Margaret's mother had whisked her away home without more ado, and she had not been allowed to attend any social functions for the next week.

That night had been an end and a beginning for Margaret. It had been the end of her delight in the activities of the ton. She had participated in a vast number of events for the rest of that Season and for the next five, and she had received three offers of marriage, one at the end of that first Season from an earnest young man who wrote a sonnet to her eyes, and two others in later years. But she had not been able to force herself either to enjoy the activities or to welcome any of the proposals. It had been the beginning of her undying and hopeless passion for the Earl of Brampton.

She had seen him with fair frequency. She had even danced with him on rare occasions, always for country dances or quadrilles, never for the waltz. And he had never shown the slightest hint of recognition or even a gleam of interest in her. Margaret had borne it all in patient silence. Only Charlotte had guessed that she had had an unhappy love experience in her past, and Charlotte thought the whole painful situation unutterably romantic.

And now, by some bizarre twist of fate, Brampton had chosen her for his bride. Margaret was in no doubt of the reason. A nobleman in his thirties, who had a reputation as a habitual womanizer, could have only one possible reason for wanting to marry a virtual stranger. He wanted children to secure his line. Like other men of his type, he would turn elsewhere for love, and she would be expected to act as if she did not know or care. Margaret suppressed a sob of despair.

But at least she would have part of him. She would share his name. She would live with him and see him daily. She would finally, after six long years, find out what it was like to be in bed with him. Margaret, even at the age of twenty-five, was still not quite sure what happened between a man and a woman in bed, but she remembered quite clearly what had started to happen to her body when he had caressed her with expert lips and tongue and hands.

Margaret shivered and sighed. And finally she closed her eyes and slept deeply.

Richard and Margaret Adair, Earl and Countess of Brampton, sat side by side on the comfortable green velvet seat of his traveling couch. They had been wed that morning and were on their way to the earl's chief seat, Brampton Court in Hampshire, for their honeymoon. They sat now in silence, their forced and stilted conversation having flickered to an end an hour before. Margaret had her eyes closed and pretended to sleep.

Brampton looked across at her from his corner, his eyes inspecting her slowly from head to foot. She had removed her pink bonnet; it lay on the seat opposite. He looked at the brown hair, drawn severely back from her forehead and the sides of her face and coiled in heavy braids on top of her head. Not a wisp or a curl had been allowed to escape, to tease a man's imagination or make his fingers itch to explore. Her face (yes, it was definitely heart-shaped!) was composed, eyes closed, long eyelashes resting lightly against her cheeks, her lips set together.

She still wore her deep-pink velvet pelisse. It hid her figure, though he could see the regular rise and fall of her slight breasts. Her hands, clad in white kid gloves, were clasped neatly in her lap. Her feet in their white ankle boots were set side by side on the floor. He tried to feel some flicker of desire for this meek little wife of his, and felt nothing. He looked into her face again, and at the same moment, those large eyes opened and gazed blankly into his. Brampton felt that same uncomfortable jolt he had experienced on other occasions when he had unexpectedly met her eyes.

"Has the journey tired you, my dear?" he asked kindly.

"A little, my lord," she replied. "These last four weeks have been busy."

"You must call me Richard now," he said, irritated, and turned to the window to stare out at the passing countryside.

Yes, they certainly had been busy weeks, but he thanked Providence for that. He had had little time to think about the fate in store for him, little time to grasp at dishonorable schemes for getting out of his unwanted betrothal.

He had Devin Northcott to thank. His mother and Margaret's had immediately swept to the attack and taken over all the organization of the wedding. Devin, Brampton's friend since childhood, whose parents owned the estate adjoining Brampton Court, had devoted himself to filling every spare moment of his friend's time to keep his mind off his inevitable doom.

"I say, Bram," he had said on first learning of his friend's betrothal, "didn't know the wind lay in that direction. And Miss Wells? Do you have a tendre for her, old man?"

Brampton had snorted. "My mother's and Rosalind's choice," he had explained. "Impeccable lineage and reputation and morals and all that."

"I say, though, Bram, you are planning to turn respectable?" his friend had asked anxiously.

"Have I ever been anything but?" Brampton had raised his eyebrows and favored his friend with a haughty glare.

"Oh, say, Bram, don't come the frosty aristocrat with me," Devin had said, unperturbed. "No offense meant. Was referring to Lisa."

"I shall be quite respectable enough for my wife and my mother and my sisters-all three of them, Dev," the earl had said decisively. "What I do privately and discreetly will hurt no one."

"So Lisa stays," Devin had concluded. "Not fair to the little Miss Wells, though, Bram," he had added daringly.

Only a close friend could have got away with such open criticism of the Earl of Brampton.

"I live my own life, Dev," was the stiff reply he received.

And Devin Northcott had devoted himself to seeing that his friend enjoyed his last few weeks of freedom. They had ridden, played cards, drunk, gone to the races and to boxing mills, spent hours at Jackson's boxing saloon, and wandered from club to club at night, very often not returning home until the early hours of the morning.

Lisa had not been too perturbed by his approaching nuptials. She knew that there was no hope of his marrying her, a mere opera dancer. He was a generous and an attentive protector. She had a comfortable home, an adequate number of servants, many expensive clothes and jewels, and a generous allowance of pin money. She knew from research she had done when he had first suggested becoming her protector that he made generous settlements on his ex-mistresses. She also knew from similar research that Miss Margaret Wells was a little mouse of a woman, almost middle-aged-all of twenty-five to Lisa's twenty-and quite unlikely to be a rival in her lover's bed.

Brampton had visited her more frequently than usual in those last few weeks. He had not been sure how frequently he would be able to get away to her for the first weeks of his marriage, and Devin's comment had made him wonder whether his conscience would allow him to enjoy the illicit liaison once he was a married man. He had bedded Lisa with almost desperate passion in those weeks, allowing his body to become satiated with her practiced feminine charms. His mind had constantly made comparisons with his fiancee's body.

Gazing now out of the carriage window without seeing the passing scenery, Brampton acknowledged he felt some relief that the waiting period was finally over, that the knot was tied. Now that he knew there was definitely no way out, perhaps his mind would be less tortured. The only big ordeal ahead was the consummation of the marriage that must take place within the next few hours. Once that was over, they would be able to settle down into some sort of routine. And he would see that he spent much of his time alone. It was a while since he had visited Brampton Court; there would be plenty of estate business to keep him occupied. And his wife would have much to learn about the house and the running of the household. He would feel contented to leave her in the capable hands of Mrs. Foster, the housekeeper.