Occasionally George clapped Marcus on the back and chortled about having produced such a useful son. Once in a great whole he thought to hoist Bennet aloft in a gesture of casual affection.

Cloud frequently observed with some satisfaction that it was fortunate both of his sons had inherited his own excellent constitution. He pointed out that chronic ill health, such as Mrs. Cloud suffered, was a damnable nuisance. But that was the limit of his paternal involvement in his sons' lives.

Marcus's mother, whose medical complaints were generally of a vague nature and featured such symptoms as melancholia and fatigue, contracted a very real fever the year Marcus turned eighteen. She succumbed to it within a matter of hours. Marcus had been at her bedside, his two-year-old brother in his arms.

His father had been out fox hunting. Cloud had lived for nearly a year after his death, an event he had noticed more because it had interfered with his hunting plans than because of any great sense of loss. But eleven months after his long-neglected spouse had succumbed to the lung fever, he managed to break his own neck in a fall when his newest jumper failed to clear a fence.

Marcus was at work in the fields with his men the morning the vicar came to tell him that his father was dead. He had been studying the effectiveness of the modifications he had recently made in a new reaping machine.

He still recalled the curiously detached sensation he had experienced whole he listened to the vicar murmur words of condolence.

A year earlier he had wept alone after his mother's death. But on the morning of his father's demise he could not summon a single tear.

His principal emotion beneath the sense of detachment had been a brief, senseless anger.

He had not understood the reason for the inner rage, so he had quickly buried it somewhere deep inside himself. He had never allowed it to resurface.

Young Bennet seemed virtually oblivious to his father's absence. He'd focused all his attention and affection on the one person who was a true constant in his life, his older brother Marcus.

Marcus pushed the-memories aside and watched Bennet wander over to the breakfast table.

"Harry and I got bored in Scotland," Bennet offered. "We decided to return to London for the Season."

"I see." Marcus spread jam on a slice of toast. "I thought you had declared the Season a dead bore."

"Yes, well, that was last year." "Of course."

Last year Bennet had been barely nineteen. He'd just come down from Oxford, full of a young man's enthusiasm for politics and poetry. He had been disdainful of the frivolousness of the Season. Marcus had gotten him into a club populated by other young men who were passionate about the new poets and the latest political theories. Bennet had seemed content.

Marcus had been quietly pleased to see that his brother was not the type to he swept off his feet by the superficial entertainments of the ton.

Oxford had done its job. Marcus had not sent Bennet to Oxford for an education. On the contrary, he had seen to his brother's schooling at home with the assistance of an excellent tutor and his own ever-expanding library.

A young man did not go off to either Cambridge or Oxford in order to study. He went there to obtain a social polish and to mingle with the young men with whom he would later do business for the rest of his life. He went there to form friendships with the scions of the best families, families from which he would eventually select a suitable wife.

Marcus had been determined that his brother would not he like him, a naive, rough-edged country squire who knew nothing of the world beyond life on a farm.

Marcus had paid a high price for his own lack of worldliness. He did not want Bennet to suffer the same fate. A man needed to shed his illusions and dreams as quickly as possible if he was to avoid becoming a victim in this life.

Marcus took a large bite of his toast. "Where did you go last night?"

"He and I both went to our club," Bennet said vaguely. "Then Harry suggested that we drop in on a few of the more interesting soirees."

"Which ones?"

"I don't remember precisely. The Broadmore hall, for one, I believe. And I think we stopped briefly at the Fosters' levee.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Bennet met Marcus's eyes for an instant and then his gaze slid away. He shrugged. "You could say that'»

"Bennet, I've had enough of this evasiveness. If something is wrong, tell me."

"Nothing is wrong." Bennet glowered at him. "At least not with me."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"Very well, Marcus, I shall be blunt. I understand you made a spectacle of yourself last night."

"A spectacle?"

"Hell and damnation. They say you carried your new paramour out of the Fenwicks' ballroom in your arms, for God's sake. Talk about causing a scene."

"Ah, so that's the problem." Marcus's hand tightened on the handle of his knife. He cut into his sausage with grave precision. "Did I embarrass you?"

"Marcus, are you going to spend the rest of your life titillating Society with your bizarre behavior?"

"I did embarrass you." Marcus forked up a bite of sausage and chewed meditatively. "Try not to take it to heart, Bennet. Society has seen worse."

"That's hardly the point, is it?" Bennet slathered butter on his muffin. "The thing is, a man of your years should behave with some sense of propriety."

Marcus nearly choked on his sausage. "A man of my years?"

"You're thirty-six. You ought to have remarried years ago and settled down to the business of building your nursery.

"Bloody hell. From whence springs this sudden concern with my nursery? You know full well that I do not intend to remarry."

"What about your obligation to the title?"

"I'm quite content to see the title go to you."

"Well, I don't particularly want it, Marcus. It's yours and it should go to your son." Bennet scowled in obvious frustration. "It's only right and proper that you should see to your responsibilities."

"I perceive that my actions last night have, indeed humiliated you," Marcus said dryly.

"You must admit, it's a trifle awkward to have an older brother, a thirty-six-year-old unmarried earl, no less, who has no compunction about becoming the latest on dit.

"This isn't the first time."

"It's the first time that you've caused a scene in the middle of a fashionable ballroom."

Marcus cocked a brow. "How would you know? You've hardly spent any time at all in Society."

"Miss Dorchester told me as much," Bennet retorted, clearly goaded.

Marcus stared. "Juliana Dorchester?"

"I had the great privilege of dancing with her fast night," Bennet muttered.

"I see."

"Whenever you say 'I see' in that particular tone, it generally means you disapprove. Well, you had best not say anything unpleasant about Miss Dorchester to me, Marcus. She is a beautiful young lady with extremely refined sensibilities who would never dream of getting involved in a scandalous scene."

"This is Juliana Dorchester's second Season," Marcus said grimly. "She has to secure a husband this time around because the Dorchesters cannot afford a third Season for her. Do you comprehend me, Bennet?"

"You're trying to warn me off her, aren't you? Well, it won't work. She is an unrivaled paragon of womanhood and I shall he forever grateful that she allowed me into her presence last night."

"She is no doubt thanking her lucky stars right this minute that you took notice of her. She'll be plotting to appear in whatever ballroom you happen to show up in this evening."

"Damnation. She's not the type to plot anything. She's too innocent, too gentle, too sweet-natured to plot."

"She's plotting right this minute. Trust me." "How would you know?"