"My sisters," he said, "live their own lives, and I live mine. We do not control one another. We merely love one another."

"It is their love for you," she said, "that will cause their horror."

"Then they must be horrified," he said. "I will come for you at half past four."

"You had better go home now," she said, "before Alice gets up and frowns at you. She will grow accustomed to you, but at first she will frown.

You would not wish to face those black looks when you are at a disadvantage. Your coat and breeches are sadly wrinkled and your neckcloth is quite irredeemable. Your curls are breaking free and attempting to riot."

He smiled – the first time he had done so in several long minutes.

"The bane of my life," he said.

"Then you ought not to try taming them," she said. "Any red-blooded female would find her fingers itching to run through them and become entangled in them."

He bowed to her and raised her right hand to his lips.

"I will see you this afternoon, then," he said. He looked up into her eyes. "And I will send that package this morning."

She nodded.

And he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

She crossed to the window and stood looking down until he emerged from the front door. She did not hear it either opening or closing. She watched him walk with long, easy strides down the street until he disappeared around a corner. And even then she stood looking after him.

After a while she realized that she was crying. She went back into the dressing room and bent her face over the bowl.

She never cried. She never /ever/ cried.

Alice must not see the trace of tears on her face.

STEPHEN had always been blessed with an even temper and a naturally cheerful outlook on life. Even as a boy he had very rarely lost his temper with any of his playmates or fought them with any degree of ferocity or lingering animosity. It was true that he had popped Clarence Forester such a good one a few years ago that the coward had fled with a bulbous nose and two black eyes rather than fight back like a man. It was true too that his fists had itched to do even worse to Randolph Turner a year or so after that, though he had been forced by circumstances, alas, to quell the urge.

But there had been perfectly good reasons for both those forays into violence – or potential violence. In both cases his sisters had been threatened, and he would probably kill if he had to in order to protect any of the three of them.

There /were/ suitable occasions for anger and even violence.

He was angry today. /Furiously/ angry. But this time it was on his own account.

The first person he took it out on was his valet, who had always served him well but who, in the nature of valets, liked to rule him with an iron thumb too whenever he could get away with doing so. He took one look at Stephen when the latter rang for him at a little past six in the morning, and began scolding and threatening as if he were dealing with a naughty boy.

Stephen let it go for a minute or two and then turned on him with cold eyes and colder voice.

"Pardon me if I have misunderstood the situation, Philbin," he said.

"But are you not employed to serve my needs? Are you not employed to care for my clothes, among other duties? To have them clean and ironed and ready when I need them? I will expect these clothes to be all three when I next call for them. In the meantime you may have bathwater brought up for me and then set out my riding clothes while I bathe. You may then shave me and help me dress. If in your deepest fantasies you imagine that one of your duties is to talk to me while you work and offer your opinion on my behavior and the condition of my clothes when I return them to your care, then you must be forced to face reality – and forced to seek employment with someone who is foolish enough to allow such daydreams to flourish. Do I make myself clear?"

He listened in some surprise to his own tirade. Philbin had been with him since he was seventeen, and they had always had a perfectly amicable master/servant relationship. Philbin grumbled and scolded when he felt he had cause, and Stephen cheerfully mollified him or ignored him, whichever seemed appropriate to the circumstances. But he would not apologize now. He was too angry, and Philbin was too convenient a target. Perhaps some other time he would make his peace with his man.

His valet stared at him with half-open mouth, and then he shut it with a clacking of teeth and turned to busy himself with hanging up Stephen's horribly creased evening coat. Stephen had a ghastly suspicion that Philbin was blinking back tears, and he felt horribly guilty – and even more irritated than he had before.

It was impossible for Philbin to button up his lips, though.

"Yes, m'lord," he said, his voice wooden with injured righteousness.

"And I do not want to work for someone else, as you very well know. That was unkind, m'lord. Do you want the black riding coat or the brown? And the buff riding breeches or the gray? And the new boots or – "

"Philbin," Stephen said testily, "set out riding clothes for me, will you?"

"Yes, m'lord," his valet said, having had some measure of revenge. He did not usually ask such petty questions.

And then Stephen carried his anger with him to Hyde Park, where he rode at a reckless gallop along Rotten Row until other riders started to arrive and it would have been dangerous to continue.

Soon he had been joined by a few male acquaintances, and the conversation and the fresh morning air soothed him until Morley Etheridge happened to mention last evening's ball and Clive Arnsworthy congratulated himself on having been able to secure a set with the delectable Lady Christobel Foley.

"Though everyone knows she has eyes for no one but you, Merton," he said. "You are going to find yourself with a leg shackle before the summer is out unless you are very careful. I could think of worse females to be shackled to, mind you. A dozen of them, in fact. A /hundred/."

"Why stop at a hundred?" Etheridge asked dryly. "Why not go for a thousand, Arnsworthy?"

"It is not a shackle on his leg Merton is risking, though," Colin Cathcart said, blithely unaware of Stephen's black mood. "It is an axe in his skull. It might be a glorious way to go, however, provided he is between the lady's thighs when it happens. Very shapely thighs they are too, as far as one could see through that green gown she was wearing, which did not leave a great deal to the imagination, by Jove. Did you take a good look, Arnsworthy? Did you, Etheridge?"

There was a general guffaw of bawdy laughter.

"I might have noticed her thighs," Arnsworthy said, "but my eyes started at her head and worked their way down. They almost did not get past all that red hair, but I did valiantly force my gaze downward to her bosom.

There was no persuading it to go any lower after that, though. I have never been more thankful for the services of a quizzing glass."

There was another burst of laughter.

"If the woman hoped – " Etheridge began.

"The /lady/," Stephen said in the unfamiliar cold, clipped tone he recognized from his earlier confrontation with his valet, "was a /guest/ at my sister's ball, and as such was as deserving of respect and courtesy and gentlemanly restraint as any other lady present. She was not – and /is/ not – a strumpet to be ogled and stripped of all dignity You will not speak of her with disrespect in my hearing. Not unless you wish to answer to me on some quiet stretch of heath one morning."

They all turned in the saddle as one, the three of them, and gawked at him with half-open mouths – just as Philbin had done earlier.

Stephen clamped his teeth together hard and stared straight ahead along the Row. He felt foolish – and furious. For two pins he really would slap a glove in each of their faces. And take them all on together too. For two pins – "Worried for Lady Sheringford's reputation, are you, Merton?" Etheridge asked after an uncomfortable silence. "There is no need to be. No one in his right mind believes the woman… the /lady/ was invited. And your sister and Sherry handled the situation with admirable aplomb. Your sister talked with her and Sherry danced with her, and then they sent Moreland to dance with her and then you – or was it the other way around?