"Not intentionally. Does a thunderstorm intend to crush a cottage? Does the wind think about the trees that fall before it?" Her smile was wry. "You are what you are, my lord. And I-I know my weaknesses. I like peace and solitude. In a stormy household, I would vanish like that little cloud. So enough of this discussion. Thank you for the book, and I hope you enjoy your time in London."

The finality in her voice alarmed him. Usually he was successful when he set out to win female favor, and he had been confident that Gwynne would be no exception. But this was a woman like no other, and it was impossible to doubt her resolve.

As she started to turn her horse, he leaned forward and grabbed the mare's bridle. "Don't dismiss me so quickly, Gwynne. We belong together-I know it."

"This is exactly what I meant!" Her composure shattered into outrage, and she slashed out with her riding crop. "You must have your own way, and be d.a.m.ned to what I want!"

Swearing as the leather whip bit into his wrist, he released her bridle. For an instant they stared in mutual shock. His surprise at her unexpected fury was swiftly followed by understanding. He had not been wrong about the pa.s.sion that lay beneath her composed surface, for he raised powerful emotions in her without even trying. Since the line between love and hate was thin, he must hope that he would be able to transform her anger into a more pleasing form of pa.s.sion.

Her fury vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I . . . I'm sorry." She stared at the riding crop in her hand, as if unable to believe she'd lashed out. "I've never struck anyone before in my life."

"You're not the first person I've inspired to violence," he observed. "But I'm not a tree seeking to crush your pretty roof, Lady Brecon. I'm a man who genuinely wishes to win your heart. I can be impatient, but I'm not usually insensitive, I think. There is a connection between us-surely you must feel it, too. Or do I delude myself?"

She shook her head reluctantly. "The connection is real, but merely l.u.s.t."

"Not l.u.s.t. Pa.s.sion."

"What is pa.s.sion but l.u.s.t by another name? Whatever you call this connection, it has made me violent and you a bully." A fallow deer darted across the trail. Her gaze followed the beast, as if envying its ability to flee. "I want no part of it."

Her words confirmed what he had suspected: her marriage had not been a pa.s.sionate one-not surprising given Lord Brecon's age. As a virtuous wife and widow, she had not sought the embraces of other men. Since she had lived without pa.s.sion, no wonder she found the prospect alarming. Pa.s.sion was alarming, but it was also a great gift. He must convince her of that.

"The pa.s.sions of the flesh often draw two people together," he said, choosing his words carefully. " But even the hottest fire soon settles into quiet coals. A true marriage is built on shared values and interests. Though I'm not a scholar like you, I do love books. And riding, too. What could be more pleasurable than riding through beautiful Scottish hills while we discuss some fascinating piece of Guardian history?"

Her mouth curved up again. "You are dangerously convincing, Ballister." She turned her horse back toward the park entrance, though at a social walk rather than a canter. "But have you ever really thought about the different ways men and women experience marriage? To a man, a wife is like a painting or a cla.s.sical statue. He chooses one and takes it home and hopes it will fit in with his existing furnishings."

He had to smile. "That's a cold way to describe marriage, but I suppose there is some truth to it."

"Then imagine what it is like to be a woman. She gives up her home and friends, even her name, to live among strangers."

"In Scotland, women keep their own names. And what is a stranger but a friend one hasn't met yet?"

"Glibness is not a solution," she retorted. "Though the Families have a tradition of equality, British law still says that a married woman can't control her own property, and she has few legal rights. Even her body and her children don't belong to her. She is chattel. Do you blame me for preferring independence? Would you be willing to marry me and live in England, far from Scotland and your family?"

He frowned. "I can't deny that the law is unfair, nor that I would be reluctant to live outside of Scotland. But your objections are of the mind, while marriage is a matter of the heart. If a man and woman love each other, they wish to please. Surely that helps balance the drawbacks of the wedded state."

"Perhaps, but love is not part of this negotiation. l.u.s.t and books are not enough. Accept that we have no future and go home to Scotland. Find yourself a strong, gloriously independent Scotswoman to be lady of your castle. That will be much easier than trying to turn me into the woman you would like me to be."

His mouth tightened. Though Gwynne rode almost within touching distance, she was farther away than if they had been on separate continents. "You say you have no power, but you're wrong. You can bring a man to his knees with a single glance."

"How poetic." Her golden eyes were as implacable as they were lovely. "Confess, Ballister. The greatest part of my charm is that I don't want you. Perhaps I should have encouraged your interest. That would have cured you quickly."

"Men enjoy the hunt, but when they meet the right woman, the game is over." He tried to keep his voice light and witty. "Nothing but victory will do."

"Then I hope you soon meet the right woman, and wage a successful campaign." She inclined her head, the plume in her hat fluttering gracefully, then urged her horse into a canter that took her through the park entrance.

He followed, abandoning conversation. If he were a reasonable man, he would take her at her word and withdraw from her life.

How fortunate that he was a d.a.m.ned stubborn Scot.

It was too much to hope that Ballister would allow Gwynne to ride home alone. A gentleman escorted a lady, even one who had just rejected him in the strongest possible terms. As he took his leave, he said, "Until next time, Lady Brecon."

"There will be no next time." Yet despite her firm words, she sensed they would meet again. She hoped that meeting was far in the future.

Frowning, she collected the Italian book and returned to her rooms to change from her riding habit. Guardian lore taught that the future consisted of an array of possibilities, not one single, unchangeable path. But some paths were far more likely than others, and some were so likely as to be almost impossible to avoid. That was when the word "destiny" was used.

If Ballister was her destiny, she intended to fight it tooth and nail. She had felt a disquieting mix of attraction and wariness from the moment they'd met, and both qualities had intensified during their ride. He had charm, intelligence, and-well, he was strikingly attractive. She'd be a liar if she claimed that his interest wasn't exciting. To have a powerful, sinfully appealing man propose marriage within a day of meeting her was the greatest compliment she'd ever received.

Nor was she as set against marriage as she had claimed. An English suitor with her late husband's kind, steady nature would be very appealing, particularly if he was a Guardian of only modest gifts. Ballister didn't qualify on any count.

She shivered as she remembered the rage that caused her to strike out at him. His stubborn refusal to take no for an answer had released a depth of emotion that had shocked her. Violence was not part of her nature, or so she had always thought. If pa.s.sion turned people into knaves and fools, she could live without it quite happily.

She glanced at the book he'd given her. A pity that Ballister wasn't a civilized man like Emery.

But if he were, would she find him so intriguing?

FOUR.

H aving returned Gwynne to her home, Duncan rode grimly down the long drive of Lady Bethany's house, wondering what he should do next. The first part of his visit had made him optimistic, not to mention even more entranced. Perhaps Simon might have more suggestions of how to proceed.

He was nearing the gates when an impulse made him glance to his left. Lady Bethany sat on a stone bench under a broad-limbed oak tree. Without a word being spoken, he knew that she wished to talk with him. He turned his horse, wondering what she wanted.

"Good day, Lady Bethany." He dismounted and tethered his horse to another stone bench. "Do you wish to encourage me in my courtship, or tell me to go away and leave Gwynne alone?"

"Since when have I meddled in the affairs of others?" she said with bland innocence.

He laughed. "Unless you have changed while I was away, you're the most notorious meddler in the Families. You only get away with it because you meddle so well."

Her eyes twinkled, the shrewdness belying her comfortable dowager appearance. "We had little time to talk yesterday, so I want to take advantage of this opportunity to ask about your travels."

He sat on the bench and obligingly told stories about his time on the Continent. Though sometimes national interests set different groups of Guardians at odds, overall they got along much more harmoniously than their governments. Their differences from mundanes bound them together. He finished by saying, "Of course, as head of the council I'm sure you've read the reports I've sent home."

"Yes, but the tastiest tidbits aren't usually written down." She gave him a slanting glance. "I sense that your courtship is not prospering."

Needing guidance, he said frankly, "Gwynne refuses to even consider me as a suitor. She doesn't want to marry, doesn't want to go to Scotland, and most particularly wants nothing to do with me. Is she so in love with her late husband that she will stay single the rest of her life?"

"Gwynne loved my brother most sincerely and she brought great happiness to his last years. But the love between an old man and a young girl is not the same as the love between two people in the prime of life. Continue your pursuit, Ballister, but gently."

"I'm not sure she'll receive me if I call again." His mouth twisted wryly. "I could kidnap her as one of my Highland ancestors would have, but I doubt that would achieve the result I want."

Lady Bethany laughed. "You are learning something about my Gwyneth, I see. She has more strength than she knows, and a stubborn streak equal to your own. But she has a generous and loving heart, and she'll make a wife without equal."

A note in the older woman's voice caught his attention. "Are you seeing that we will marry, Lady Bethany? I've felt that Gwynne and I are meant for each other, but perhaps infatuation is clouding my mind."

"Gwynne has been under the hand of fate for years. I feel you are part of that fate, but I can't grasp the shape of it. All I know is that you must woo her, and woo her well." She rose. "Tomorrow night Gwynne will attend a masquerade at New Spring Gardens with friends."

He stood also. "Thank you! I shall be there. What costume will she wear?"

Lady Bethany smiled mischievously. "If you can't discover her, you're a failure as both lover and Guardian. Good day, Ballister."

He bowed as the older woman left, hardly able to control his excitement. When it came to an affair of the heart, he'd rather have Lady Bethany on his side than a Roman legion. A masquerade would be a chance to get close to Gwynne without setting her hackles up. The free atmosphere would surely create . . . opportunities.

He wasn't worried about locating her. Even if he weren't a Guardian, he could find Gwynne among a thousand masked women.

Gwynne let her hand trail over the side of her friends' boat, her fingers playing with the cool river water. She had been doubtful when she accepted the invitation to attend a masquerade with the Tuckwell family, her closet friends outside of Guardian circles. The couple was older than she, with children near Gwynne's age, but they had become good friends after her marriage, and had been especially kind and supportive after Emery's death. Every fortnight or so Anne Tuckwell invited Gwynne to dinner or some other entertainment.

Though her first impulse was to stay home with her books and Lady Bethany, usually she made herself accept, knowing how easily she might become a hermit. She invariably had a good time, too.

The torch-lit landing and steps up to their destination appeared ahead on the south bank of the river. Though she had attended concerts and other events at Ranelagh, which was a newer, more aristocratic, pleasure garden, this would be her first visit to sprawling New Spring Gardens.

Her initial doubts about the masquerade had been replaced by antic.i.p.ation, for the excitement of the unknown might distract her thoughts from Lord Ballister. Her mind knew that she was right to dismiss him -but other parts of her were not so sure.

Their boat nosed into the jostling group waiting for a place at the landing area. When their gunwale ground against the adjacent boat, one of the occupants, a gentleman in a Roman toga, grinned suggestively at Gwynne. Uneasy that he was within touching distance, she turned away and concentrated on donning her gloves, glad for the concealment of her mask. She wasn't quite ready for half-naked Romans.

Gaily costumed people streamed from the boats and up the brightly lit stairs as strains of orchestra music sounded from the Grove in the center of the gardens. It was a warm night, almost sultry. Perfect for an outdoor masquerade, if it didn't rain. She refused to think about how convenient it would be to have the Lord of Storms with her.

"I have been so looking forward to this evening," her seatmate said dreamily. Sally Tuckwell, oldest daughter of the family, was nineteen and an unabashed romantic. "I wonder if William will be able to identify me in this costume and mask? I wouldn't tell him what I was wearing even though he begged to know."

Gwynne smiled as she regarded the girl's shepherdess garb. "With your lovely blond hair and graceful figure, I'm sure he'll find you soon. And if not, you can catch him with your shepherd's crook."

Sally laughed. "One reason I chose this costume is because the crook can both capture and defend."

"Now that you and William are engaged, you don't have to defend yourself against him with quite so much vigor," Gwynne said with twinkling eyes. "Perhaps he might even lure you down a dark walk to steal a kiss."

Sally's lips parted as she contemplated the prospect. In later years, when she and William were sober, long-married citizens, they would no doubt exchange private smiles when New Spring Gardens was mentioned, and remember what they had done when they were young and in the first flush of love.

Gwynne shook off a pang of envy that she had never had such moments. She had loved Emery and her only regret was that their marriage hadn't lasted longer-but it would have been pleasant to have had a chance to be as young and giddy as Sally. Though only a few years separated them, Gwynne felt much older.

Their boat finally pulled up to the landing. The boatman and Norcott, a Tuckwell footman, jumped out to steady the craft. Sir George climbed ash.o.r.e, then a.s.sisted his wife up before extending his hand to Gwynne. "I'll be much envied for escorting such beauty," he said jovially. "Three lovely ladies! What gentleman could wish for more?"

Gwynne laughed as she stepped from the rocking boat to solid land. "That would be more true if we weren't heavily disguised."

"Ah, but disguise stimulates the imagination," Anne Tuckwell said. "Any woman in a domino becomes a mysterious, alluring beauty, and every man can be a handsome prince in disguise."

Gwynne smiled at Anne's imagination, but privately admitted that there was truth to her words. Not fond of fancy dress, Sir George wore his usual evening attire with only a mask, but Anne and Gwynne wore dominoes that completely covered their evening gowns with hooded cloaks of flowing silk. Anne was graceful in green, while Gwynne wore the shimmering scarlet domino that belonged to Sally.

When Gwynne had first donned the domino, she had thought it garishly bright. Yet in the festival night, she found that the sumptuous color made her feel like a sophisticated, worldly woman. Not like a book mouse at all.

After Sir George had paid their admissions, they walked through the arched pa.s.sage that led into the gardens and stepped onto the tree-lined Grand Walk. Gwynne stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening at the sight of thousands of lamps that brightened the night. Revelers in costume and dominoes filled the long promenade that disappeared into the distance. The sounds of music and gaiety were all around her, and she felt as if she had stepped from the normal world into fairyland.

Laughing, Sally caught her arm to get her moving again. "It's far too soon to be wonderstruck. The park is filled with delights-cunning statues and bridges, cascades and temples, paintings and music. One could wander for days and not see everything!"

Gwynne resumed walking, the silken folds of the domino rustling luxuriantly. With the deep hood concealing her telltale hair and a closely fitted black half mask, she realized that tonight she had the freedom of anonymity. Her spirits bubbled up as she surveyed the laughing crowd, and for the first time since her mother died, she felt young. She could be as playful and giddy as Sally if she wished. Flirting with mysterious strangers would help her forget that wretched Scot.

Sally said with a touch of anxiety, "With so many people here, perhaps William won't be able to find me."

"Your father won't be hard to identify," Gwynne said practically. "William will recognize him, and be at your side a moment later."

Sure enough, as their party prepared to take seats in the supper box Sir George had hired, a dashing, masked cavalier joined them. He bowed, the plumes of his hat brushing the ground as he swept his arm grandly. "What a perfect picture of rural innocence you are, my little shepherdess," he said in William's voice. "Perhaps I shall steal you away."

As Sally giggled, Anne said, "Very well, but see that you bring her back before midnight, n.o.ble sir. Or you'll have to face a mother's wrath."

He grinned and kissed her hand, then offered his arm to Sally. As the young couple vanished from view, Sir George said, "Gwynne, would you mind if I took my lady wife for a short stroll?"

The gleam in Anne's eyes demonstrated that it wasn't only the young who found the racy atmosphere exciting, but she hesitated when she glanced at Gwynne. "We shouldn't leave our guest alone."

"Nonsense," Gwynne said. "With Norcott to look after me, I'll be safe enough in the supper box until you return. I shall listen to the music and watch the pa.s.sing crowd and enjoy myself thoroughly."

"If you're sure . . ." Anne said, willing to be persuaded.

Gwynne made a shooing motion with her hand. "Be off with you, and there's no need to rush back. I'll do very well."

The Tuckwells went off arm in arm. Gwynne expected that when they returned, there would be gra.s.s stains on Anne's domino. Perhaps that was why the older woman wore green? Smiling to herself, Gwynne turned to the supper box, then hesitated. The box would be safe, but she had spent too much of her life as an observer. The pleasure garden called to her, encouraging her to move and explore and see life.

"Norcott, I believe that I shall take a walk myself. Will you follow far enough behind that no one will realize that you are watching over me?"

The footman, a solid middle-aged man, looked uncomfortable. "For a female to walk alone here suggests that she is . . . is seeking a companion."

"I'll come to no harm as long as I stay on the lighted walkways. And if someone attempts to force unwanted attentions on me, you'll be there."

He inclined his head but wasn't quite able to keep a note of disapproval from his voice. "Very well, my lady."

Even knowing that Norcott was behind her didn't interfere with Gwynne's glorious sense of freedom as she set out along the graveled walk. Had she ever been alone in a crowded public place like this? Not that she could remember. Glad that she had worn a comfortable round gown that was easy to walk in, she set off at a brisk pace, as if she had a destination. That way she wouldn't be confused with the languid ladies of the night who were trolling for customers.

Her strategy seemed to work. Though the scarlet domino drew speculative glances, no one accosted her. Safe behind her mask, she studied the gardens and her fellow merrymakers. As Sally had said, there were many sights to see, and she enjoyed every one of them. The Grecian temple that housed the orchestra was particularly splendid, with globe lanterns outlining the building's arches and columns.

Watching people was even more amusing. Most were obviously decent citizens out for an evening of pleasure. A toga couldn't conceal a solid merchant, nor did a domino turn a farmer into a prince. But there were a few male figures that stirred her imagination. Like the two lean, scarred men whose army uniforms were clearly earned, not costumes. Or the bored aristocrat whose lazy gaze surveyed the courtesans, as if looking for one worthy of his attentions.

Soon the orchestra that played in the Grove near the entrance could no longer be heard and the crowd was thinning out. She must be nearing the end of the gardens.

She was about to turn back when she reached an open area where a group of musicians on a canopied dais were playing. Below them, men and women were performing a country dance, the men lined up opposite the women. There was much laughter as they joined hands, spun apart, then came together again.

As the last couple clasped hands and skipped up to the head of the set, she halted, foot tapping in time to the music. Wistfully she wished that she was one of those merry dancers.

Against so much movement, her attention was caught by a solitary gentleman in a black domino who stood near the dancers with a stillness so intense it drew the eye. As she watched, she realized that his masked gaze was very slowly scanning the crowd, like a predator seeking his prey.

Abruptly he pivoted on his heel and walked away from the dancers, his movements smooth as a cat. Tall and powerful and clothed in night, he was a man to stir dreams. Maybe he was the prince Anne had suggested, or a rake in search of less innocent pleasures.

Perhaps she should find out. On impulse, she moved on a path that would intersect his. Though she had no skill at flirting, where better to practice than here, where no one knew who she was?

And perhaps he would dance.