To think she had turned to him for help. Foolish, naive girl! Trusting an opportunist was like trusting a cobra; it sat coiled, appearing inert, then would lash out without warning. And she'd certainly been bitten.

But they had made a bargain, and he was bound by honor to help her. She wouldn't think too closely about what she would have to do when the matter was finished. A shudder racked her. His comment that he would respect her freedom-gammon. What did he know about her freedom? He had never spent hours alone with only books for company, never been told to marry someone he hardly knew not only because the family needed the money but because he would likely never receive another offer. He never had to endure seven years of marriage to someone twice his age with little tact and less wit.

Kit slammed her chamber door behind her, then leaned her back against it. Always duty and honor. Duty, and honor, and obligation. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that even now gilded her lashes. She would do her duty to the duchess-she had to. She had always done what was expected of her, first to her family and later to her husband.

Yes, she would honor her bargain with this handsome, heartless devil. But for once in her life she wanted to follow the demands of her own heart.

Late the following morning, after another nearly sleepless night, Kit went down to breakfast. A quick survey of the breakfast room revealed the duke seated at the head of the table, his head barely visible above the edge of the newspaper. No one else. Kit realized she'd been holding her breath, and exhaled in a slow sigh. The sound attracted the duke's attention; he peered over his newspaper, scowled as he recognized her, then snapped the paper back into place. Knowing from yesterday's experience that trying to speak to His Grace alone was fruitless, and not overly fond of the idea of trying to eat beneath the duke's scathing glare, Kit wrapped a scone in a napkin and retreated to the terrace.

Morning sun bathed the formal garden in a glow of gentle light. Blooms burst forth in a profusion of color, especially in the well-tended beds of roses for which Broadwell Manor was famous. Lavender scented the air; heavy-headed irises nodded in the slight breeze. The laburnums wore long trusses of yellow flowers. A few insects buzzed through the warm, humid air. A flash of color behind a boxwood topiary caught her eye, and Kit headed toward it.

She passed along a series of gravel paths that radiated outward from the middle in a maze-like lattice. At the center of the garden stood a fountain, a structure that involved two winged cherubs pouring water from pitchers into a single immense basin. Water splashed and gurgled in counterpoint to the ringing birdsong.

The dowager sat on one of the stone benches that ringed the basin, her shoulders hunched beneath her fringed shawl. In her dress of grass green silk, with a wispy lace cap perched atop her gray curls, the elderly lady reminded Kit of a dandelion that had gone to seed. Her face looked pale and drawn despite the spots of rouge on her cheeks.

Kit put two and two together: the duke's surly mood and the dowager's depression. A yawning pit opened at the bottom of her stomach. Not already! She sent a fervent prayer heavenward. Oh, please, not the children. Don't let him have threatened to keep them away from her…

The dowager did not seem to hear the crunch of gravel beneath the heels of Kit's half boots, but continued to stare into the empty basin of the fountain. Kit worried her lower lip between her teeth, then pasted a bright smile on her face. "Good morning, Your Grace," she called. "How lucky we are to have such fine weather."

The dowager glanced up then, and her unhappiness vanished beneath an answering smile. She straightened. "Good morning, child. Yes, fine weather indeed. Come and sit with me."

Kit sat obediently, then began to unwrap the scone. "You seemed rather melancholy just now, Your Grace."

"Did I? Well, I shall have to stop that at once. How can I be melancholy when you are here?" she said, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

Kit placed a gentle hand on the lady's arm. "Are you feeling well, Your Grace?"

"Of course I am well, child. Never better. Why do you ask?"

"I heard that you had quarreled with the duke," Kit replied as delicately as she could, "and that you took to your bed after you returned from your outing."

"Oh, pish," snorted the dowager. "Afraid my grandson will give me apoplexy, what? You know I am not so weak and frail as all that."

"No, not at all, ma'am," Kit hastened to amend. "But I was concerned for you, especially after you took dinner in your rooms."

"You needn't be, child. I just could not stand the thought of eating while that sour-faced grandson of mine glared at me from across the table. The prospect was enough to curdle my stomach."

Kit's hand closed over her scone. "I know what you mean. I trust you are recovered this morning?"

"Quite, although I would feel a good deal better if my relations would stop meddling in my affairs," the dowager declared. "I am prodigiously displeased. I made my wishes quite clear when I told them I wanted to hear no more of their nonsense, but they have not paid any heed."

"Would you like to leave?" Kit asked quietly. "We can be back in Bath before nightfall."

"No." The dowager shook her head. "I will not turn tail and run from this bumble broth, child, and give my ninny of a grandson even the smallest sense of victory. Leaving now will only postpone the inevitable. No, we shall stay the entire week and sort out this mess once and for all. Unless, of course, you wish to leave."

Kit jerked up her head, startled. "Oh… no, Your Grace."

"I must say I am glad to hear it, my dear. We shall show them that we're made of sterner stuff, what?"

"Of course," Kit murmured. She glanced down at the napkin on her lap, the scone a rather crumbly mess in the center of it, and folded it back up and set it aside, her appetite gone. Apprehension coiled in the pit of her stomach, and remained no matter how hard she tried to dispel it. She would not be the one to suggest that they leave Broadwell Manor, even to get away from the marquess; she could not break her word, nor would she cry coward. This was about the dowager's happiness, not hers.

Lord Bainbridge's words to her yesterday in the gallery told her exactly what he wanted from her, just as his kiss had told her that he was not a man to be put off.

His kiss.

Embarrassed heat scorched her face. Why on earth had she allowed him to bait her like that? To talk of seduction-she blushed again-in such a frank and open conversation? What a great looby she had been! The marquess had planned the whole thing from start to finish; he had probably been the one to suggest to the dowager that he return to the house to "check on" her. And she had fallen neatly into his trap. But her body had betrayed her. She had luxuriated in the sensation of his lips over hers, of his strong arms enfolding her body. She twitched. No matter how much she enjoyed it, she would not let him seduce her, not until he had followed through with his part of the bargain. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the bench.

"I was right, you know," commented the dowager.

"I beg your pardon?" Kit sat up in an instant.

The elderly woman regarded her with speculation. "Woolgathering, child? That is unlike you. Is anything the matter?"

Kit's blush intensified. "No. Please go on, Your Grace."

"I was merely going to say that my suspicions are correct, that my grandson and the rest of the family are plotting against me."

"Plotting against you?" Kit repeated. She flinched. She really must stop doing that. "What makes you say that?"