Almost Heaven Part 22

Chapter 21.

Less than an hour later, in the crowded, noisy, candlelit ballroom, Alexandra was painfully aware that all Roddy's predictions had been accurate. It was the first time in her recollection when she and Jordan were not completely surrounded by friends and acquaintances and even hangers on eager to incur Jordan's favor and influence. Tonight, however, everyone was avoiding them. In the mistaken belief that Jordan and Alexandra would be deeply chagrined when they discovered the truth about Elizabeth Cameron, the Townsendes' friends were politely trying to lessen their inevitable embarra.s.sment by simply pretending not to notice that the Townsendes were present and in the company of Elizabeth Cameron. whose reputation had sunk beneath reproach during their absence from England. Although they ignored Jordan and Alexandra out of courtesy, they, like everyone else at the ball, didn't hesitate to cast scathing glances at Elizabeth whenever they could do so without being seen by the few people she'd evidently duped into befriending her. Standing near the dance floor where dancers were whirling about -and stealing smirking glances at Elizabeth-Alexandra was caught between tears and fury. As she looked at Elizabeth, who was making a magnificent effort to smile at her, her throat constricted with guilt and sympathy. The laughter and music were so noisy that Alex had to lean forward in order to hear what Elizabeth was saying.

"If you don't mind," Elizabeth told her in a suffocated voice that belied her smile and made it obvious to Alex that she was drowning in humiliation, "I-I think I'll just find a retiring room and see to my gown."

There was nothing whatever wrong with Elizabeth's gown, and they both knew it. "I'll go with you."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Alex, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for just a few moments. It's the noise," she lied bravely.

Elizabeth moved away, keeping her head high, threading her way through six hundred people who either avoided meeting her gaze or turned away to laugh and whisper.

Tony, Jordan, the d.u.c.h.ess, and Alexandra all watched her as she walked gracefully up the stairs. Jordan spoke first, careful to keep the emotion out of his voice for fear that if he showed how infuriated he was with all six hundred people in the ballroom, Alexandra would lose her slender thread of control, and the tears shining in her eyes would fall down her flushed cheeks. Putting his arm around her waist, he smiled into her tear-brightened eyes, but he spoke quickly because, as Elizabeth walked away, the acquaintances who'd been giving the Townsendes a wide berth were beginning to . start their way.

"If it is any consolation, darling," Jordan told her, "I think Elizabeth Cameron is the most magnificently courageous young woman I've ever met. Except for you."

"Thank you." Alexandra tried to smile, but her gaze kept reaching for Elizabeth as she moved up the curving staircase.

"They will regret this!" the dowager said frigidly, and to ; prove it, she turned her back on two of her intimate friends who were now approaching her. The dowager's acquaintances had been the only ones to join the Townsendes tonight. because they were of her own age, and so several of them were unaware that Elizabeth Cameron was to be ridiculed, scorned, and snubbed.

Swallowing a lump of tears, Alex glanced at her husband. "At least," she said, trying to joke, "Elizabeth hasn't been completely without admirers. Belhaven's been hanging about her."

"Because," Jordan said without thinking, " he's on everybody's blacklist, and no one has condescended to share the gossip about Elizabeth with him-yet," he amended, watching with narrowed eyes as two elderly fops tugged Belhaven's sleeve, nodded toward Elizabeth's back, and began to speak rapidly.

Elizabeth spent the better part of a half hour standing alone in a small, dark salon, trying to compose herself. It was there that she heard the excited voices of guests discussing something that on any other night would at least have evoked a feeling of shock. Ian had just been named heir to the Duke of Stanhope. Elizabeth felt no emotion at all.

In her state of consuming misery she was incapable of feeling anything more. She remembered, though, Valerie's voice in the garden long ago as she looked through the hedge at Ian: "Some say he's the illegitimate grandson of the Duke of Stanhope." The memory drifted past Elizabeth's mind, aimless, meaningless. When she had no choice but to return to the ballroom she crossed the balcony and descended the stairs, wending her way through the crowd, avoiding the malicious eyes that made her skin burn and her heart contort. Despite her brief respite her head was pounding from the effort of maintaining her composure; the music she'd once loved blared discordantly in her ears, shouts of laughter and roars of conversation thundered around her, and above the din the butler, who was positioned at the top of the stairs leading down to the ballroom, called out the name of each new arrival like a sentry tolling the time. Many of the names he called out Elizabeth recalled from her debut, and each one identified another person who, she knew, was about to walk down the stairs and learn to their derision that Elizabeth Cameron was there. One more voice would repeat the old gossip; one more pair of ears would hear it; one more pair of cold eyes would look her way.

Her brother's arrogance in refusing her suitors two years ago would be recalled, and they would point out that only Sir Francis would have her now, and they would laugh. And in some ways, Elizabeth couldn't blame them. So utterly shamed was she that even the occasional faces that looked at her with sympathy and puzzlement, instead of contempt and condemnation, seemed vaguely threatening.

As she neared the Townsendes she noted that Sir Francis, clad in absurd pink britches and yellow satin jacket, was now carrying on an animated discussion with Alex and the Duke of Hawthorne. Elizabeth glanced about, looking for somewhere to hide until he went away, when she suddenly recognized a group of faces she had hoped never to see again. Less than twenty feet away Viscount Mondevale was watching her, and on both sides of him were several men and the girls Elizabeth had once called her friends. Elizabeth looked right through him and changed direction, then gave a start of surprise when he intercepted her just as she came to Alex and her husband. Short of walking over him, Elizabeth had no choice but to stop.

He looked very handsome, very sincere, and slightly ill at ease. "Elizabeth," he said quietly, "you are looking lovelier than ever."

He was the last person in the world she'd have expected to take pity on her plight, and Elizabeth wasn't certain whether she was grateful or angry, since the abrupt withdrawal of his offer had vastly contributed to it. "Thank you, my lord," she said in a noncommittal voice.

"I wanted to say," he began again, his eyes searching her composed features, "that I-I'm sorry."

That did it! Annoyance lifted Elizabeth's delicate chin an inch higher. "For what, sir?"

He swallowed, standing so close to her that his sleeve touched hers when he lifted his hand and then dropped it to his side. "For my part in what's happened to you."

"What am I to say to that?" she asked, and she honestly did not know.

"In your position," he said with a grim smile, "I think I'd slap my face for the belated apology."

A touch of Elizabeth's humor returned, and with a regal nod of her head she said, "I should like that very much."

Amazingly, the admiration in his eyes doubled. When he showed an inclination to linger at her side, Elizabeth had no choice but to turn and introduce him to the Townsendes with whom, she discovered, he was already acquainted.

While he and Jordan exchanged pleasantries, however, Elizabeth watched with growing horror as Valerie, evidently resentful of Mondevale's brief desertion, began moving , forward. Walking with her as if they were moving as one, were Penelope, Georgina, and all the others, closing in on a panicking Elizabeth. In a combined effort to sidle away from them and simultaneously rescue Alex from Sir Francis's boring monologue and roving eyes, Elizabeth turned to try to speak to her, but Sir Francis would not be silenced. By the time he finally finished his story Valerie had already arrived, and Elizabeth was trapped. Reeking with malice, Valerie cast a contemptuous look over Elizabeth's pale face and said, "Well, if it isn't Elizabeth Cameron. We certainly never expected to see you at a place like this."

"I'm sure you never did," Elizabeth managed to say in a controlled voice, but she was beginning to break under the strain. "No, indeed," said Georgina with a twittering laugh. Elizabeth felt as if she were suffocating, and the room began to undulate around her. The Townsende group had been like an isolated island all night; now people were turning to see who'd had the daring to go near them. The waltz was building to a roaring crescendo; the voices were getting louder; people were pouring down the staircase a few yards away; and the butler's endless monotone chant rose above the deafening din: "The Count and Countess of Marsant!" he boomed. "The Earl of Norris!. . . Lord Wilson! . . . Lady Millicent Montgomery! . . ."

Valerie and Georgina were looking at her pale face with amus.e.m.e.nt, saying words that were receding from Elizabeth's mind, drowned by the roaring in her ears and the butler's rhythmic calls: "Sir William Fitzhugh!. . . Lord and Lady Enderly!..."

Turning her back on Valerie's and Georgina's scorching hatred, Elizabeth said in a ragged whisper, "Alex, I'm not feeling well!" But Alex couldn't hear her because Sir Francis was droning on again.

"The Baron and Baroness of Littlefield! . . . Sir Henry ?? arum!..."

Elizabeth turned in desperation to the dowager, feeling as if she was going to either scream or faint if she couldn't get out of there, not caring that Valerie and Georgina and everyone else in the room would know that she had fled from her own disgrace. "I have to leave," she told the dowager.

"The Earl of t.i.tchley! . . . The Count and Countess of Rindell!. . ."

The dowager held up her hand to silence one of her friends and leaned toward Elizabeth. "What did you say, Elizabeth?"

"His Grace, the Duke of Stanhope! . . . The Marquess of Kensington!"

"I said," Elizabeth began, but the dowager's eyes had snapped to the landing where the butler was stationed, and her face was blanching. "I wish to leave!" Elizabeth cried, but an odd silence was sweeping over the room, and her voice was unnaturally loud.

Instead of replying to Elizabeth's statement, the dowager was doing what everyone else was doing, staring at the landing. "Tonight only wanted this!" the older woman said in a furious voice.

"I-I beg your pardon?" Elizabeth asked. "Do you swoon?" the d.u.c.h.ess demanded, dragging her eyes from the landing and pinning Elizabeth with the direst of looks"

"No, not in the past, but I really don't feel well." Behind her Valerie and Georgina erupted into laughter.

"Do not even consider leaving until I say you may," the dowager said tersely, sending a speaking look to Lord Anthony Townsende, a pleasant, unaffected man who'd been her escort tonight, and who suddenly clamped Elizabeth's elbow in a supporting grip. The entire crowd in the ballroom seemed to be pressing infinitesimally closer to the staircase, and the ones who weren't were turning to look at Elizabeth with raised brows. Elizabeth had been the cynosure of so many eyes tonight that she took no notice of the hundreds of pairs glancing her way now. But she felt the sudden tension growing in the room, the excitement building, and she glanced uncertainly in the direction of whatever seemed to be causing it. The vision she beheld made her knees tremble violently and a scream rise in her throat; for a split second she thought she was having a distorted double vision, and she blinked, but the vision didn't clear. Descending the staircase side by side were two men of identical height, clad in matching black evening clothes, wearing matching expressions of mild amus.e.m.e.nt on their very similar faces. And one of them was Ian Thornton.

"Elizabeth," Tony whispered urgently. "Come with me. We're going to dance."

"Dance?" she uttered. "Dance," he averred, half pulling her toward the dance floor. Once there, Elizabeth's shock was superseded by a blissful sense of unreality. Rather than deal with the horrible fact that the gossip about her former relationship with Ian was now going to erupt like a full-fledged volcano, and the equally appalling fact that Ian was there, her mind simply went blank, oblivious. No longer did the noise in the ballroom pound in her ears; she scarcely heard it at all. No longer did the watchful eyes wound her; she saw only Tony's shoulder, covered in dark blue superfine. Even when he reluctantly guided her back to the group around the Townsendes. which still included Valerie and Georgina and Viscount Mondevale, Elizabeth felt. . . nothing.

"Are you all right?" Tony asked worriedly. "Perfectly," she replied with a sweet smile. "Do you have any hartshorn with you?"

"I never faint." "That's good. Your friends are still standing around to watch and listen, eager to see what happens now."

"Yes, they will not want to miss this." "What do you think he will do?"

Elizabeth raised her eyes and looked at Ian without a tremor. He was still beside the gray-haired man who looked so like him, and they were both surrounded by people who were gathering around and seemed to be congratulating them on something. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" "Why should he do anything?" "Do you mean he'll cut you?" "I never know what to expect from him. Does it matter?"

At that moment Ian lifted his gaze and saw her, and the only cut he thought of was a way to cut through the drivel and good wishes so that he could get to her. But he couldn't yet. Even though she looked pale and stricken and heartbreakingly beautiful, he had to meet her casually, if there was any hope of putting the right face on it. With infuriating persistence the well-wishers gathered around, the men toadying, the women curtsying; and those who weren't, Ian noticed with fury, were whispering and looking at Elizabeth.

Ian lasted five minutes before he signaled his grandfather with a curt nod, and they both disengaged themselves from three dozen people who were waiting to be formally presented to the Marquess of Kensington. Together they started through the crowd, Ian nodding absently to acquaintances and trying to avoid being waylaid, but pausing to bow and shake hands now and then so it wouldn't seem that he was heading straight for Elizabeth. His grandfather, who had been apprised of the plan in the coach, carried the whole thing off with aplomb. "Stanhope!" someone boomed. "Introduce us to your grandson."

The stupid charade chafed against Ian's straining patience. He'd already been introduced to half these people as Ian Thornton, and the pretense that he hadn't was an infuriating farce. But he endured it for the sake of appearances.

"How are you, Wilson?" Ian said at one of their innumerable pauses. "Suzanne," he said, smiling at Wilson's wife while he watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She hadn't moved, didn't seem to be capable of movement. Someone had handed her a gla.s.s of champagne, and she was holding it, smiling at Jordan Townsende, who seemed to be joking with her. Even from this distance Ian could see her smile lacked its entrancing sparkle, and his heart twisted. "We'll have to do that," he heard himself say to someone who was inviting him to call at their house, and then he'd had all he was willing to endure. He turned in Elizabeth's direction, and his grandfather obligingly stopped conversation with a crony. The minute Ian started toward Elizabeth the whispers. .h.i.t unprecedented volume.

Alexandra cast a worried look at her, then at Jordan. "Ask Elizabeth to dance, please!" she implored him urgently.

"For heaven's sake, get her out of here. That monster is coming straight in our direction."

Jordan hesitated and glanced at Ian, and whatever he saw in the other man's expression made him hesitate and shake his head. "It's going to be all right, love," he promised with only a twinge of doubt as he stepped forward to shake Ian's hand, exactly as if they hadn't been playing cards a short while ago. "Permit me to present you to my wife," Jordan said.

Jordan turned to the beautiful brunette who looked at Ian with blazing blue eyes. "A pleasure," Ian murmured, lifting her hand to his lips and feeling her exert pressure to yank it away. The dowager d.u.c.h.ess acknowledged Ian's introduction with something that might, by a great stretch of the imagination, be considered an inclination of her regal white head and snapped, "I am not pleased to meet you."

Ian endured both ladies' rebuffs and then waited while Jordan introduced him to all the others. A girl named Georgina curtsied to Ian, her eyes inviting. Another named Valerie curtsied, then stepped back in nervous fright from the blast from Ian's eyes as he nodded curtly to her. Mondevale was next, and Ian's first spurt of jealousy vanished when he saw Valerie clinging possessively to the young viscount's arm. "I think Valerie did it because she wanted Mondevale," he recalled Elizabeth saying.

Elizabeth watched it all with interest and no emotion until Ian was finally standing in front of her, but the instant his golden eyes met hers she felt the shaking begin in her limbs. "Lady Elizabeth Cameron," Jordan intoned.

A slow, lazy smile swept across Ian's face, and Elizabeth braced her quaking self for him to say something mocking, but his deep voice was filled with admiration and teasing. "Lady Cameron," he said, raising his voice enough to be heard by the other girls. "I see you are still casting every other female into the shade. May I present my grandfather to you-"

Elizabeth knew she was dreaming. He had introduced his grandfather to no one but her, and the honor was both deliberate and noted by everyone within sight.

When he moved away Elizabeth felt herself sag with relief. "Well!" said the dowager with a reluctant nod of approval, watching him. "I daresay he pulled that off well enough. Look there," she said several minutes later, " he's escorting Evelyn Makepeace onto the dance floor. If Makepeace didn't give him the cut direct, he's just been given the stamp of approval."

A hysterical giggle welled up inside Elizabeth. As if Ian Thornton would care whether he was cut! As if he'd care a snap for a stamp of approval! Her disjointed thoughts were interrupted by the second man to ask her for a dance all evening. With an elegant bow and a warm, searching smile the Duke of Stanhope offered his arm to her. "Would you honor me with this dance, Lady Cameron?" he asked, blithely ignoring his duty to dance with the older women first.

Elizabeth considered refusing. She wasn't certain at the moment she'd remember how, but there was something imploring and almost urgent in the duke's look when she hesitated, and she reluctantly laid her gloved fingers on his arm.

As they walked through the crowd Elizabeth concentrated on keeping her mind perfectly blank. So successful was she in "that endeavor that they had nearly reached the dance floor before she realized the older man's stride was slightly slower than it needed to be. Rousing herself from her lethargic misery, she cast a worried glance at his handsome face, and he smiled. "An old riding injury," he explained, obviously guessing the cause of her concern. "I'm quite adept at dealing with it, however, and I shan't disgrace us on the dance floor." As he spoke he put his hand on her waist and moved her into the midst of the dancers with easy grace. When they were safely blocked from view of the guests by the other dancers, however, his face sobered. "Ian has charged me to give you a message," he told her gently.

It occurred to Elizabeth, not for the first time, that during every one of the five short days she'd "spent in Ian Thornton's company he had turned her emotions upside down and inside out, and she was not in a mood to let him do it again tonight. Lifting her eyes to the duke's, she regarded him politely but without any sign of interest in hearing Ian's message.

"I am to tell you not to worry," the duke explained. "All you need do is remain here for another hour or so and trust him."

Elizabeth lost control of her expression completely; her eyes widened with shock, and her slender shoulders shook with laughter that was part hysteria and part exhaustion. "Trust him?" she repeated. Every time she was near Ian Thornton she felt as if she were a ball being slammed and bounced off his racket in whatever direction his whim chose to send her, and she was heartily and thoroughly weary of it. She smiled at the duke again and shook her head at the sheer absurdity of what his message suggested.

Among those dancers who were close enough to see what was happening, it was noted and immediately remarked upon that Lady Cameron seemed, amazingly, to be on the most amiable terms with the Duke of Stanhope. It was also being duly and uncomfortably noted by the entire a.s.sembly that not just one, but now two of the most influential families in England seemed to be championing her.

Ian, who had guessed before ever setting foot in the ballroom exactly how their collective minds would work, was standing amid the crowd, doing his skillful utmost to ensure their thoughts continued to move in the direction in which he pointed them. Since he couldn't stop the gossip about his relationship with Elizabeth, he set out to turn it in a new direction. With an indulgent cordiality he'd never before displayed to the ton. he allowed himself to be verbally feted while deliberately letting his admiring gaze rest periodically on her. His unhidden interest in the lady, combined with his lazy, sociable smile, positively invited questions from those who'd gathered around to speak to the new heir to the Stanhope prestige. They in turn were so emboldened by his att.i.tude and so eager for a firsthand on-dit about his relationship with her that several of them ventured a hesitant but joking remark. Lord Newsom, a wealthy fop who'd attached himself to Ian's elbow, followed Ian's gaze on one of the occasions when it shifted to Elizabeth and went so far as to remark, in the amused tone of one exchanging manly confidences, "She's something, isn't she? It was the talk of the town when you got her off for an afternoon alone in that cottage two years ago."

Ian grinned and lifted his gla.s.s to his mouth, deliberately looking at Elizabeth over its rim. "Was it?" he asked in an amused tone that was loud enough to reach the ears of the avidly interested gentlemen around him.

"Indeed it was." "Did I enjoy it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if I enjoyed being with her in that cottage." "Why ask? You were there together."

Rather than deny it, which would never convince them, Ian let the comment hang in the air until the other man demanded, "Well, weren't you with her there?"

"No," he admitted with rueful, conspiratorial grin, "but it was not for want of trying on my part."

"Give over, Kensington," one of them chided with derision. "There's no point in trying to protect the lady now. You were seen with her in the greenhouse."

Instead of smashing his face, Ian quirked an amused brow at him. "As I said, it was not for want of trying to get her off alone."

Seven male faces gaped at him in disbelief that was turning to disappointment; a moment later that gave way to shocked gratification when the new marquess asked their counsel: "I wonder," Ian remarked as if thinking aloud, "if she'd look with more favor on a marquess than she did on a mere mister."

"Good G.o.d, man," one of them laughed sarcastically. "The promise of a coronet will win you the hand of any woman you want."

"The promise of a coronet?" Ian repeated, frowning a little. "I gather it's your opinion, then, that the lady would settle for nothing less than marriage?"

The man, who'd thought nothing of the sort a moment ago, now nodded, though he wasn't exactly certain how he'd come to agree.

When Ian departed he left behind six men who had the diverting impression that the Marquess of Kensington had been rebuffed by Lady Cameron when he was a mere mister, and that bit of gossip was far more delectable than the former gossip that he'd seduced her.

With democratic impartiality, all six of those men shared their misinformation and erroneous conclusions with anyone in the ballroom who wanted to listen. And everyone was more than eager to listen. Within thirty minutes the ballroom was alive with speculation on this new information, and several males were studying Elizabeth with new interest. Two of them hesitantly presented themselves to Ian's grandfather and requested introductions to her, and shortly afterward Ian saw her being drawn to the dance floor by one of them, with his grandfather beaming approval. Knowing that he had done all he could to stem the gossip about her for one night, Ian then performed the only other ritual he had to endure before he could ask her to dance without exposing her to further censure. He asked seven consecutive women of a.s.sorted ages and unimpeachable reputations to dance with him first.

When all seven duty-dances were over, Ian caught Jordan Townsende's eye and tipped his head very slightly toward the balcony, sending him the signal that Ian knew his grandfather had already forewarned Jordan to expect.

Elizabeth noticed none of that as she stood with the Townsendes, letting the conversations swirl around her. In a welcome state of calm unreality she listened to several gentlemen who seemed to have lost their aversion to her, but her only genuine feelings were of relief that the Townsendes were no longer ostracized, and a lingering frustration that when she had asked if she could leave, nearly an hour ago, Jordan Townsende had glanced at the Duke of Stanhope and then shaken his head and gently told her, "Not for a while." Thus she was forced to remain, surrounded by people whose faces and voices never quite penetrated her senses, even though she smiled politely at their remarks or nodded agreement at their comments or danced with a few of them.

She was not aware that while she danced the Duke of Stanhope had relayed the rest of Ian's instructions to Jordan. and so she felt no warning tremor when Jordan tipped his head in acknowledgment of Ian's signal and abruptly said to Anthony Townsende, "I think the ladies would enjoy a stroll out on the balcony." Alex gave him a swift, questioning look but placed her hand on her husband's arm, while Elizabeth obediently turned and allowed Lord Anthony to offer her his. Along with the Duke of Stanhope, the party of five moved through the ballroom an honor guard to protect Elizabeth, arranged in advance by the same man who had caused the need to protect her.

The wide balcony was surrounded by a high stone bal.u.s.trade, and several couples were standing near it, enjoying the refreshing night air and moonless night. Instead of walking out the French doors directly forward to the bal.u.s.trade, as Elizabeth expected him to do, Jordan guided their party to the right, to the farthest end of the balcony, where it made a sharp right turn around the side of the house. He turned the comer, then stopped, as did the rest of the party. Grateful he'd sought some privacy for them, Elizabeth took her hand from Tony's arm and stepped up to the bal.u.s.trade. Several feet to her left Jordan Townsende did a similar thing, except that he turned sideways and leaned his elbow atop the bal.u.s.trade, his back blocking them from view of anyone who might decide to walk around the side of the house as they had done. From the corner of her eye she saw Jordan grin tenderly and speak to Alexandra, who was standing beside him at the railing. Turning her head away, Elizabeth gazed out at the night, letting the restless breeze cool her face.

Behind her, where Tony had been standing, shadows moved, then a hand gently grasped Elizabeth's elbow, and a deep, husky voice said near her ear, "Dance with me, Elizabeth."

Shock stiffened her body, slamming against the barricade of numbness that Elizabeth was trying to keep intact. Still gazing straight ahead, she said very calmly and politely, "Would you do me a great service?"

"Anything," he agreed.

"Go away. And stay away."

"Anything," he amended with a solemn smile in his voice, "but that." She felt him move closer behind her, and the nervous quaking she'd conquered hours before jarred through her again, awakening her senses from their blissful anesthesia. His fingers lightly caressed her arm, and he bent his head closer to hers. "Dance with me."

In the arbor two years ago, when he had spoken those words, Elizabeth had let him take her in his arms. Tonight, despite the fact that she was no longer being totally ostracized, she was still teetering on the edge of scandal, and she shook her head. "I don't think that would be wise."

"Nothing we've ever done has been wise. Let's not spoil our score."

Elizabeth shook her head, refusing to turn, but the pressure on her elbow increased until she had no choice. "I insist."

Reluctantly she turned and looked at him. "Why?" "Because," he said, smiling tenderly into her eyes, "I've already danced seven dances, all of them with ugly women of unimpeachable reputations, so that I'd be able to ask you, without causing more gossip to hurt you."

The words, as well as his softness, made her wary. "What do you mean by the last part of that?"

"I know what happened to you after the weekend we were together," he said gently. "Your Lucinda laid it all out for Duncan. Don't look so hurt-the only thing she did wrong was to tell Duncan rather than me."

The Ian Thornton who was talking to her tonight was almost achingly familiar; he was the man she'd met two years ago.

"Come inside with me," he urged, increasing the pressure on her elbow, "and I'll begin making it up to you."