They had been formally betrothed after three months, and Edward had accepted an invitation to spend the annnmer months on her father's estate. They were to be married at the end of August. The months had been Suss, heaven on earth. As they were betrothed and so soon to be married, they had been allowed more freedom than Edward had ever expected.

In the middle of August he had explained to her a theory of his. The idea was that a betrothed couple could best show their love and their total trust in each other's vows by giving themselves to each other. He realized that for her this would be a greater commitment, but she could show him the way she would totally entrust herself to his keeping by giving him now what most girls withheld until the wedding night. He had been utterly sincere in this suggestion. It had not been an elaborate seduction ploy.

He had expected denial, or reluctance, or at best a sweet and shy surrender. They were on a deserted hill at the time, sitting on the grass before a Greek-style folly. He had not expected her to get to her feet, as she had, and begin to remove her shoes and stockings and turn her back with a smile for him to unfasten her dress. He had been delighted, but puzzled, by her total lack of embarrassment as he uncovered her body in the bright sunlight and then undressed himself. He had been unprepared for the way she lost no time in lying down and positioning herself for him, reaching up with eager arms to pull him onto and into her. She had not been a virgin.

She had told him afterward, as he lay bewildered at her side, one arm beneath her neck, that she would marry him because her papa wished it and because she now discovered that it would be great fun in addition- this with her innocent, wide-eyed smile. But he must not expect her to be faithful. She already had lovers- she named two men, with both of whom Edward was acquainted-and intended to continue the liaisons. She would not, of course, ever make mention of his own lapses. But she would, naturally, always observe the proprieties as she expected him to do.

Edward had dressed and stood looking down to the lake at the bottom of the hill while Annette clothed herself in more leisurely fashion. He had told her, coldly, that she would find some reason to put an end to their betrothal. If she did not, he would disclose the fact of her affairs, including the names of her lovers. He had walked down the hill without looking back.

And he had learned his lesson well that time. In eleven years he had had no relationship with a woman. He bedded one when he felt the need, sometimes the same woman on more than one occasion if she were beautiful enough. and if she satisfied his needs well enough. But he had never set up a mistress and had never come closer to a woman of his own class than the occasional conversation at a dinner table or the rare dance at a ball if he felt he could not avoid it.

The Earl of Raymore set down his empty glass on the polished table at his right elbow and moved into the dining room.

Sylvia and Rosalind were awed when they entered the Earl of Raymore's home. The hall was enormous, the marble floor echoing beneath their footsteps. White marble busts lined the walls, huge paintings hung above them, gleaming chandeliers were suspended from the high ceiling. A broad marble staircase ascended from the center of the hall, two branches leading to an upper gallery and the upstairs apartments.

A wooden-faced butler conducted the two young ladies past impressive liveried footmen and ushered them into a salon. He bowed himself out and closed the double doors behind him.

"Surely Carlton House cannot be grander than this," Sylvia whispered. Somehow it seemed inappropriate to speak aloud in such surroundings. "Our guardian must be enormously wealthy, Ros."

Rosalind was standing with her back to the room, her attention caught by the painting over the mantel. "It is surely a Rembrandt original," she said in awe.

"Oh, do you think so?" Sylvia asked, glancing briefly at the painting. "Ros, I feel decidedly nervous. How long will he keep us waiting here, do you suppose?"

Rosalind too glanced hastily in the direction of the doors and sat down abruptly in a nearby chair.

They were not kept waiting for long. A footman opened the doors only a couple of minutes later and stood aside while a lady rustled into the room. The girls had a swift impression of a large, big-bosomed lady, fashionably dressed in a day dress of silver-gray silk, her face rouged, her gray hair frizzed and piled high on her head beneath a white lace cap, a lace handkerchief waving from one heavily ringed hand.

"My dears," she said, "I knew you would arrive today. Did you have a dreadfully tedious journey? I hate being cooped up in a carriage myself, especially in fine weather like we have been having. But no matter. You are here now and will be rested in no time. Would you like some tea, or would you like to be shown to your rooms immediately? Of course, you must need refreshment. I am sure your coachman did not stop for any, once he knew that he was close to the end of his journey. Come up to the drawing room. Gracious, how I shall enjoy having your company, girls. I have not had the excuse to go into society a great deal since my dear Arnold died twelve years ago. Now I have the come-out of two charming young ladies to arrange, and I shall enjoy every moment of it. I always regretted that I had no daughters of my own. Now, which is which of you two? That is a silly question, of course. You must be Lady Sylvia Marsh, my dear. You have the family coloring And you, of course," she said, turning to Rosalind, "have inherited your dark hair from your Italian mother. Now, am I right? And how stupid of me. You must both be wondering who I am, since I am very obviously not the earl. I am Sylvia's papa's Cousin Hetty."

She paused for breath and smiled broadly.

Rosalind, still seated, felt overwhelmed. So this was the Cousin Hetty who had been going to stay with her while Uncle Lawrence accompanied Sylvia to London for her come-out.

"I am pleased to meet you, ma'am," Sylvia was saying, extending a hand. "Is his lordship not at home?"

He is expected for dinner," Cousin Hetty replied. "But there is plenty of time before that for you to drink tea and to retire to your rooms to change and freshen ?p.

She led the way from the room and up the marble staircase to the drawing room above. While Sylvia seated herself and Cousin Hetty rang the bell for tea, Rosalind forgot herself enough to cross the large room.

"What a beautiful pianoforte," she said, running a hand reverently over the highly polished wood. "Does the earl play?"

"No, my dear," Cousin Hetty replied, "but he is a well-known patron. He holds a concert in his home each year. But not in this room. If you think this a beautiful instrument, wait until you see the music room." She nodded her head.

Rosalind recrossed the room to take a seat beside Sylvia.

"Did you hurt yourself on the journey, my dear?" Cousin Hetty asked her with concern.

Rosalind blushed hotly. "No, ma'am," was all she could say. She knew that for politeness' sake she should have explained, but she did not, and the moment passed.

The Earl of Raymore did not return for dinner. Rosalind was both disappointed and relieved: disappointed because she wanted to get the ordeal over with, relieved because she was tired and was glad to postpone the meeting until another day.

All three ladies retired early to bed at Cousin Hetty's insistence. And indeed she was tired, Rosalind reflected. She hoped she would sleep. She had seen the music room during the evening and had been awed by the magnificence of the pianoforte there. It was a work of art just to the sight, but its tone when she ran her fingers over the keys was exquisite. She was excited, too, to discover a harpsichord. She had never seen one before and had thought them to be quite out of fashion. But she was delighted by the harsh and yet dignified sounds that it produced when she played a few bars of a Bach fugue.