Rosalind sat up in the four-poster bed and gazed around her at the elegant bedchamber that was to be hers during her stay in Grosvenor Square. She clasped her raised knees and laid her chin on them. Would he allow her to return home again? He would know immediately that she was no candidate for a marriage market. She would not be able to endure much of this. It had been ordeal enough today just to know that the butler and those footmen had witnessed her defect, in addition to Cousin Hetty. Surely he would never insist that she go out in public, though Cousin Hetty had talked constantly during dinner about all the social events that theywould attend after his lordship's ball the following meek had introduced them properly to the ton.

It was not that Rosalind was not interested in marriage. She had all the normal impulses and cravings of any other girl. She was two and twenty already. The last four or five years had been long and lonely ones, especially when Sylvia grew old enough to attract the admiration and attentions of almost every young man who set eyes on her. Rosalind was not jealous of Sylvia- she was too close to her cousin and the girl was too sweet-natured for that. But her cousin's constant presence in her life did serve to emphasize her own deficiencies as a woman.

Rosalind compensated for what was missing in her life in several ways. She rode a great deal when she was at home, using up energy and challenging herself by gallopingFlossie and jumping hedges and fences that could quite easily have been avoided. Indoors, she occupied herself with music, both playing and singing, and with painting and reading.

And Rosalind had a dream companion. He never could be a real man, she realized that. He was too perfect. He was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and long legs. He had thick blond hair and deep-blue eyes. It was the eyes that she could imagine most clearly. Their expression could change from humor to deep concern, but they were always focused full on her, and there was always a smile lurking in their depths. He loved her. To him she was perfect. He loved her black hair and pale skin; he told her that her defect did not make a mockery of her shapely figure. It was a lovely woman's body, he said. And he would discuss for hours with her the books she read, the dreams she had. It was not a physical relationship. She never imagined him kissing her. She did sometimes rest her head on his comfortingly broad shoulder, though, as they talked. She called him Alistair. He had no last name.

He comforted her now as she slid down on the bed after blowing out the candle and tried to sleep. She was beautiful and she was a person who mattered a great deal to him. She was important. Rosalind almost believed him as she fell asleep.

The Earl of Raymore found out from his valet very late that night that his wards had indeed arrived. But he was in no hurry to meet them. It was Hetty's job to entertain them, take them shopping and sight-seeing. That was what he had brought her here for. His own task would not begin until the ball the following week. At least his wards would be well on display then, he thought with an unamused smile. His invitations had been accepted by almost everyone to whom they had been sent. It was no ordinary event to be invited to a ball given by the Earl of Raymore. Very few of the beau monde could even remember what the ballroom of his house looked like. Most of them had seen only the music room in recent years.

It was quite late the following afternoon when the earl finally presented himself in the drawing room, where his cousin and his wards were taking tea. Hetty dropped a miniature poodle to the carpet and came hurrying toward him to make the introductions. The earl largely ignored her. His eyes swept the two girls, who had risen to their feet and v/ere curtsying to him.

His eyes were drawn first to the little blonde. Pretty. Quite beautiful, in fact, once she had been got into more fashionable clothes and had something done to her hair. Thick clusters of ringlets had never appealed to his taste. She was blushing a becoming shade of pink and had large, innocent blue eyes fixed anxiously on his face. He immediately distrusted the eyes. He bowed eoolly and turned to the other girl.

A more tricky proposition, he decided immediately. Her coloring would not please easily. Dark hair was not fashionable, and hers was positively black. She was too tall also, and had nothing for a figure; though it was hard to tell what was beneath that ill-fitting sack of a gown that she wore. Her face was too pale, though the eyes were fine enough. He did not like the expression on her face. Although she watched him as wide-eyed as the other girl, there was a tightness about her jaw that suggested a stubborn will. Well, she had a good-enough dowry, he reflected. There would be some fool who would think her an acceptable-enough bargain. He bowed. his face as expressionless as when he had en-laved the room.

Rosalind was finding it impossible to relax. If she unclenched her teeth, her whole body would start trembling and she would crumble. Alistair had never looked at her like that: coldly, a sneer on his lips, as if she were a piece of unwanted merchandise. Yet he was Alistair! The same height, tall enough to make her feel petite, the same magnificent build, the same hair and eyes. Strangely, she had never pictured Alistair's mouth, but it must surely be the one feature that was different. She would never have created that sensuous mouth, certainly not with the distortion of a sneer. And the eyes. She could see through Alistair's eyes into his very soul, These were opaque. It would be impossible to know what went on in this man's mind. She shivered involuntarily.

The earl was seated now, making polite but stiff conversation with Sylvia, who was glowing, seemingly undisturbed by the sneer and the empty eyes.

Cousin Hetty was talking. "And Miss Dacey plays quite beautifully," she was saying. "You would be impressed. Cousin Edward."

"Indeed?" he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. He was accustomed to having his sensibilities murdered by eager debutantes who thought they could play the pianoforte divinely. He frequently amused himself by imagining the expression on their faces if he did what instinct directed him to do and slammed the lid down onto the dabbling fingers. He had never put his fantasy to the test. He intended to quell the pretensions of his ward without delay. He had no wish to hear his precious instruments abused by a mediocre talent or no talent at all.

"Come, ma'am," he said coldly, rising to his feet and extending a hand in her direction, "I must hear you perform."

"Oh, no, pray, my lord," she protested. "You are a connoisseur of the arts, I am told. I play merely for my own pleasure."

"Let us have no false modesty," he said impatiently, looking steadily at her. "If you are good, I shall tell you so. If you are not, I shall also tell you."

Rosalind's heart was beating so erratically that she was having a difficult time breathing. The moment had come, then. The pianoforte was at the opposite end of a very large room. She had prepared herself for this, dreaded it. But now there was no postponing it. Already the earl's face was showing signs of growing impatience. She stood up and began to cross the room.

"Have you sprained your ankle, Miss Dacey?" he asked sharply from behind her.

She turned to face his frowning stare. "No, my lord," she answered coolly. "My limp is a permanent disability."