"I have come to the point in my life when marriage is expected," she said, her voice grave. "I have a duty to my family to marry well. Your title and your income make you quite desirable."

"High on your list, you might say," he interjected curtly. He looked irritated. It didn't alarm her, as it didn't signify; men were so easily irritated.

"I do say," she said brightly. "You are my first choice, most especially because of the desirability of your Irish estate. You are in a county I particularly admire, and all agree that your house is outstanding."

"To hell with all that!" he roared, obviously pushed beyond his endurance for honest communication.

Oh, he was definitely angry. And he had used foul language. If he thought to shock her into silence or submission he had calculated poorly; she had ten brothers, three of them in the army.

"My lord? I am not accustomed to such speech," she said tartly. "Can you not refrain? This is a point I had not considered; is such intemperance a permanent feature of your character?"

Apparently it was.

Beau, his face a mask of barely controlled frustration, pulled her into his arms. He was not gentle. She was not afraid. She felt lost against the size of him-lost and then found.

"There is more to me than my estate, Clarissa, and more between us than titles," he said in a growl, his mouth bare inches above hers. "That is a truth you shall not deny."

He kissed her then, and, bold as she was, she welcomed it. It was a hard kiss, an angry kiss, a kiss of threat and promise. She felt only the promise.

His mouth was hot and heavy upon hers, yet she did not turn from it, for there was passion, too, and she was hungry for his passion. She knew the truth of his desire for her in his kiss. She could not-would not-turn from that.

Dalton, appearing at the entrance to the garden, ended it.

Beau lifted his head from hers, his eyes green points of fire in a face chilled by winter. She felt burned, and shivered.

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you marry her now, Beau," Dalton said, cheerily enough, all things considered. "You certainly have fixed yourself." He almost laughed.

"I had already asked your sister to marry me," Beau said, pulling Clarissa to his side and holding her there. "This was her answer."

"Ahhh." Dalton grinned.

He didn't believe a word of it.

The marriage took place on Friday of that week, a small affair of family only. Still, they filled the salon. Chadwick and Braden, both in the army, were unable to attend. Leighton was busy in Ireland and couldn't make the crossing in time, and Alston and Harden were touring the continent, trying to avoid trouble, they wrote. So only Albert, Lindley, Jane, Dalton, Russell, and Perry attended the ceremony from her side. All wore smiles. On Beau's side was his paternal grandmother, Lady Claire, a delightful woman with the same green eyes as her grandson.

Beau still looked a trifle angry, which puzzled Clarissa completely. Oh, well, that would pass. He had the wife of his choosing. She had done her duty to her family and married well without a whimper of complaint. At least not in the last week.

During the wedding breakfast, she sat quietly congratulating herself as the conversation flowed around her. Beau was oddly quiet as well; perhaps he was equally self-congratulatory. They had made a good match, each of them, and deserved a small moment of victory. Before the breakfast was quite over-she had hardly finished her tea-Beau announced to the room that they would be leaving immediately on their wedding trip. It seemed a bit precipitous to her, but she was not of a mind to cause any commotion over it. She was eager to see Montwyn Hall.

Naturally Jane would accompany her.

Naturally Albert had to stop her as she was entering the coach to congratulate her once more on her excellent judgment. And again, as it had the last ten times he had offered such words of praise, the compliment rankled. It should not. She had made the best match of the season. She was on her way to Ireland even now, for that was the final destination of their bridal itinerary. Ireland. She would be in Ireland again. Home. Once she was settled, Beau would return to England. Which was where he belonged, being English. She would remain in Ireland, alone.

The thought brought less pleasure than it had even a week ago. Alone was such a lonely-sounding word. Would he really leave her alone? Pish, she would have Jane… and Ireland. She would not be alone.

But she would not have Beau.

Did he honestly mean to leave her alone?

At present, he did not. Beau had her bundled into the coach with Jane snug against her side before she had quite finished her farewells. Beau sat across from them, warm in his greatcoat, solemn and silent.

And so he remained throughout the day; even Jane with her pleasant and hopeful nature could not stand against such a wall of silence.

Clarissa had no energy to make the effort. All her thoughts were of Ireland; the man who had made it possible, her husband, she barred from her thoughts. Though it was a most difficult thing to do with him sitting just across from her, his knees brushing against her skirts, his green eyes studying her. Still, she persevered. It was to be only the first of many barriers she would set between them, because, ultimately, she would bar him from her life. She had married well, done credit to her family, acquired access to an Irish estate, and, once she'd produced a child or two, giving him his heir, their paths would hardly cross again.

Just what was required to produce an heir she did not dwell upon.

And so the journey was spent in silence, a silence as heavy and cold as winter itself.

They arrived at Montwyn Hall just at dusk. It was impressive. Most impressive.

Manicured woods, bare now, limbs reaching toward the growing darkness, lined the gravel drive, which swept in a graceful arc to the front of the hall. The hall itself consisted of a massive central building surrounded by four pavilions linked by quadrant colonnades, all perfectly symmetrical, perfectly grand.

Jane looked suitably impressed. Clarissa could not have been more pleased.

"So you're happy with your bargain?" Beau asked as the coach stopped in front of the portico. It was the first sentence he'd spoken to her all day.

He sounded insulted, yet why should he be? Why should he not be flattered and pleased that the legacy she had married into was grand? She was expected to marry well. Should she be derided because she had? Obviously not. Her only recourse was to ignore him, since he was being so contrary.

But he was very difficult to ignore.

He knew that well enough.

Beau was perfectly aware that Clarissa was doing all in her power to ignore him, as if he were an unnecessary accessory to "her" Irish lands. She had been clear in her purpose from the start and equally vocal. What cause had he to complain now?

What cause? Because he had believed her to have some kindred feeling for him. Because he had wanted her with the first look. Because her odd honesty had beguiled him as surely as her beauty.

Beguiled but not blinded. He was no fool; he would not have pursued her if he had not felt some shimmer of attraction in her. She wanted him, and for more than his title and lands. She had to want him. No woman could be so cold and… practical. It was only left for him to prove it to her. He was not a pair of gloves purchased for her convenience. He was her husband. If she did not understand the difference, she soon would.

The house was entered through the marble hall, and he could hear her intake of breath; it was breathtaking. Corinthian columns of pink Nottinghamshire alabaster made up the colonnade. The ceiling was frescoed and lit by circular skylights. The floor was buff marble inlaid with curls and circles of white marble. It was most impressive entry.