He had reached as far as the door by the time Callie had untangled herself from the robe and shawl. He seemed to have come to his senses, or at least paused to consider what method by which to eradicate the major, for he stopped and turned around. Callie was on her feet by then.

"Let me be certain I understand you," he said. "Sturgeon has asked you to marry him?"

"Yes," she said.

"And you are presently considering his proposal?" His voice was steely. He stood very still, looking at her.

Callie couldn't hold his eyes. Suddenly she could not seem to think of anything but his arms around her, his body over hers. She found it difficult to breathe. She could not at that instant recall why she had said, in the middle of the night, that they would not suit. It seemed mad, as mad as those moments themselves, and equally dreamlike now. He had asked her to marry him, and she had remembered just in time that for some reason she must say no. And afterward…

She hugged herself, standing in her bare feet, covered in mortification. "Trev," she said, turning with an agitated move. "We must-could we-discuss something?"

"What happened between us last night?" he asked bluntly.

She took a deep breath, daring to lift her eyes. "Yes, I… suppose… that."

"It was, of course, iniquitous of me to take advan tage of you." He gave a short bow and spoke as if he were reciting something that he had memorized. "Let me repeat, my lady, that I beg of you to become my wife, if you would see fit to accept me."

From the sound of it, the last thing he hoped was that she should do so. Callie looked down and fiddled with the fringe of the cashmere shawl. All her reasons for refusing him came back to her in a rush.

"I know you feel that you must offer now," she said with difficulty. "But I don't think we would suit."

"Yes," he said. "You mentioned that, I believe."

"I'm rather… awkward and not very clever in company, you know. I fear that I wouldn't be a fitting wife for you."

She glanced up at him, half hoping to be contra dicted, but he seemed to find the hem of her gown to be of more interest than her face. He remained silent, his jaw set.

"I'm not a lady of fashion," she added, trying to make a clean breast of the whole. "I'm seven and twenty. And I'm English, of course. And not a Catholic."

He made a slight deprecating shrug. But still he said nothing, altering his attention to some painting on the wall, frowning at it as if it offended him.

"I suppose that might be overcome," she said, trying to reply sensibly to his silence. "But-you may have noticed-I'm rather dull and plain. I can't see myself living amid the haut ton. I was really quite a failure at it before, you know. I'd have to be like Madame Malempré and wear a veil all the time, so that no one would see me," she added, in a stupid attempt at humor.

His expression grew darker as she spoke. "Nonsense," he snapped. "Don't talk that way."

Callie wet her lips and gave him one more chance. "But you must wish to find someone who would be more worthy of Monceaux."

He gave a short laugh and turned away, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Do not concern yourself on that head, ma'am."

So. She lifted her chin, growing more sure, and at the same time more disheartened. He had been eager in the night, and passionate, but what was that vulgar phrase she had overheard once among the stable lads? All cats look alike in the dark. She had fairly well thrown herself at him, even if she hadn't meant for him to find her in his bed, playing a trick like that impudent house maid who had tried to entice the parson on a dare. If he had even a slight wish to marry her, he would certainly show more delight at the idea. Even her jilts had managed to summon a greater show of gratification at the prospect than Trev appeared to feel.

She had a gloomy vision of becoming betrothed to him now, in this moment of crisis, and then in a month or two receiving one of those polite, reserved letters in which he expressed his deep regret at breaking off their engagement because he found he was unable to make her a praiseworthy husband. Her jilts would be a nice round number: a wretched prospect.

Or worse, far worse, a thousand times worse-for him to wed her because he felt he must, and then to be sitting some evening in some drawing room, listening to the whispers, to overhear that he was seeing Lady So-and-So, or Madame Vis-à-Vis, or whatever reigning beauty it might be, and how mortifying for his dreary little mouse of a wife, poor thing!

"Well!" she said quickly, turning and walking to the table, where she started to pick up the teapot and then put it down when the exasperating lid would rattle under her trembling hands. "It is most kind of you, but I find that I cannot accept. I hope… I hope that we may remain friends."

He inclined his head coolly. "Of course. We will certainly remain friends."

She knew in that moment that she had been right to refuse him. He didn't wish to marry her. A tiny remaining hope that he might dispute her decision died a final death. She poured tea in spite of the fact that she spilled several drops into the saucer.

"I suppose," he remarked, still in that dispassionate voice, "since you find you cannot accept me, we must pray that no natural consequences will result from my mistake."

Callie felt herself grow cold, her blood seeming to recede from her head to her feet. It was a "mistake" now. She sat down abruptly, feeling light-headed. "No," she whispered. "I don't think that likely."

The chamber was so quiet that she could hear a horse's hooves ring distantly against the cobbles in the stable yard.

"At my age, you know," she added, to fill the silence, fumbling among the cups and spoons. "I'm not a girl any longer. It's very unlikely. Would you be so good as to ring for the chambermaid? And arrange some way that I may go out as myself? I must see how my cattle go on in this weather."

He gave her a long, smoldering look. Then he bowed and left the room.

It took all of Callie's courage to show herself in Broad Street. She was certain anyone could see that she had been walking abroad there the day before, dressed in a gentian blue hat and veil and speaking French. But when she appeared as herself, there were only welcoming grins and brusque farmers' greetings, the familiar faces of her drover and his boys-no one accosted her with accusations or stopped in the street and pointed with scandalized horror at the woman who had slept in Monsieur Malempré's bed last night.

In fact she found herself quickly drawn into her own life, regaled with all the small incidents of moving the livestock to town, leaning down to check the knees of a calf that had stumbled and to see that sufficient ointment had been applied. With her warmest cloak and hood wrapped close about her, she accepted a cup of hot cider from Farmer Lewis. Lilly distributed mincemeat pies from a basket-the traditional hospitality at the Shelford pens. Callie could almost have forgot that there was anything amiss about this cattle show, but that her father wasn't there and all the talk was of Hubert and the Malempré bull, and she could still feel the physical consequence of what she and Trev had done in faint tingles and strange sensations that made her blink and blush. But her cheeks were already as pink as they could be from the cold, and no one seemed to notice anything different about her at all.

"I don't believe it," she said, dutifully giving her opinion of the challenge to Mr. Downie when he stopped to chat. She spoke softly, because she wasn't very good at prevarication, and somehow it seemed as if keeping her voice low might make her sound more believable. "I can't credit that this Belgian animal would be larger than Hubert."

"Certainly not," Mr. Downie said indignantly. Then he cleared his throat. "Have you seen the published measurements, my lady?"