He had finally gone, late, to the opera. For once, he had not enjoyed the music. He scarcely heard it, in fact. His sole object had been to watch the little redhead dancer and to meet her backstage afterward. Perhaps she had attached herself to someone else by now. He had certainly neglected her of late. But it was worth a try.

Raymore had spent a most satisfactory night with the creature, who was everything a woman should be. She kept her mouth shut, gave him exactly what he wanted and more, and made no demands afterward for further meetings or for a more permanent arrangement. She had no cause to complain, of course. He had paid her well enough.

He should be satisfied. He had quickly regained his former manner of living. He was free of his wards for a few days and soon would be free of them altogether. He concluded that his restlessness was due to the fact that he knew this breathing space was only temporary. At the end of the week they would be back again and his home would not be his own.

He had decided earlier in the day, as soon as final arrangements had been made with Hans Dehnert, that he would journey into Sussex the following morning, three days before he had originally planned to do so. It might appear ill-mannered if he arrived for only two days when he had been invited for the whole week. And he had to make sure that the engagement was really satisfactory. Rosalind was a schemer, a woman of somewhat loose morals, he suspected, but she was a lady and his ward. If Crawleigh did not truly want her, or if he saw her merely as a plaything, then the betrothal must be ended without further ado. He would send her to live at Raymore Manor when the Season was ended if that was what she really wished. He had other homes in which to stay himself when he tired of town. He need not be troubled by her presence.

Raymore finally left Watier's, taking his hat and cane from the porter. He moved on to White's Club, where he joined a circle of acquaintances for dinner. He spent most of the night playing cards, unable to stomach the thought of searching out the little dancer again. He arrived home with the dawn, somewhat the worse for drink.

Rosalind woke up the following morning feeling more cheerful and more energetic than she had done for a long time. She had lain awake for a while the night before, hands clasped behind her head, thinking through the events of the last weeks, assessing what had happened, sorting out her feelings, trying to understand why she had felt guilty with Bernard that afternoon.

It seemed that events had just happened to her, almost without her will, since the summons came from her guardian for her and Sylvia to travel to London. She had been so used to ordering her own life. Suddenly to be catapulted into society had been a shock. She had been sure that after that first appearance no one would want to know her and she would be allowed to return to the way of life she knew. She had been somewhat upset by Sir Rowland Axby's attentions and by her guardian's insistence that she listen to his addresses. And she had been relieved to discover Sir Bernard Crawleigh, who had been friendly and relaxed from the start. Her engagement had been embarrassing because she could never be sure if Bernard had been precipitated into it before he was ready or whether, in fact, he would ever have been ready.

These were the facts she set out before herself to consider. No, there was one more. There was the Earl of Raymore himself. Rosalind frowned and gazed up at the darkened hangings above her bed. What was it about him that always hovered in the back of her mind? He was an unpleasant man, cold and domineering. It seemed that she could never be near him without all her nerves bristling. Was it hatred that kept him always there on the fringes of her consciousness?

She found him attractive. Now that she was away from him, out of his house, she had to admit that fact. He was gorgeously handsome with that thick blond hair, aquiline features, and perfectly proportioned body. That she could never deny. Her dream man, Alistair, had looked almost identical. Poor Alistair! She had almost forgotten him. But it was not just Raymore's looks that attracted. He had an almost irresistible magnetism for her. She thought of that kiss again and compared it, point by point, with Bernard's caresses. He had taken every one of the liberties with her that her betrothed had taken, and more, and she had not resisted as she had that afternoon. She grew hot at the memory of how it had felt to be in Edward's arms for those brief moments, the very sexual kiss, his hands moving forward possessively from her back.

Yes, she must admit it. It was the only way she might be able to solve the problem. She found the Earl of Raymore a very attractive man. She felt uncomfortable in his presence, partly because she wanted him. She felt infinitely better just admitting the truth to herself.

Having admitted it, she could look at the situation rationally. It was not love that she felt. She disliked Raymore, even despised him. She could not imagine that they would ever find a topic on which they might agree. The attraction was entirely physical. There could never be a relationship between them, even if he felt the same way. And he had made it quite clear from the start that he returned all her feelings, but that he also found her physically repulsive.

Well then, Rosalind thought with great good sense, she must totally ignore the attraction. It was not worthy of her attention. And having decided as much, she turned her attention to Bernard. Should she continue to feel guilty about having unwittingly trapped him into a betrothal? Today he had not behaved like a man who had been unhappily caught by his own sense of honor. He had quite deliberately invited their t?te-a-t?te by the stream and he had shown every sign of finding her attractive. His lovemaking had not been merely a dutiful embrace. In addition, he was still friendly and teasing.

The fact was that he had proposed, even when she had told him that he need not. She did not have to feel responsible. The only question still to be considered, then, was whether she could be happy with the match. Bernard was a man she could like and respect. And he was an attractive man. She enjoyed his caresses, though she had been somewhat uncomfortable with their ardor that afternoon.

Rosalind fell asleep after determining that, from that moment on, she would accept her betrothal wholeheartedly. She would be confident that she was the woman he wanted to marry and she would allow him to set the pace of the courtship. The Earl of Raymore would exist for the future only as her guardian, and even that position would be his for only a couple of months longer.

All the ladies went shopping the following morning. The village three miles away boasted only a few shops, but the haberdasher's was pronounced to be a very tolerable establishment and Lady Theresa and Sylvia each found straw bonnets at the milliner's that were most becoming.

The gentlemen had had a morning of riding. Both groups were in high spirits at luncheon and greeted with enthusiasm Lord Standen's suggestion that during the afternoon they all walk to the lake that was a mile away through the trees. A picnic tea would be sent by wagon later.

Lord Standen took Sylvia on his arm and led the way through the shady woods to the east of the house. "You will like the lake, my dear," he told her as they walked. “It is most picturesque. You will be able to sketch here for hours after we are married."

"I never did learn to sketch or paint in watercolors with any great success," she replied apologetically. "Ros was always the artistic one."