred times more alert than the last time I spoke with her. She told me the most remarkable story, the one that follows the tapestries in her room."

Lady Annalise could not have. "She used to tell me that story as a boy. Refresh my memory, will you?" He wanted to hear what details she had. If Elle were making it up from her own very fertile imagination, he would know.

He listened to her retelling and to the accurate details that she added to the tapestry illustrations. The longer she went on, the clearer it became that Lady Annalise had indeed been speaking to her. Elle had not lied.

He felt a wash of relief, accompanied by a twist of confusion. What was Lady Annalise up to, ignoring him when he came to visit? When Elle finished he dropped his head back onto the pillow and made an explosive sound with his mouth. "I do not understand what that old woman is doing. I went to see her, and she would not speak a word to me. But she tells you her favorite story!"

"Well, you've already heard it."

"Very funny."

"Don't be cross about it. She might have her own logic for what she does, and there's no reason not to humor her. She has little enough to amuse herself."

Women, he reflected, could never be counted upon to be reasonable. "Do you know, when I was very little I used to believe that Lady Annalise was the fairy child left with Bartholomew's wife?"

Elle's eyes grew big, and her lips parted.

He laughed, genuinely amused, and blew out the candle. He slid down under the covers and drew her close, enjoying the scent and softness of her, too tired to wonder if even that pleasure was one he should forgo if he could not accept her warped sense of morality. "Perhaps she still has her boon and will pass it on in her will."

He was almost asleep when he heard her answer, spoken softly in the dark.

"No, I think she used it."

Chapter Twenty-one

"Ellie, is everything all right?" Louise asked.

"Everything's just fine. Why do you ask?"

They were walking along the shore of the lake, the house in the distance. The late spring air gave warm hints of the coming summer, the sun shining brightly overhead, and the wind pulled and billowed their skirts. Louise stopped and turned to Elle and grasped her hands.

"You do not seem yourself. I have been here nearly a week, and I have yet to see a sign of the old Ellie. You are so quiet with me, and so engrossed with domestic details. Are you trying to hide something? Are you unhappy here?"

Poor Louise. She truly loved her sister. How would she feel if she knew Eleanor was dead? "Henry is a good man. He may not always see things my way, but he is never unkind. If I seem different, it's because life is different for me now. I have new responsibilities, and I'm not yet so accustomed to them that I feel capable of frivolity."

"Are you in financial difficulty?" Louise almost whispered the question.

"Whatever makes you ask that?"

Louise gestured to the dress Elle wore. "These gowns. They are not what one would expect to see on a countess. What happened to your others?"

"They were horribly uncomfortable. I should have Charlotte make you up one of these. You'll see. They'll be all the rage in a few years," she said, doing a little pirouette to show off the gown. It had a high waist, short sleeves, and a skirt just full enough to make walking easy. The material was a lightweight white cotton, printed with small light green and gold flowers in narrow vertical stripes.

"You would tell me if all was not well?"

The woman would not give up. Elle squeezed her hands, then released them. "Of course I would. You're my sister, aren't you? Come, don't you have better things to do than worry about me? There's your charming Mr. Peabody to discuss."

Louise smiled, distracted. "If you could just find a way to persuade his lordship to pack Frederick back to school, perhaps I could make some progress. How can I win Lawrence, with that puppy chasing me from room to room, spouting bad poetry? Lawrence will think I have encouraged him."

If it hadn't been for Louise's romantic fascination with the shy engineer, Elle didn't know what she would have done this past week. Each day that went by had Louise casting her more and more puzzled, worried looks, as Elle behaved in a manner inconsistent with Louise's memories of her sister. At least with Lawrence around, Louise paid less attention to her.

Louise's hat suddenly disappeared from her head. She screeched in surprise, and Elle gaped at Frederick, prancing about in front of them, his prize dangling from its ribands in his hands.

"Give that back," Louise demanded, swiping at her hat.

Frederick skipped beyond her reach, pleased with his attack, his hair ruffled by the wind and making him look even more boyish. "What reward will you give me, if I do?"

Elle rolled her eyes. The last time she had seen such a courting gesture had been in junior high.

"Do not tell me," Louise snapped. "You want a kiss." He had messed her hair while yanking off her hat, and the wind was finishing the job.

Frederick's face lit up. "Mademoiselle, it would be an honor." He stepped forward, his hold on the hat ribands loosening. Louise made a grab for her hat, Frederick jerked away, and the wind won the debate, catching the wide flat brim of the hat in a sudden gust and sending it sailing out over the lake.

Louise turned on her suitor. "You idiot! Look what you have done! My favorite hat, and you have sunk it." She looked like she wanted to hit him.

They all three watched the hat settle upside down on the surface of the lake, skimming along like a boat under sail. Frederick's face was scarlet with humiliation. "Look, 'tis not sinking. I can retrieve it for you." There was a pathetic begging tone to his voice.

"See that you do."

He turned and ran along the edge of the lake to the small wooden dock. Elle watched in some amusement as Frederick set about his frantic hat rescue mission.

Louise herself regained some of her humor at his obvious distress. "I do not think I have ever seen skin turn quite that shade of red," Louise giggled from behind her hand.

Frederick obviously lacked a certain degree of skill with a pair of oars. One oar escaped the oarlock and fell into the water as they watched. Frederick spun in circles, retrieved the oar, and promptly lost the other.

"Do you think he's ever rowed a boat?" Elle asked.

"What makes you wonder? The fact that he is facing the bow and rowing backwards?"

They both giggled.

After much trouble, he at long last he came abreast of the hat, now almost at the center of the lake. He left the oars dangling in their locks and stood, stepping to port. The little rowboat wobbled.

"Frederick!" Elle shouted. "Stay low! You're going to tip over!"

He glanced up at her words and gave a jaunty wave, ignoring—or perhaps not hearing—her advice. The hat skimmed farther from the boat, Frederick reached out to get it, and in the blink of an eye the boat heeled over and dumped him.

Elle slapped her hand to her mouth, laughing. She and Louise were both bent double, their stomachs aching with hilarity.

Seconds passed and no head bobbed to the surface, and Elle's laughter died down. Frederick could swim, couldn't he?

Louise gripped her arm. "Why does he not come up?"

Elle looked at the oar dangling in the water. He could easily have hit his head going in and knocked himself out. How long had passed, half a minute? Longer? She scanned the shores of the lake. They were alone out here.

"Run to the house, Louise. Get help. Go!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Just go! I'll get Frederick." She yanked free of Louise's grip, shucked off her shoes, and plunged through the reeds into the frigid water of the lake. Her dress dragged at the water, but not so badly that she couldn't swim. Thank God for light material. "Go!" she screamed once more, and Louise finally obeyed.

The cold water was nothing compared with the fear that grew in her with every second that Frederick stayed beneath the surface of the water. She swam her efficient crawl, her strong arms doing most of the work, her feet kicking just enough to keep her legs high in the water. Fragments of rescue procedures, learned but never utilized, spun through her head.

She reached the rowboat and hung on its edge for a moment. Where had he gone down? She released the boat and dived, searching blindly through the water, opening her eyes but seeing only greenish brown murk. She went down until her ears hurt, then rushed to the surface for air.

She repeated the dive, and again, and on her fourth dive her fingers brushed his jacket. She dug her hand into the material and dragged him to the surface, her lungs bursting for air.

At the surface she wrapped her arm around his neck from behind and clung to the boat, then shouted his name at him. He didn't answer. She couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. Her muscles were feeling the cold, and she knew she would not be able to lift him into the boat.

She took a breath, then struck out for the nearest shore in a sidestroke. She shifted her hold to his hair, grabbing a thick handful on the crown of his head and towing him along, careful to keep his face above water.

She was only ten or fifteen feet from shore when someone suddenly splashed into the water and waded out to her, taking Frederick from her and dragging him up onto the bank. Other hands helped her out, but she was too intent on Frederick to pay attention to whose they were.

She saw it was Henry who had taken Frederick from her. He flipped his brother onto his stomach, and began to push at his back, trying to force out the water.

"Get him on his back!" Elle ordered. She crawled over to the prone figure and tried to shove Henry away.

"Get back, Elle. You are in the way."

"I know what I'm doing," she said, pushing at him.

When he still didn't move, she took his face between her palms and forced him to look her in the eye. She could see the desperation in those black depths, and the love he had for his brother. "Henry, trust me."

He looked at her for a long moment, and she saw when he gave himself over to her. At long last he moved and rolled Frederick onto his back.

Elle tilted back Frederick's head, clearing the airway. High school health classes and CPR practice were far away in time and memory. How many breaths? How many compressions of the heart? She pinched shut his nose, opened his mouth, and gave him a breath. It took more force than she would have thought to make his chest rise, and her own chest muscles protested the effort.

She felt for his pulse along his neck. Her fingers were so cold she didn't know if she would feel one even if it was there. She moved down to his chest, pulling at his clothes, estimating as best she could where his sternum was. Palm over back of hand, heel of palm on his chest, elbows locked, she put her weight into the thrust, and repeated it four more times.

Back to the breathing, two times. Then the heart again. The breathing. The heart. The breathing. She was only dimly aware of the people gathered around them, watching silently. Her world was the rhythm she was setting. Breathe twice, pump five times.

Her muscles were shaking when Frederick finally convulsed. She tilted his head to the side, and he vomited up lake water and whatever was left of his lunch. He took a gasping breath, and then was breathing on his own. His eyes fluttered open.

"It's okay, Freddie," Elle said, her hand brushing his wet hair back from his forehead. "You're going to be all right."

He was too dazed to answer.

"She saved your life, you little fool," Henry said softly.

She took the blanket one of the men handed to her and wrapped it around Frederick.

"Take him back to the house," she directed. "Get him warm, put him to bed."

Someone draped another blanket over her own shoulders. They lifted Frederick, then Henry helped her stand. It was only when Frederick was safely in the charge of others that Elle began to shake, whether from the cold or the fright of it all, she could not tell. She was dimly aware of Louise, keeping a distance from them all, looking pale and frightened. She couldn't find the energy to care.

Henry suddenly swept her up into his arms, blanket and all, and she felt his lips on her forehead. He was warm and solid, and she shut her eyes and let him carry her. She had been strong enough for one day.

Back at the house, she was left in Marianne's care as he went to check on Frederick. Marianne arranged for bathwater to be brought up, and fussed and clucked over her, building up the fire and peeling off her soaking clothes, and muttering about colds and pneumonia and stupid young men.

The water was not too hot, yet it burned her chilled flesh when she sank into the tub. She huddled, content for once to let Marianne wash her, her mind centered only on the warmth that was slowly reviving her body. She was halfway back to being human when Louise slipped into the dressing room.

"Do you mind if I come in?" Louise asked.

"No, not at all." She was too tired to care about anything.

"I was scared for you, swimming in after him like that. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, now that I'm warm again."

Louise was silent, watching her bathe. " 'Tis a lucky thing," she said after several minutes had passed, "your knowing how to swim. If Tommy Jenkins had not taught you that summer, Frederick would probably have drowned."

Elle shrugged.

"And remember how afraid I was, sitting on the bank, too frightened to try it myself? You must have thought me such a coward."

"No, I was afraid too."

Elle wiped rinse water from her eyes and stood, wrapping herself in the toweling Marianne held out. Louise was standing, staring at her. She was white as a sheet, and her eyes were wide. Before Elle could ask what was the matter, she turned and ran from the room.

"Poor thing," Marianne cooed, "She must have been scared for your very life."

Elle made a noncomittal sound. She hoped that was all it was, but she had the sinking feeling she had just failed an important test.

Marianne warmed her sheets with a lidded pan full of hot coals, sliding it back and forth under the covers with the long handle.

"Thank you, Marianne. You have no idea how inviting that bed looks."

"Would you like chocolate? Something warm to drink?"

"No need," Henry said, coming through the door. "I have something right here." He was carrying a lidded mug.

Marianne dipped in curtsy and withdrew, leaving the two of them alone.

"Do not just stand there and let your sheets grow cold," Henry said. "Go on, into bed."

She obeyed, her toes curling in the delicious warmth. She stacked the pillows behind her back so she could sit upright. ' "What is that in the cup?"

"Abigail's secret recipe for warming the heart." He handed it to her, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

The ceramic was warm in her hand. She pressed the lever to raise the pewter lid, and sniffed at the contents. Spices and something alcoholic. She dared a sip. "More like something to burn a hole in your stomach." She let the lid close with a clank and set the cup on the table by the bed.

"Frederick was much more appreciative of the brew."

"I'll bet he was. Is he doing all right?"

"Yes, thanks to you. I will never be able to repay you for what you did today. If it had not been for your bravery and your skill, I would have lost my brother today."

Elle squeezed his hand. "I would do anything to save you from that kind of pain."

He looked into her eyes as if searching for the truth. "You mean that."

She didn't answer. She had not realized until she said it that it was true.

He lifted her hand, her fingers bending naturally over his, and gently kissed her knuckles. He remained with his head bent, his warm lips on her skin, until she reached forward with her other hand and brushed his hair behind his ear. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and vulnerable in a way she had never seen them, no hiding, no mask of cool composure. In that moment she allowed herself to want him with her heart, not just her body.

"Make love to me, Henry."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. "Is it safe?"

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning, and she wanted to kiss him again for remembering her concerns. "I'll only be a moment."

She slipped out of bed and into the dressing room, where she kept her supplies. When she returned, Henry was already undressed and waiting for her.

"Take that off. I want to see you naked in the daylight, as I did in the forest."

She hesitated, then remembered the way he had kissed her tummy and forbidden her to lose weight. With the same crossed-hand grip she had used on her chemise in the forest, she lifted the garment over her head and flung it onto a chair. She stood on her toes and raised her arms into the air in imitation of a ballerina and did a slow pirouette to give him the complete view.

"Now come here, before I come and get you myself."

She gave him a huge grin and ran to the bed. He wrestled her under the covers, until he had her pinned beneath his leg, half his body over hers. She could see nothing but him, leaning over her. Could feel nothing but the heat of his skin and the teasing brush of his chest hair on her breasts. She slid her arms up and ran her fingers through the hair behind his ears.

"Make love to me, Henry."

And this time there were no exotic tricks meant to prove the value of experience. It was a union that expressed something more than physical desire, and Elle felt that Henry was in as much need of tenderness as she. If their joining did not reach quite the erotic heights of their previous encounter, they more than made up for it in depth.

Dinner was a subdued affair. Frederick and Elle were both absent, sleeping off the exertions of the day, but Henry had felt it incumbent upon himself to fulfill his role as host, and so presided at table. Louise was uncharacteristically quiet, picking at her food. Henry felt no more appetite than his sister-in-law, his mind preoccupied, and was almost grateful to Lawrence, who had missed the day's events and was for once guiding the conversation, plying them both with questions about the accident.

Elle's rescue of Frederick was taking on mythical proportions as the tale spread throughout the household. It was a remarkable enough story even when kept to the bare bones.

It was easy to imagine Freddie playing hero to Louise's hat and getting himself dumped in the lake: The boy was a poet, not an athlete. It was Elle's part in the drama that confounded him the more he thought about it. He had arrived at the lake in time to see her swimming towards shore, a sure hand in Freddie's hair. She was confident in the water, swimming a stroke he had never seen. Come to think of it, she was the first woman he had seen swim at all.

And then, on the shore, she had stunned them all by breathing life back into Freddy's body and forcing his heart to beat with her own hands. He did not know how she had known what to do. He himself would not have thought of it. No one there would have.

His wife, with her peculiar accent, her strange pockets of ignorance, and her even stranger and more disturbing pockets of knowledge. He had once foolishly thought he could understand and mold her, but the truth was the more he learned of her, the less he knew.

As Richard had pointed out, she was not who he would have chosen for himself if money had not been an issue. And yet, he could not now think of anyone who would have been a better choice for wife. He felt more alive than he had in a decade. God did indeed work in mysterious ways.

After a short time in the drawing room, Lawrence retired early, excusing himself with pleas of work unfinished for tomorrow. To Henry's surprise, Louise showed no signs of moving.

He studied her as she stared at her lap. There was a resemblence there to Elle, in the shape of the nose and mouth. In all other ways, he would never have thought them sisters. Louise spoke with an unremarkable accent and had shown no signs of unconventionality, or the odd beliefs that characterized her sister. She was passionate and flighty, but those were traits not uncommon in young women of her age.

"I have always found it fascinating, the disparate characters that develop among siblings," Henry said, breaking the silence. "You and Eleanor, although by all appearances very close to one another, are as different from each other as are Freddie and I."

She looked up from her lap, her expression troubled. "I have been wanting to talk to you about Ellie."

This was exactly why he had invited her to Brookhaven, but he was no longer in a mood to hear whatever she had to say. He had reached his own conclusions and was happy with them. "Go on."

She took a breath, as if gathering her thoughts. "Ellie was not always easy to be with. Maybe she was even a bit selfish." She looked at him as if asking forgiveness for this bit of disloyalty. "I loved her, even so. I knew her weaknesses. She was a good person, under the rest, if you had the time to see it."

"And what concerns you now?"

Louise bit her lip and turned her eyes away. "She has… changed."

"How so?" He silently implored her to stop.

"A lot of little things, things that I suppose could be explained by her new life. A lack of interest in friends and family, which surprised me. I would have thought she would be eager to hear the news of home."

Henry expelled a breath. Was that all?

"And a sense that… it sounds incredible, I know, but a sense that she does not know of whom I speak. She listens but rarely comments. And those dresses she has taken to wearing. The Ellie I knew would not be caught dead in anything but silk. And then there is that dog that follows her everywhere."

"Tatiana?"

"If that is what she calls it. I never saw that dog before the wedding." She clenched her hands tightly together. "I would not normally tell you any of this. As I said, I loved my sister, and I would not have been disloyal. But your wife…"

"Yes?"

Louise finally looked at him, her eyes flat and dead. "She is not my sister."

"What?" He could not have heard her right.

"That woman is not Eleanor Moore. She looks like her, but she is a stranger to me."

"That is preposterous!" He could not help himself. Was the girl out of her mind? "How could she not be Eleanor? There are other more reasonable explanations, if she is not how you remember her. Her illness before the wedding, the stress of a new life for which she was not prepared, even a mental disorder, they are all more plausible than that she is not your sister."

Louise's eyes filmed with tears, and her voice grew angry. "Do you think I have not thought of that? Do you think I have not explored every alternative in my own mind? How could she have swum out and saved Frederick, when the Eleanor I know is terrified to do more than dangle her feet in the water? She has never been past her knees in a lake, and then only when a child. I made up a story about a boy teaching her to swim, and she confirmed it, when none of it had ever happened."

"It was an emergency: People are capable of incredible acts when faced with danger. I have heard many such stories from men who have been in the Army."

"Then why did she confirm the story I made up?"

"You say she shows no interest in people she knew at home. Do you not suppose it possible the fever she had before the wedding damaged her memory? Maybe she has been afraid to admit there are things she does not remember." It would explain a great deal. He liked the idea the more he thought about it.

"Do you really think so?" Louise asked, sniffing, her handkerchief to her face. Her eyes were full of hope. "It is the most logical explanation." And he would confirm it tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-two

Elle spent the morning engrossed in her projects, her mood buoyant. First there was a long discussion with the Italian chef she had asked Cyril Tey to hire, and who had arrived the day before along with the supplies he found necessary for his craft. There would be decent food at luncheon today, and nary a slice of cold roast beef.

Next on the agenda was a meeting with Lawrence in her dressing room. He had arrived while she was with the new chef and was directing two workmen in the placement of a large crate. Other workmen were laying out tools or helping the servants empty both this room and Henry's dressing room. She and Henry would have to use other rooms for dressing and bathing while the construction was under way. Of course, he didn't know that yet.

"Is that what I think it is, Lawrence?" she asked, gesturing towards the crate.

"Do you want to see?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

A workman took a crowbar and pried off the lid and sides of the crate. Lawrence pulled out the straw packing.

Elle caught her breath. "Lawrence, it's… it's beautiful." She knelt down beside the large procelain toilet bowl painted with a blue floral design. There was unfamiliar metal-work attached, and a crystal handle atop a small cylinder. In the bottom of the bowl was a valve, closed now.

"It may take a month or more to create the necessary pipe system, construct the roof cistern, drainage pipes, everything we talked about, including building the water heater for the bath and—what did you call it?—shower."

"I know, I know, but it makes such a difference to know that it can be done. I almost didn't believe you, when you told me that these water closets were available." She ran her finger lovingly along the smooth, cool edge of the porcelain, and sighed. "You've made me a very happy woman."

Lawrence's response was a lovely pink blush.

She wanted to see Henry and sought him out in his office. He was brooding at his desk. There was no other word for it: Brooding captured it perfectly. Her mood was too bright to care, and she came around to his side of the desk and put her hands on his shoulder, leaning down and giving him an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

"Good morning!"

He took one of her hands between his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb. His expression was unreadable as he watched their hands.

"Why so glum?" she asked, sitting on the papers on his desk.

"It is hard for me to ask you this, especially after all that occured yesterday."

Elle felt her ebullient mood quiver, falling a notch.

"You sound so serious. Is this something I'm not going to like?"

"After the first time we made love, you became hysterical, do you recall? You claimed to be twenty-five years old, and you said as well that your name was not Eleanor. Do you remember the name you gave?"

Elle's mouth went dry. Why was he asking about all this now, when things were going so well?

She looked into his dark eyes, both fathomless and troubled, and knew with sudden, frightening certainty that she cared too much about him to lie. He deserved the truth, for any future she had with him would have to be built upon it.

"Wilhelmina," she whispered.

"Yes, that was it. Was there more to the name? A family name, perhaps?"

"March. Wilhelmina Regina March." Tears stung her eyes, even as speaking her own name aloud gave her courage. It had been so long since she had said it.

"Why did you claim to be her?" His voice was soft, as if he feared the answer she might give.

"Because I am her."

"Do you mean that you have forgotten who you really are?"

"No. I know who I am. I've always known."

"You can tell me if you do not remember things, if there are blanks in your mind. Louise has already said you do not act as you usually do."

"I do not act like Eleanor because I am not she."

His grip tightened on her hand, then he abruptly released her and stood, stepping away from the desk, his back to her. When he turned to her again he looked like she had cut his heart out. "That was not the answer I was expecting."

The tears gathering in her eyes spilled out over her cheeks. "It's time I told you. I don't want to lie any longer, not after yesterday."

"So where is Eleanor Moore, if you are not she?"

"Eleanor died of the influenza, a few days before the wedding. No one knows that, not even Louise."

"And how did you come to replace her?"

Elle shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't my choice. I did not plan this, did not want it. If I had known any way out, I would never have married you, would never have pretended to be someone I wasn't. I had a life of my own, and all of it, all of it was taken from me."

"Was it Eleanor's father who planned this?"

She gave a shaky laugh. "If only it were that simple. He doesn't know either. No one in Eleanor's family knows. I'm from the U.S.,"she explained. "The United States of America."

He stared at her. "Your accent."

"Yes, West Coast American. But the complete truth is harder to believe…" she trailed off.

"I am waiting."

She paused on a held breath, then expelled it. "I'm from two hundred years in the future, Henry. I think Lady Annalise asked a bunch of fairies to bring me here, to marry you. She's the changeling in the tapestry story, who had the boon she could use if ever she needed it, and she used it to bring you a wife."

His expression spoke eloquently of his complete disbelief.

"Listen, Henry," she waved her hands in front of her, eager to explain now that she had begun. "It all started when I began to feel watched whenever I left my apartment, and then someone, probably another fairy, gave me a coupon for a free husband. I went hiking in the woods with Tatiana…" She continued the story, speaking more and more rapidly, until she came to the day of the wedding. "And so you see, I've been fumbling about, trying to make a go of everything, when I had no idea what I was doing, or if I was meant to stay here, or even if I wanted to stay here. And you found me in the woods in the fairy circle—they had trapped me there, and I think they must have led you to me somehow. How did you find me, Henry?"

He put his thumb and forefinger to his brow, rubbing as if he had a headache. "This is what you believe to be the truth?"

"I don't believe it, Henry. I know it. And you'd know it, too, if you were willing to think about it. I know it sounds incredible. Here, I can try to prove it to you. I know about French and U.S. history, although I'm not so good with dates. Ask me a question. And dental work!" She opened her mouth wide and stuck in her index finger, tapping at a molar. "Have you ever seen a filling?" she garbled around her finger.

"I think we need to get you some help."

Elle jumped off the desk and came towards him. "No, Henry, go talk to Lady Annalise. She'll tell you, she has to, now that I've figured it all out."

He grabbed her wrists, holding her away from him. "Elle, there are no fairies, and you are not from two hundred years in the future. You are ill, and you are not thinking clearly. I should have seen that before."

"Look at my tooth!" She opened her mouth again, angling her head so he could see in. "No one here has anything like that."

"I have a friend who is a doctor. He knows a great deal about the new treatments for disorders of the mind."

"I'm not crazy." She struggled in his hold, but his grip only tightened.

"It is for your own good, Elle. Trust me."

"Trust you! To send me to an asylum? They'll drill holes in my head or put me in chains. How could that be good for me?"

"That is not what is done, not anymore. I would never let anyone hurt you: I owe you too much."

"Owe me?" Was that all he felt for her, a sense of obligation? She stopped struggling. He wrapped his arms around her, and she drooped within his hold, tears streaming down her cheeks. He didn't love her; he felt an obligation to her. She was just another responsibility.

He stroked her hair, murmuring in her ear, "It will be all right."

But it wasn't going to be all right. All her hopes, her willingness to forget about going home these last few weeks, her delusion that something tender could grow between them, it was all based on nothing. She knew that now. It was over.

Chapter Twenty-three

"Directly after luncheon, milady?" Marianne asked, her brow furrowed.

"Yes, if you please." Never complain, never explain. It should be her new motto.

The maid curtsied and left the library as Louise came in. Elle smothered an impatient sigh. She had things to do.

"Ellie?"

As she drew closer, Elle could see that the rims of her eyes were pink, her lids swollen. "Louise?"

Louise ran the final few steps between them and enveloped Elle in a hug. "I spoke with Henry," she said into Elle's ear. "Have no fear that I will abandon you."

Elle patted Louise's back. "I am… comforted to hear that." She tried to disengage Louise, succeeding only after the distraught young woman had planted a firm kiss on her cheek. "I could not have wished for a better sister."

Louise's lips turned up in a trembling smile, even as her eyes filled with tears. "That is the kindest thing you have ever said to me."

"Then perhaps losing half my wits has left me a better person." Seeing the girls's uncertainty, she added, " 'Tis a joke, Louise."

"I suppose it is good that you can find some humor in this."

"My, will you look at the time? We'll miss our meal if we don't hurry." She linked her arm through Louise's and dragged her out of the library and away from the possibility of further hugs and tears.

It was, Elle thought, a sorry group of pretenders who sat down for the meal. Lawrence and Freddie were apparently unaware of her supposed mental imbalance, but both seemed aware that all was not well, and were trying to hide the awareness behind a false cheeriness.

The conversation was desultory and without interest for any of the participants until the main course arrived. Clarence set down the four large plates along the center of the table, and a stunned silence fell on the room.

"It's called pizza," Elle said. "It's a traditional Italian dish. I asked the chef to make a variety, so you could try them all."

"I have never seen the like," Lawrence said.

Freddie sniffed the air. "It smells good."

"How does one eat it?" Louise asked.

Elle slid her eyes to Henry, who raised his eyes from the pizzas to her. She had the eerie sense that he was not there behind his eyes, that his soul was far away. At last he stirred.

"I imagine one eats it with knife and fork," he said.

Elle served herself a slice of margarita pizza. "One may do so," she said, and then lifted the slice in her fingers. "Or you can just do it like this."

Freddie was the first to follow suit, and the first to emit a deep groan of satisfaction. " 'Tis indecent," he said after swallowing, "that anything should taste this good." Elle watched the others taste and enjoy the new food, listened to their compliments, to their chatter as the tension loosened under the spell of pizza and wished she could go back one day, to when she could pretend to herself that she was a part of this group. Yesterday, she would have laughed and savored the pizza even more than they did.

She looked down at Henry, and saw his jaw working with mechanical regularity, his face expressionless. She doubted he even knew that he ate. Yesterday, as the song said, was gone.

"Mr. Greene! Mr. Greene, are you in here?" Elle called through the heavy foliage of one of the greenhouses. Marianne had told her the name of the head gardener, and confirmed that the staff knew better than to filch so much as a mint leaf from his domain.

She went past the lemon trees and through a door into another greenhouse, this one with smaller plants wanned by the same braziers that burned around the trees. She glanced idly at the plants, moving towards the door in the center of the building, but then stopped at a familiar leaf and hint of red.

Strawberries. She lifted one green serrated leaf with her fingertip, exposing the small, half-ripened berry beneath. There were several plants, only a few with berries that showed any hint of color. Mr. Greene would thrash anyone who dared to steal one, she was sure.

She cast a look over her shoulder. No sign of him. Using her nails she clipped off the ripest of the berries, and slid them gently into her pocket.

"Milady?"

She jumped, her face flushing. She took a deep breath and turned. "Ah, Mr. Greene. I was looking for you." She walked towards him, forcing him to turn and walk with her, away from the stripped plants.

"Did you want more lemons, then?" he asked, and she saw him try to turn his eyes back to his plants.

"No, I have quite enough for the present, thank you. It is your expertise I must draw on now," she said, leading him further down the aisle and back into the lemon tree building.

He grunted.

"I am trying to locate a plant called pearlwort."

"And what would you be wanting that for, milady?"

She ignored the question. Never explain. "I would be deeply appreciative if you could show me a sample of such a plant. If we have it in our gardens, of course."

His eyes narrowed on her, but he seemed to take the hint. She was the countess here, not he. "I know of a patch of it."

Elle slowly exhaled the breath she had been holding and followed him out into the overgrown part of the garden. He led her to a short path, with a mossy plant growing between the paving stones.

"Here be your pearlwort."

"What? That moss?"

"Aye. Some call it Irish Moss, but 'tis not a true moss. It grows little white flowers, whence it gets the name pearlwort."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. Greene. You've been most helpful."

He took the dismissal for what it was and left her. She waited until he had gone, and then, careful of the strawberries in her pocket, knelt down and plucked several strands of the plant from between the paving stones.

This time, she would not be the one trapped by fairy magic.

Elle sat in a chair pulled into a corner of the newly clean library, eyes fixed to the small table next to the open windows. On the table sat a bowl of milk, a crock of honey, a dish of butter, fresh bread, and a saucer with the precious strawberries. The book said they especially loved strawberries. On the table as well sat the bridal necklace from Henry, the gold, jade, and amber glowing warmly in the sun. No fairy could resist.

Or at least she hoped that was the case.

Tatiana lay dozing on the sofa, the back of it hiding her from sight of the window. All was ready.

Elle clenched her jaw, fighting down her own reluctance to do this. Her fate here was all but sealed. If she were dragged off to an asylum, she could always pretend to get better and abandon her "delusions," and she would be returned to Brookhaven. She would be left with no type of life she wanted to live, though. She would be watched for any sign of unusual behavior, and she did not even know how to behave in a way these people would find normal. She would be mistrusted and whispered about, and if she ever bore children she would not be allowed to raise them as she pleased.

She had to leave. She would return home, where she belonged, where she could forget that she had been foolish enough to love a man who could not know or accept her.

She felt a familiar chill at the back of her neck. She had become preternaturally sensitive to the feeling of not being alone, and the skin at her nape told her that was exactly the situation now.

She shifted her eyes from the table to the open window. It was there, a face down at the corner, only this time there was no distorting glass, and the daylight revealed its features. The fairy was androgynous, but the cap of short curling hair hinted that it might be a male. He was looking at the table with wide, nervous green eyes.

She was almost afraid to move or speak. The youth himself did not frighten her, but the thought that he might disappear again did.

He silently lept up onto the windowsill, then reached out a thin hand and stroked the necklace. Nimble fingers plucked a berry from the saucer and brought it to his mouth. The rest quickly followed.

Elle silently urged him to the milk. Drink it. Drink it.

He reached out for the bread, taking several bites, then put it back and dipped fingers in the honey and the butter, licking it off his fingertips.

The milk. Drink the milk.

He tore the bread into pieces, a child playing with his food, dabbing it in the honey and the butter and then popping it into his mouth. And then, at last, he raised the bowl of milk in both hands and drained it.

Elle closed her eyes for a brief moment. Thank you, God.

She rose from her chair and walked slowly towards him. He looked a bit befuddled, and just cocked his head at her as she approached. "Good day," she said softly. "I've seen you before, haven't I?"

He didn't answer.

"I won't hurt you. Can you stay and talk to me a little? I'm so very sad and lonely."

He blinked at her, then finally spoke. "You were fighting," he said, and his voice was high and musical.

"Yes, this morning. You heard that?"

"Saw. You were crying." He tilted his head curiously, looking at her.

"Yes, I was. I'm very unhappy."

"Not to cry. My job. Make you happy."

"Your job? Why?"

"Condition. You happy here must be."

So there was an unwritten contract that was not being fulfilled? Her heart beat a little faster. "It's not working out that way. My life here is miserable. Henry's going to have me locked up in a room with only a tiny window, and he's going to leave me there for years, because he thinks I'm crazy. Does that sound happy to you?"

The fairy's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, no! You to be happy!" He began to shift from side to side in his squatting position, bouncing on his feet in distress. "What to do? What to do?"

"Are there others watching me?"

"My job. Easy job, easy, easy, easy. No trouble, no crying, no fighting."

Elle snorted. "Where do you get your ideas about human relationships? They're never easy."

"No? Maybe this one work?" He stopped his rocking, looking hopeful.

"No, this is an especially bad relationship. Very, very bad. There is no hope for it. None."

"Ooh," he crooned in distress. "How to fix?"

She took a step forward. "Take me back home."

"No, no. no. Too hard start over, make them angry."

"Make who angry?"

He waved his hand in the air behind him. "Others. Too hard to find you. You fit."

"No, I don't fit. I need to go home." She took another step towards him.

"Think, think, think." He pounded the heels of his delicate hands against his forehead.

"Take me home."

"No, must stay."

She lunged, grabbing him by the arms. His bones felt fragile beneath her hands, and his weight was insubstantial as she hauled him off the windowsill. Tatiana, on cue, chose that moment to wake up, and stood on the sofa, her head appearing over its back. She gave a hearty woof.

The fairy seemed to shrivel into himself at the sound. He shook in her hands. Feeling both heartless and grimly determined, she dragged him over to the sofa.

"Tatia! Kitty cat! Where's the kitty cat!" she asked, knowing the reaction she would get.

Tatiana fell into a frenzy of barking and growling, leaping off and on the sofa. It was a spectacular display of sham ferocity. The fairy was limp with fright.

"I have to go home," Elle said into his ear. "If you won't take me, I see no reason not to make Tatiana eat you."

His hands fumbled at his waist, and then gold dust flew into her face.

"Release me!" the fairy ordered.

Elle tightened her grip on his arms and laughed with delighted malice. "I put pearl wort in the milk," she said, and snatched the little pouch of powder away from him. He was small enough that she could pin him against her with one arm. "You can do nothing against me."

She held the pouch out of his reach, then tilted it upside down, shaking. A fine shower of gold dust sprinkled out. "Children shouldn't have such toys," she said sourly. "They might hurt someone. Tell me your name."

"Noooo!"

"Your name, fairy boy."

He shook his head in wild denial.

"Kitty cat! Where's the kitty cat!"

Tatiana indulged in another cat-killing frenzy, topping it off by jumping upon the fairy and snapping her jaws inches from his nose.

He screeched in terror.

"Good girl, Tatia. What a good dog." Tatiana gave a low growl of happiness and wagged her tail, panting moist dog breath on the fairy's face. "Now, my little friend, what is your name? Or would you like me to dress you in scraps of iron? I hear fairies love iron."

The fairy sobbed. Elle shook him. "Your name?"

"Mossbottom."

"Thank you, Mossbottom. Now how do we get home? You're going to take me."

He nodded weakly. Elle knew he could do nothing else. By revealing his name to her he had become her slave for as long as she held him.

Mossbottom feebly gestured out the window. "Closest hill close enough."

"Then let's to it." With the powder pouch in one hand she dragged Mossbottom over to the open window and looked out. It was only about four feet from the sill to the ground. She was about to climb onto the sill when she paused.

She looked down at the wedding ring on her hand, which had looked to her like a golden shackle such a brief time before. She hadn't expected freedom. There was a catch in her heart at the thought of removing it. Doing so meant the end of possibilities.

The tears in her eyes surprised her, as she pinned Mossbottom to the sill with her hip and pried the ring from her finger. Her hand shook as she gently set it beside the bridal necklace. When she reached home, Henry would be two centuries dead. All this would be as a dream, and equally as beyond reach.

She shut her mind to the thought. This was her only chance, and if she hesitated, it would be lost.

"Up we go, Mossbottom." She hauled him with her onto the sill, and together they dropped to the ground on the other side. Tatiana leapt onto the wide sill, looking after them, whining and pacing. Elle began to walk away with the forlorn fairy, and fearful of being left behind, Tatiana jumped the short distance and joined them.

The gardens at this side of the house had not yet been touched by the new complement of gardeners. The grass was tall and lush, the shrubberies overgrown. Small burrs caught in Elle's skirt, and her shoes quickly grew damp. Small insects buzzed and whirred in the warm air.

She was sweating by the time they had left the grounds and crossed the distance to the first low hill. They climbed to its summit, which was no great height, but upon turning and looking back Elle had a glorious view of Brookhaven, the lake, and the farmland that stretched in gently rolling folds to the near horizon. Sunlight glittered on the lake. The small windows in the cupola-topped towers of the house reflected light like diamonds in a red stone crown.

This could have been her home. Henry, with his mask of self-control and his goodness and warmth underneath, could have been her husband. If she had been Eleanor Moore, she could have been happy here.

She turned her back on the view and gave Mossbottom an unkind jerk of his arm. "What now? And don't try to fool me." Her voice was harsh with threatening tears. "Tatiana will find you if you do, and I don't have to tell you what it's like to be attacked by a vicious hunting dog, do I?"

"Thought you were nice," Mossbottom blubbered. "But not!"

"That's right, I'm not. Women are dangerous when they don't have what they want, and I am a very, very unsatisfied woman right now."

Chapter Twenty-four

Henry sealed the letter to his longtime friend Dr. Joseph Samuelson. He watched the wax cool from glistening red, bright and shiny like blood, to matte hardness. He lifted the letter, weighing it in his hand, feeling a weight far heavier than paper and ink. In a sudden fury of motion he tore it in half, then again, and again, until it was nothing but scattered confetti and broken wax.

His head dropped down into his hands, and he felt a tightness in his chest that he had not felt since he had been a boy. The unfamiliar, unwelcome sting of tears came to his eyes, and he held his breath against the pain that filled him.

He did not know when or how it had happened, but he had fallen in love with his wife. There was no rhyme or reason to it, only the truth that held him tightly in its grip. He could not send her away, or put her under the care of physicians who would be blind to the magic of who she was. He loved her, and she would stay with him here at Brookhaven. It was her home. Their home.

A weight slid from his heart with the decision. He had to tell her. He scooped the fragments of the letter into his hand and tossed them in the grate as he left.

He jogged up the stairs and down the hall to her room. As he approached her door, he could hear pounding from within, and ripping and tearing. He threw open the door, and then rushed through her bedroom to the source of the noise. He stopped short at the entrance to her dressing room.

Workmen were tearing down the wall that divided Elle's dressing room from his own, and debris was scattered across the floor. Several crates were stacked against the back wall, one of which was open, revealing a porcelain toilet such as he had seen in the houses of a few wealthy friends in London.

One by one the workmen stopped what they were doing, their eyes shifting nervously to each other, and then seeking out Lawrence, who at the silence had looked up from the plans he was studying.

"Oh, dear me, Henry." He fumbled with the papers, then rushed to Henry, trying both to shoo him away and somehow hide the room behind him at the same time. "You were not supposed to see this. Not yet, anyway. It was to be a surprise, when it all was finished."

"It will still be a surprise. I have no idea of what is going on here."

Lawrence smiled. "Your wife will be so glad to hear it. A remarkable lady, if I may say so. I would not have liked to disappoint her."

Henry let Lawrence back him from the dressing room and could not find the heart to be offended when, with a little shrug of apology, Lawrence shut the door in his face. So this was what Elle and Lawrence had been whispering about for weeks: a flushing commode. And he had accused her of infidelity. Guilt rushed through him.

He was an idiot, blinded by his own preconceived beliefs. He had not once given her a fair hearing. He was as bad as Freddie, condemning her on speculation. No, he was worse than Freddie. He had had several weeks to know her and to know that she was honorable.

He felt the firm shell of logic over his heart, already cracked by love, split apart and fall away under the force of the possibilities that now appeared. Elle was different from her sister, and not just in temperament. She spoke differently, she knew vastly different things. They could not have grown up in the same house.

Elle did not quite look like—and certainly did not act like—an eighteen-year-old girl. She had a dog no one had seen before the wedding. And he himself had often felt there was something foreign about her.

The night she had run into the woods to talk to the fairies came back to him in stunning clarity. He had avoided thought of that night, ignored the otherworldly even as it was occurring, blanking it all from his mind. He had not wanted to understand, he saw that now. Even when an entire night passed in three sips from a spiced cup, he did not allow himself to believe the truth was other than he made it.

Marianne came into the room and sucked in a loud breath when she saw Henry standing so still in front of the closed door.

"Milord! You gave me a fright, you did."

He blinked, coming out of the fog of his thoughts, and turned. "Have you seen Elle about?"'

"I believe she is in the library, milord."

He made his way there, his heart beating in his chest, loud with what it had learned. The door latch was cold on his palm as he turned it, the chill stealing up his arm. The usual musty scent of the room was gone, replaced by sweet spring air.

"Elle? I need to talk to you," he said, coming in and scanning the vacant room. The windows were open, and the open door behind him created a course through which the breeze rushed, rustling papers and flipping pages of open books on desk tops and chairs. The edges of the open curtains billowed, the room in cool shadows that touched him with an uneasy foreboding.

The sun slipped out from behind a cloud, casting yellow rectangles upon the floor in front of the windows. He came into the room, looking for signs of Elle's recent presence and saw the empty plates and bowls on the table. The sun sparkled over the necklace that lay there, and he ran to it, scooping it up in his hand, and then saw the ring lying on the dark wood. He felt a cold rush run through him.

A moment later he noticed the fine gold powder on the floorboards, and knelt down on one knee to examine the sparkling substance. He touched the powder with his fingertips and brought it up to his eyes. The skin on his fingertips began to tingle and go numb. "What the hell… ?" he muttered under his breath, and quickly brushed the powder off on his breeches.

He stood up. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. His eyes went back to the traces of food on the dishes. Bread, milk, honey, butter. She had brought similar foodstuffs into the woods with her that night. Any child knew that they were fairy gifts, especially if left on a windowsill.

And any child knew that a fairy wife always returns to the fairies when her husband has done the forbidden—asked her who she really was.

She had left him.

It took only a clear-eyed look at the ground outside the window to see the obvious path she had taken. The tall grass was pushed down in a trail that a simpleton could follow, which was fortunate considering how dense he had been. He put the ring in his jacket pocket and vaulted over the sill, following her trail at a run.

He broke free of the last of the overgrown shrubberies at the edge of the gardens, and got his first clear look up ahead. There was a hill before him, and a couple hundred yards away, up at the summit, he saw her, and a fresh chill went through him. She was not alone. The figure at her side looked to be a child, dressed in some flimsy garment.

He knew, immediately and illogically, that this was not an ordinary boy. He remembered the gold dust with its odd effect on his skin.

"Elle!" he shouted. "Elle, stop!"

He saw her turn as his voice reached her, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. He could not read her expression from that distance, but she made sudden frantic gestures at the boy. Tatiana trotted toward him until her mistress snapped an order that the dog obeyed, returning to her side.

He sprinted the last hundred yards up the hill. She would not escape him, and she would not be taken from him. He did not know why, but he was certain that the boy had the power to take her from him forever.

"Henry, stop!" Elle commanded as he approached. She was pale, her eyes filled with the sorrow of her soul. He felt sick, knowing at that moment that she had abandoned all hope of him.

He slowed to a walk, now only ten feet from where she stood with the boy and Tatiana. "Elle, do not go," he said, continuing to move towards her. He took in the landscape behind her, and saw that there was no one waiting, no place she could hide from him. He was faster than she was, but his sense of urgency had not lessened.

"Stay back, Henry!" She put up her hand, palm out, as if the gesture could hold him. ' "This is the only way. You'll see that when you have the chance to think about it. You shouldn't have to live with a wife who is a burden, and I most certainly shouldn't have to live in an asylum."

"Elle, I was wrong, let me explain—" he said, stepping yet closer to her.

"No!" There was panic in her eyes. "Stay back!" When he did not obey and took yet another step forward, she reached into a small brown bag and then threw a cloud of gold dust at him. "Don't move!" The youth at her side slapped his hands to his face, his jaw dropping open.

"Elle…" Henry said, trying to step forward again. His legs did not obey him. He tried to look down at them, but could not move his head. "Elle?" he questioned, fear that he would be powerless to stop her rising in his throat. "What…?"

"You didn't believe me," she said, and tears spilled from her eyes. She did not seem to notice when the boy took the little bag from her, peering inside to check the contents. "Not that I could expect you to, I suppose. How could anyone believe the unbelievable? Maybe some part of me thought that you would take my word on faith alone. I think it takes love to do that, though. And you don't love me."

"You are wrong, Elle—"

"Don't lie now, Henry," she said, stepping up to him. He could feel her body warmth through the air between them, could see into the rich depths of her eyes. He had to say it, it was his only chance now.

"I do not lie. I—" she stopped him with a hand over his mouth, the same hand that had thrown the dust, and he felt the tingle of it on his lips.

"Quiet," she whispered.

His mind silently finished the sentence that the powder forbid his lips to utter, "… love you."

Elle rested her hands on his shoulders and stood on her toes. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, and he put everything he felt into them, praying she would see the truth there, but then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. Every muscle in his body strained to be released, to crush her in his arms, to keep her there with him forever, and every muscle failed to break the bond of the spell. He could only call to her in his mind, and accept the soft warmth of her lips against his own, deathly certain that it would be the last time he felt them.

"I love you," she whispered.

She stepped away, and turned and spoke with the boy. "I'm ready now. Sorry I had to use your powder."

The boy pouted at her and gestured unhappily at Henry. "Not good, not good. Only fairies use dust. Humans, no."

"I said I was sorry."

The fairy boy wrinkled his nose at her, then gestured at the ground. "Sit." Elle sat and brought Tatiana to sit beside her. "Hold tight to dog. This be quick." The fairy sprinkled dust over them both.

Elle's eyes move from the fairy to Henry. Her eyes locked with his, and he saw a pain there that he knew mirrored his own, only she was resigned to it while he stood frozen, fighting against the invisible bonds that held him.

"Back to beginning," the fairy said, and a black hole opened in the ground behind them. "Gone!" The pair, wife and dog, disappeared into the blackness.

The boy turned and looked at Henry. "Sorry, so sorry. Bargain not fulfilled. Will try again." He made a gesture with his hand, then followed Elle and Tatiana into the hole.

In the space of an eyeblink, the hole had closed and was covered once again in meadow grasses. Henry's muscles were released, and he dropped to his knees with a shuddering breath.

He crawled the last few feet to the place where Elle had disappeared, his fingers pressing deeply into the grass and dirt, searching for what he knew was no longer there.

He bent his head down to his knees, then flung it back, his cry echoing across the valley below.

"Where did they take her?"

Lady Annalise looked up, her mouth parting.

"She is gone. That creature, that fairy boy, took her away," Henry said and did not care that his voice was cracking. "So you can stop playing your games with me and help me get her back." He dropped to his knees beside her chair, some of the energy draining from him. "Help me."

"He was not supposed to take her back," Lady Annalise said.

He was not surprised that she spoke. "It is my fault, I drove her away."

"But she seemed so happy here."

"And she will be, if only I have the chance to tell her." He took her hand between his own, pressing gently. "Where is she?"

"It is not so much the where of it, as the when. There is no getting there from here."

He dropped her hand and stood. "I do not accept that." He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantel. He looked like a wild man. He did not care. "If she could get there, so can I."

"It is not for you to decide. It is not even for me to decide, now that I have used the boon."

"She was right about you, was she not?" He was past surprises now. "You are the changeling in the tapestries."

Lady Annalise sighed. "I would have been wiser to have let that cursed wish die with me."

He strode to her and grasped her shoulders. "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

"I do not see that it will help."

"Humor me. How did this all start?"

"Why, it started with you, of course."

He released her and stepped back. "Me?"

"You thought I was not listening. Do you remember, coming in to see me a month or so before your wedding? Trying to talk yourself into thinking the marriage was a good idea. Telling yourself that the estates were more important than your personal feelings about the girl, when it was clear to anyone with eyes that you were miserable."

"So you had her murdered and replaced?" he asked and fell back into the chair across from her.

"No, no, no one ever meant to harm Eleanor. That part was an unfortunate accident. My wish was for your marriage to Eleanor to be happy and joyful for you both. Nothing more sinister than that."

"So what went wrong?"

"Well, as you know, Eleanor Moore had a rather nasty disposition. The fairies saw that a happy outcome was unlikely with her as she was. so they set about trying to change her. Their efforts weakened her, and when she fell ill, she did not have the strength to fight off the fever."

"And that is when she died?"

"Yes. And my wish was unfulfilled, for how could you and Eleanor have a happy marriage if she was dead? So they sought someone to become Eleanor, a look-alike with a better personality, someone who would be happy to marry you. I am afraid they took my wish to literal extremes."

"And the only such person they could find—"

"Was Wilhelmina March," she finished for him. "From, I believe, the America of the end of the twentieth century."

"And just how," he said slowly, "do they think I am going to have a happy marriage with a woman not yet born?"

Chapter Twenty-five

Elle opened her eyes to the dripping underside of a sword fern. She was wet and cold, and when she pushed herself into a sitting position, her hand sank in the deep layer of muddy fir needles that was the forest floor. She shivered and looked around, recognizing the path she so often walked in the woods. It was raining, the light dim and gray.

"Is it over?" she asked Tatiana, and meant more than the trip through time. The dog had no answer for her. Her own heart was too numb to respond, to tell her if her return would mean joy or everlasting misery. She did not want to think on what it meant that she was back.

She stood and staggered a few steps down to the path. She wondered how close in time to her original departure Mossbottom had dropped her. Had her brother had time to miss her?

The thought of Jeff gave her something to focus on, and she continued down the path, Tatiana trotting at her side. Her silk slippers, damp before, were soon soaked with mud. The rain that fell and dripped through the high branches overhead plastered her light cotton gown to her skin, and she shivered. She wrapped her arms about herself and started to jog.

Her patio was just as she remembered it, with the basket of aluminum cans for recycling and the sisal mat upon which to wipe her feet and leave her hiking boots. There were no boots there now. She stepped up onto the concrete, rain water trickling down her scalp, her teeth chattering.

Tatiana shoved past her legs, wanting to be let inside. The sliding glass door reflected back the scene of grass and trees, and her own pale shape. She grasped the handle and pulled, half expecting to find it locked against her. The door slid open on its runner, and Tatiana disappeared within. Her knees shaking, she followed the dog.

Everything was as she had last seen it. The apartment was warm, and there was a faint scent of toasted bagel in the air, left over from the breakfast she had eaten so many weeks ago. She flipped on the lights and stared at the living room and kitchen that were completely familiar, and yet utterly alien at the same time. They felt lifeless and small. Dreary, even.

The phone rang. She stared at the black contraption, the ringing setting the bones of her skull to vibrate in turn. On the third ring she regained enough of her senses to answer it.

"Hello?" The receiver felt strange in her hand.

"Willie! Were you in the shower?" a male voice asked.

Elle glanced down at her sodden dress, now dripping on the worn beige carpeting. "What? No. Who is this?"

"I was thinking we could go out tonight."

"Toby?"

"Who else? Lady, lady. What am I going to do with you?"

"Not very much, by my reckoning."

"Ha ha. Really, how about going—"

Why was she listening to this? "Toby, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression," she interrupted. "I'm not interested in you." She could hardly recall his face even as she spoke with him.

Silence met her from his end of the line. Finally his voice, considerably diminished, came through the hiss of space. "Oh. Okay. Sorry. I thought… oh, never mind. See you around."

"Yeah, see you." The line went dead.

She hung up the phone, feeling no guilt. She should have been that direct from the beginning.

She looked around the apartment, feeling a roiling dissatisfaction grow in her gut. She thought of the job that she still held and would be expected to return to on Monday. Three years she had held that job, and it meant nothing more to her than a paycheck. She'd never had the guts to look for something more challenging.

Had all her decisions been motivated by fear? Afraid she wouldn't get a better job, afraid she'd have no money, afraid a nice-looking guy wouldn't give her a glance, afraid of transients on the street, afraid to walk downtown at night—afraid, afraid, afraid. Afraid to say no. Afraid she'd end up alone. Afraid no one would love her. Afraid to love someone else, because he might not love her.

She slipped off her muddy shoes and headed towards the bathroom. Tatiana was in the kitchen, sniffing at her dish of dry dog food. Eighteenth-century kitchen scraps had apparently made more appetizing fare.

She ran the hot water in the tub and looked at her bedraggled reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, and her eyes were empty. The fan whirred behind its vent in the ceiling, barely audible above the running water. She looked around the bare, antiseptic white bathroom, so small and sterile, the light harsh on her eyes. So bright, so clean, so cold.

She stripped off the dress and undergarments, pulled the lever for the shower, and stepped under the harsh spray. She closed her eyes and let the hot water course down her face, the world cut off by the sound of the water.

Henry was now no more than bones in a mouldering grave. She would never see him again. She felt her face draw downwards, the muscles pulling her mouth into a painful grimace, and a high, almost silent keening rose from her chest. She sank to the floor of the tub and put her head on her knees, letting the water beat her, inhaling water as she sobbed.

Through the murk of her pain the thought rose that once again fear had been her dictator. Fear of being thought crazy, fear of living in a world where giving birth might mean death, yes, but biggest of all was the fear that Henry could never love someone like her. So she had run and lost her only chance to fight for what she wanted.

She squeezed her knees with her arms, rocking on her buttocks on the hard fiberglass. Stupid, stupid girl. She had thought she was being so decisive, so quick to act when she had forced Mossbottom to bring her back, when the truth was that she was in the full flower of her cowardice.

Exhaustion finally lessened her tears, and as she snuffled into her knees her mind skipped through the past several weeks. She remembered her wedding dance, which she had performed so poorly, and telling Henry she wouldn't sleep with him on their wedding night. She remembered pulling Freddie to shore. A smile slipped through her pain. Maybe she had learned a little bravery along the way.

Unbidden came the memory of the last time they had made love. Had it only been yesterday? Her lips began to tremble again, and she buried the thought. "I won't think of that yet," she whispered to herself.

She had made her choice, and she was going to have to live with it.

"Thirty," Mossbottom said.

"Yes, I know. Thirty minutes."

"I wait."

"You had better," Henry muttered under his breath and set off down the muddy path.

The forest was different from those he was used to, the trees taller and darker, but at least the rain was the same as at home. Did she really walk here every day?

The path spilled out of the woods and across a lawn that led behind a long, two-storied building. He stopped to look it over, seeing the small patios in front of glass doors, one after the other. At first glance they were identical, until he noticed the personal touches. Wind chimes hanging above one. Chairs and a small table on another.

He counted down from the end, and there was Elle's house. He jogged up the path to it. The mat was there, and the basket with shiny metal, just as Mossbottom had said.

Elle heard a thump against the bathroom door and froze, listening, her eyes closed against shampoo suds. When it didn't come again she resumed her scrubbing. Must have been Tatiana. She sometimes lay against the door if Elle was in there for a long time.

The rings clattered on the rod as the shower curtain was yanked open and cold air rushed in. She screamed, and strong arms reached into the spray to enfold her, dragging her from the tub and squeezing her breathless against a hard chest, her feet dangling above the ground.

She blinked her eyes, then yowled anew at the sting of soap.

Kisses rained down upon her sudsy head and across her wet face. "You shall never leave me again, never! I have crossed the bowels of Hell to fetch you back, and I will not be made to do it again."

She felt herself carried back into the shower, only he didn't release her. He stepped in as well, holding her as the water rinsed away the soap, one hand pushing back her wet hair, his fingertips brushing aside the last drops of water from her lids so she could open her eyes.

"Surprised?" Henry asked.

He was soaked from the shower, his linen shirt transparent against his skin, the front of his hair misted with spray. Her only answer was to throw her arms around his neck and bury her face in his chest.

He broke the hold first. "There is little time, Elle."

"How did you get here? How did you find me?"

"There is no time to explain. Only time to ask—Hell, I cannot do this here." He got out of the shower, dragging her after him. She reached back to shut off the water, and then the room was quiet but for the soft whir of the ceiling fan. Elle grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around herself as he pulled her from the bathroom and into her bedroom. He sat on the end of the bed and pulled her down onto his lap.

"What is there only time to ask?" she asked, only slightly curious, too overwhelmed by his living, breathing presence to think. This couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. It was a hallucination brought on by shock and grief.

"If you will come back with me. I love you, Elle. I loved you even before I knew you were not as crazy as a bedbug."

She must be dreaming.

His arms tightened around her. "Can you forgive me? For not understanding? For not trusting in you?"

"I could ask the same of you." She traced his face with shaking fingers. "I gave you up without a fight."

"Then come back with me. Stay with me, Elle. Be my wife in the true sense of the word."

"To have and to hold?"

"From this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health—"

"To love and to cherish, till death us do part."

"And thereto I plight thee my troth," he said solemnly and slipped her wedding ring back onto her finger.

"I don't know what a troth is, but yes, Henry, I'll plight thee mine."

He kissed her, then stood, scooping her up with him. "We have to go."

"I'm not going outside in a towel." She could see the protest forming. "Trust me, Henry."

He grimaced and set her down. She ran to the dresser and yanked out jeans and a sweatshirt, and pulled them on in half a minute. Bra and panties were forgone in the service of speed. She slipped on a pair of loafers.

"Okay, done." She smiled up at him. "Bet you never saw a woman dress so quickly."

He shook his head, grabbed her hand, and pulled her through the living room. "Tatiana!" he called. "Come on, girl."

"Wait, wait, do we have to go this moment?" She pulled against his hand.

"Yes."

"But…"

"What, Elle? They promised me only a sliver of time."

"My brother, I wanted to call him, maybe see him."

Henry stopped his tugging at her. "I did not even know you had a brother."

"Two minutes? Can I have two minutes?"

His expression told her that he could not deny her. She dashed to the phone and dialed Jeffrey's number.

She had to at least hear his voice before she went. She had to say good-bye.

The machine picked up after the second ring. She listened impatiently as every member of the family capable of speech said their name, and Jeff went through the completely unnecessary litany of how to leave a message. The beep finally came, and she found herself at a loss for what to say.

"Jeffrey, this is Elle." She paused, listening to the tape fill with silence. "I love you." There was nothing else to say.

She hung up the phone and put her hand in Henry's. "Take me home."

Chapter Twenty-six

Elle watched the fluffy white cumulus clouds drifting across the clear blue summer sky, her mind wandering as freely as those puffs of wind-borne vapor. It had been a month since her return to Brookhaven, a month that had wrought deep changes not only in her relationship with Henry, but in the lives of the inhabitants of the estate as well.

The saddest occurrence had been the death of Lady Annalise, on the day of her return. When Henry brought her back through the hill, Lady Annalise had been waiting, bundled in layers of blankets, sitting on the ground with the dignity of a queen. It had been through her efforts that the fairies were persuaded to open the window of time for Henry, and it had been the final act of her long life. She was buried now on the hill that overlooked Brookhaven, the fairy hill. It had seemed more suitable than a churchyard.

Elle shifted her head on Henry's lap, turning to look at his sleeping face. He was leaning against the trunk of a chestnut tree, the hand that had been stroking her hair now palm-down against the grass. The ground was bumpy beneath her, but she didn't want to move. She had learned to take full pleasure from the present and had no intention of spoiling the moment, even if he was emitting the slightest of snores.

The matter of Louise and ethical concerns over Eleanor Moore's money had been difficult to settle. The issue of truth was weighed against reality, and they had reluctantly decided that reality carried the stronger weight. The Moore family simply would never believe that Elle was not their daughter, Louise notwithstanding. The best solution she and Henry had come up with was to claim that Elle's bout with influenza had erased significant portions of her memory and altered her personality, but that she was completely sane. If Dr. Simms could argue the influenza could give a person an accent, why not a new personality, as well? Useful thing, influenza.

They had also made it a priority to use Henry's position to find Louise a wealthy, aristocratic husband who would love her for herself. And who wouldn't ask for a big dowry.

Elle shifted a bit, her physical squirming a reflection of the moral ambiguity of the situation. She still didn't know if they had made the best choice.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she was almost asleep when Henry's fingers resumed their stroking of her hair. She opened her eyes and smiled, and lifted her face to meet his as he bent down to kiss her. This relationship as well had changed, as she had known it must. There was so much they didn't know about one another, but somewhere, in the events that had brought them together, they had learned to accept that they would see the world from different eyes and to value that difference.

Henry pulled her up into his lap, and together they gazed out across the farmlands of the estate, and the glittering water of the lake. The house stood sentinel, strong and protective, its stones silently promising to stand beyond the length of brief human life. Her sons and daughters would grow up here, and hundreds of years from now someone with her eyes would look up at her portrait in the gallery, and ask her mother who she was.

Epilogue

The electric chime of the doorbell barely penetrated the wailing maelstrom of human activity within the house, but Tina's ears, so well-trained at picking out the anomaly amidst the chaos, managed to discern it.

"Jeff, the door! Someone's at the door; can you get it?"

Jeff dragged himself to the front door, his eyes sunken from two weeks of grieving for a sister who had mysteriously disappeared, only to be found buried beneath a mudslide. It was Sunday morning, and he hadn't shaved. He was wearing old sweat pants, athletic socks with holes in the toes, and a T-shirt covered by an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His hair stuck out at odd angles.

He opened the door. A small woman in a brown uniform stood there, holding a clipboard out to him.

"Sign here," she instructed, tapping a line with a ballpoint pen.

"I didn't think anyone delivered on Sundays."

"It's a growing market," she said cheerfully, her odd green eyes sparkling. Two short men came around the corner of the garage, carrying a large, fiat crate. "Do you want it inside?" the woman asked.

Jeff shrugged and stepped aside, and the men carried the crate into the living room, leaning it against the mantel of the gas fireplace.

"Now you have yourself a nice day, sir!" the woman chirped, and the three filed out, closing the door behind them.

Tina emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, Clarence following her with a half-chewed slice of apple in his hand. The repetitive banging of pots could be heard from where his little sister sat denting the cookware on the linoleum floor.

"Did you order something?" Tina asked.

"No. You?"

She shook her head. "Who's it from?"

Jeffrey searched the crate for a label, but found none. "Maybe it was delivered to us by accident."

They both stood and looked at the crate.

"Well…" Tina began, "I don't suppose we'll really know unless we open it."

"Open it! Open it!" Clarence chorused.

"There's a crowbar in the garage," Tina said.

Jeff bowed to familial pressure and went to fetch the crowbar. Several minutes later the crate was open, and Tina was helping him remove layers of padding and waterproof coverings.

"I think it's a picture of some sort," Tina said, as the thick, ornate edges of the frame became visible.

They lifted off the final layer of wrapping, exposing the painting that hid beneath. It was nearly five feet wide and nearly as many tall, and depicted a family dressed in a style from two centuries past. The date in the corner said 1799.

"Oh, God, Jeffrey…" Tina gasped, her hand going to her mouth. She looked at her husband, and saw the film of tears in his eyes. He sniffed once. "Look, there's an envelope attached." She squatted down and carefully tugged loose the square of thick paper from where it had been wedged into the bottom corner of the frame and handed it to him. His name was written on the outside in faded ink, in handwriting that he recognized as belonging to Elle.

He stepped back, dropping down into the recliner, and stared at the painting. That was his sister sitting there in that dress from another time and Tatiana panting happily beside her. A dark, handsome man stood behind the sofa on which she sat, leaning his elbows on the back of the sofa, one hand playing with a lock of her reddish hair. She held a tiny baby in her arms, and beside her a little boy sat playing with a blue ball.

Jeffrey's hands shook as he turned over the envelope. It was sealed with deep red wax, imprinted with a heraldic device. He broke the seal, and unfolded the letter—it had not been an envelope at all, just the back side of one of the sheets.

December 25, 1799

Brookhaven, England

Dearest Jeffrey,

If all goes as planned, you will be reading this some short while after I left that too-short message on your machine. I'm sorry about that. I didn't have time to explain further, and now I have all the time in the world. There are benefits to knowing your descendants will be around to fulfill your wishes two centuries hence, making sure paintings and letters get delivered when they should. Or at least, Henry assures me they will follow the instructions of a long-ago ancestress, however unreasonable. And so you have this painting and this letter, and a chance to hear me tell a tale such as you have only read in books…

When he had finished reading the letter, he carefully folded it and sat staring at the face of his sister, smiling enigmatically from the painting. Slowly, and for the first time in many days, he smiled too.

Believe

Victoria Alexander
 

Tessa thinks as little of love as she does of the Arthurian legend—it is just a myth. But when an enchanted tome falls into the lovely teacher's hands, she learns that the legend is nothing like she remembers. Galahad the Chaste is everything but—the powerful knight is an expert lover—and not only wizards can weave powerful spells. Still, even in Galahad's muscled embrace, she feels unsure of this man who seemed a myth. But soon the beautiful skeptic is on a quest as real as her heart, and the grail—and Galahad's love—is within reach. All she has to do is believe.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

An Original

Sin

Nina Bangs

Fortune MacDonald listens to women's fantasies on a daily basis as she takes their orders for customized men. In a time when the male species is extinct, she is a valued man-maker. So when she awakes to find herself sharing a bed with the most lifelike, virile man she has ever laid eyes or hands on, she lets her gaze inventory his assets. From his long dark hair, to his knife-edged cheekbones, to his broad shoulders, to his jutting—well, all in the name of research, right?—it doesn't take an expert any time at all to realize that he is the genuine article, a bona fide man. And when Leith Campbell takes her in his arms, she knows real passion for the first time… but has she found true love?

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Windmills in Time

Victoria Bruce

New Yorker Dierdre Brown is an independent modern-day woman. She doesn't need a man for anything; not love, not money—not anything. So when a twist of fate casts her back in time to the wild Nebraska plains, she is sure that with the fierce determination she learned on the city streets, she'll find her way back home. But when handsome cowboy Jesse Colburn takes her in his arms on the wide-open grassy plain, she feels an intensity in his embrace that she has not known in the men of her own time. And she begins to wonder if this is where she belongs: close to the earth, close to Jesse.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Lady of the Night

Gordia Byers

Manacled to a stone wall is not the way Katharina Fergersen planned to spend her vacation. But a wrong turn in the right place and the haunted English castle she is touring is suddenly full of life—and so is the man who is bathing before her. As the frosty winter days melt into hot passionate nights, she realizes that there is more to Kane than just a well-filled pair of breeches. Katharina is determined not to let this man who has touched her soul escape her, even if it means giving up all to remain Sedgewick's lady of the night.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Virtual Heaven

Ann Lawrence

The warrior looms over her. His leather jerkin, open to his waist, reveals a bounty of chest muscles and a corrugation of abdominals. Maggie O'Brien's gaze jumps from his belt buckle to his jewel-encrusted boot knife, avoiding the obvious indications of a man well-endowed. Too bad he is just a poster advertising a virtual reality game. Maggie has always thought such male perfection can exist only in fantasies like Tolemac Wars. But then the game takes on a life of its own, and she finds herself face-to-face with her perfect hero. Now it will be up to her to save his life when danger threatens, to gentle his warrior's heart, to forge a new reality they both can share.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

A Love Beyond Forever

Diana Haviland

In the solace of slumber he first tempts her—a dark-haired stranger with a feral green gaze—and Kristy Sinclair sees the promise of paradise reflected in his eyes. She swears it is only a dream. But in a New Age boutique, an antique hand mirror shows the beautiful executive more than mussed lipstick—that magnificent man, and a land she has never before known. Suddenly, Kristy is in Cromwell's England. And when an ill-advised remark turns into a brush with the Lord Protector's police, Kristy finds a haven in the solid arms of Jared Ramsey—the literal man of her dreams. But after one rousing kiss from the rogue royalist, Kristy is certain she is awake—and she knows she must learn of the powers that rule her destiny.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Elaine Fox

The Impostor

Melisande St. Clair knows who she is and what she wants, and when Flynn Patrick steps out of the water and into her life, she knows that his is the face of which she's dreamt. But when she is forced to travel with the handsome stranger, he claims he is from another time and makes suggestions that are hardly proper for a nineteenth-century lady. Although she believes no one could mistake him for an English gentleman, the Duke of Merestun swears that Flynn is his long-lost son. Suddenly, Flynn seems a prince, and all Melisande's desires lie within reach. But what is the truth? All Melisande knows is that she senses no artifice in his touch—and as she fights to remain aloof to the passion that burns in his fiery kiss, she wonders which of them is truly… the impostor.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Bobbi Smith

The Lady & the Texan

"A fine storyteller!"—Romantic Times

A firebrand since the day she was born, Amanda Taylor always stands up for what she believes in. She won't let any man control her—especially a man like gunslinger Jack Logan. Even though Jack knows Amanda is trouble, her defiant spirit only spurs his hunger for her. He discovers that keeping the dark-haired tigress at bay is a lot harder than outsmarting the outlaws after his hide—and surrendering to her sweet fury is a heck of a lot riskier.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Janeen O'Kerry

Queen of the Sun

Riding along the Irish countryside, Teresa MacEgan is swept into a magical Midsummer's Eve that lands her in ancient Eire. There the dark-haired beauty encounters the quietly seductive King Conaire of Dun Cath. Tall and regal, he kindles a fiery need within her, and she longs to yield to his request to become his queen but can relinquish her independence to no one. But when an enemy endangers Dun Cath's survival, Terri finds herself facing a fearsome choice: desert the only man she'd ever loved, or join her king of the moon and become the queen of the sun.

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.