"Barely." Rachel rasped out.

"Then it's perfect."

"Shouldn't I at least be comfortable?"

She looked at the clock on the back wall. Ryan's train was due into the station in an hour. She was afraid she would pass out on the way to the station.

Elsie tied the bustle pad around Rachel's waist. The frothy silk morning dress ?oated over Rachel's head before she could take a breath. Another young maid helped Rachel step into a pair of silk-lined ivory shoes with brass toes. Three days ago, she and Mary Elizabeth had returned to London, and Rachel had asked Brianna to take her shopping. She had purchased two new gowns, one that had been discarded by an unhappy patron, but a gown that Rachel found to be the most beautiful dress she'd ever seen.

Elsie finished buttoning the row of tiny pearls up her back, then helped her slide into the jacket with leg-of-mutton sleeves. Black cording accented on the collar and sleeves matched the mesh containing her wealth of hair. Catching sight of Brianna's awed expression, Rachel turned in a rustle of peridot silk and soft white lace and looked at herself in the mirror. Today, she felt like something out of a Cinderella fairy tale, slippers and all.

"Elsie, make sure that Mary Elizabeth is ready. We'll need to leave soon."

"You're beautiful," Brianna said later, as she and Rachel climbed into the carriage. Elsie and Mary Elizabeth were already inside waiting. "Ryan won't even recognize you."

Had she changed so much in the two weeks of Ryan's absence? She wanted to laugh at the notion, as if a pretty dress could change who she was on the inside. She felt beautiful in her dress, but she didn't feel like herself. The carriage jolted forward.

While Brianna and Mary Elizabeth talked about Button's latest escapade in the fountain, Rachel stared anxiously out the window at the traffic, a shudder of longing pulling at her thoughts.

That morning, she'd sat at the table and opened the broadsheet to a story written about Ryan's trip to Paris. Instead of reading about lords and ladies sweeping through the final days of summer, she'd gone directly to the financials to find any news about investors' reactions to his trip to Paris. No one knew the details of the deal that had been reached, but Ore Industries stock was up, and the man with the Midas touch was touted to be on the verge of striking gold for his minions again.

The column went on to talk about his betrothal, his possible award of a knighthood, but she scarcely registered anything else. In the last few years, she'd grown accustomed to reading about Ryan; he'd long ago lost the freedom that came with anonymity. He was, after all, the sweeping embodiment of a dashing antihero, a commoner who dared encroach upon the ranks of society. The broadsheet columnists loved to write about him. They equally loved to hate him.

Turning away from the window, Rachel looked at Mary Elizabeth, sitting like a lady beside her. "I likes trains," she said, as could be attested to by her excitement when they reached the station thirty minutes later.

The Southern Railway terminal bustled. Rachel glanced up at the train indicator. The hollow noise of the station bounced off the four-story-high glass-and-steel ceiling.

"There is Dover," Brianna said. "The train arrived ten minutes ago."

Rachel took Mary Elizabeth from Elsie as they descended into the underground passageway that led to the correct platform. Mary Elizabeth had never been in a tunnel so asked questions about everything from the tiles on the walls to the way the tunnel smelled. People bumped her.

"Would you like me to carry her?" Brianna offered, but Rachel declined.

This was the first time she would be greeting Ryan as his wife. The little girl in her arms gave her something of an emotional buffer. "Are we late?" Mary Elizabeth asked.

There was no train on the near side of the terminal ramp. Rachel stood on the crowded ramp and looked up and down the walkway, then across the open station.

Ryan stood in the doorway of a railcar two ramps away. A hundred people and four sets of train tracks separated them. His height separated him. He wore black traveling clothes and carried a woolen coat over his am as he turned back to the doorway. Rachel would have to retrace her steps down into the tunnel along the passageway to reach him. Then as she watched, Ryan held out his hand. An emerald green hat, bursting with festive feathers appeared first in the portal way. As Rachel stared, Lady Gwyneth descended onto the platform. The woman was smiling up at something Ryan said, a shared bit of laughter followed. He edged a hand beneath Lady Gwyneth's elbow only to stop as two people approached, one carrying a pad of paper.

Rachel tried to breathe. Her tightly cinched ribs would not expand. She managed to keep her chin high and shoulders back. Mary Elizabeth remained snug against her, the little girl's arms wrapped around her neck as she continued anxiously scanning the crowd for her da. She prayed that Brianna had not yet seen her brother, but knew she was too late in turning away when she felt Ryan's sister stiffen.

Rachel wanted to flee before Mary Elizabeth saw her father, but it was as if she was powerless to do anything but watch.

Finally, she turned and stopped when her gaze collided with Brianna's. She didn't know what was worse. Having Lord Bathwick witness her humiliation at the ball or now.

"Da!" Mary Elizabeth began to wriggle. "I see Da!" Both of her small palms went around Rachel's cheeks. "You gots to hurry," she said, as if Rachel was dense. "He's leaving."

Rachel handed the girl to Brianna. "I'm sorry," she mouthed the words, knowing if she spoke the sentiment aloud, she would only burst into tears. "Aunt Brea will take you to him, Mary Elizabeth." To Brianna she said, "You better hurry."

"You ask the bloody impossible, Rachel." Johnny dropped in the chair at the end of the rosewood table in the D&B conference room.

Still wearing his crumpled traveling suit, the shadow of a beard darkened his jaw, following a night of littlesleep; he had just arrived late that afternoon after a tedious journey from Scotland."You've been in charge of the northern division since its conception, Johnny. You know this company.""Does Ryan have any idea that you are leaving?" Johnny asked."All I'm doing is returning to my people in Ireland. I only want to be confident that they will have a job next year.""Ryan hasn't abandoned us, Rachel." His voice was quiet.Rachel sat across from him, her hands folded in front of her. Four days had passed since she'd seen Ryan at the Southern Railway station. Brianna had not been able to catch him before he'd boarded a

train bound for Bristol. She knew that he had a house there that he'd bought for Lady Gwyneth.Drawing in a deep breath, Rachel looked at Johnny. She wanted him to take responsibility for thecompany. She'd always prided herself on her ability to persevere. But she had not been feeling well latelyand found a need to go home to Memaw. Strange that Ireland had become the embodiment of all thatshe considered home, especially since she had grown up with the Donallys in the North Country aroundCarlisle.

Johnny shifted his gaze from her and suddenly homed in on the elegantly attired man sitting at the end of

the table. "Lord Bathwick," he acknowledged. "So, you think I'm qualified to step into Ryan's shoes?""What I think isn't important." He leaned an elbow on the table. "Miss Bailey wants me to give you myproxy."

Rachel returned her attention to the task of gathering up the papers in front of her."Maybe we should talk about this alone, colleen," Johnny said."Don't my shares pratically make me family?" Bathwick asked."Not when I consider how you got those shares, my lord.""Surely I am no different from your own brother," Bathwick scoffed."Except he is my own brother, and you are not."Bathwick's blue eyes moved to Rachel, and she felt the momentary softening beneath his bland gaze. He had visited her yesterday at Brianna's home, taken one look at her redrimmed eyes, and taken her to the vaudeville theater on Gloucester Street. "I should go." He stood and brushed off his trousers with his gloves. "You two obviously need to talk."

Rachel lifted her gaze to check the clock on the wall.

Ryan was leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other. "Surprise. Surprise," he

drawled, his voice more conciliatory than his eyes. "I see I'm late for my own hanging." His gaze touched the transom above the door. "Though no one else on the floor has missed the pleasure."

His cravat was loose. His unshaven face darkened his eyes. Exhaustion battled the proprietary

expression in his eyes as he took Lord Bathwick into his gaze. He looked as if he'd been traveling all

night to get back to London. "Tell him, Rache." He said the words slowly, social amenities aside. "Tell his lordship why his proxy will make no difference in the end."

She clamped down her jaw. "I won't."

"Tell him."

Rachel pressed both palms on the table and glared at her husband. He remained leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other, his casual stance an ominous companion to his gaze. She bristled. On what grounds did he have to engage in such draconian behavior? None!

And there was something else inside her as well, aided and abetted by her anger. She possessed a need to throw something at his head.

She twisted around to face Lord Bathwick, apology in her eyes.

"I think I understand the problem, Miss Bailey," Lord Bathwick said, then corrected himself. "Or should I rephrase, Mrs. Donally."

"Do not call me by that name."

"Deny it all you will," Ryan said, and she wondered if they were about to indulge everyone within hearing

distance with a very public row, "but I have our marriage certificate. It's registered in Wicklow County, Ireland. David was very thorough."

Lord Bathwick stood at one end of the conference table and replaced his hat on his head, his eyes on

Ryan. "My guess, since all of London knows you and Lady Gwyneth were in Paris together and she did

return alive, I'm assuming that you've reached an accord without my father's approval.""Lest he extrapolate the wrong conclusion from Lady Gwyneth's absence, let me assure you both she isnowhere she doesn't wish to be. If she holds any affection for you, she will tell you her whereabouts."

"Frankly, I wouldn't trust me either." Lord Bathwick eyed Ryan with expressionless eyes, then turned to

Rachel. "My condolences on your nuptials."

Ryan took a threatening step forward. Rachel stood between both men, but it was Johnny who stepped in front of Ryan. "Maybe you should leave, my lord," Johnny wisely suggested.

"Stay away from my wife," Ryan warned, as if he had a right to say anything at all after cavorting all over

France and England with his former betrothed.

"You are hot-tempered, Ryan Donally," Rachel shot back until Johnny turned to face her and, with a keen warning in his dark eyes, silenced her outburst. "No one owns me, Johnny." Her voice was quietly determined and aimed at Ryan. "No one."

Johnny glanced between them. "Did something happen that I should know about?""Nothing happened." Ryan's eyes moved to her. "I mean that, Rachel."The sound of a bobby's whistle outside mixed with the traffic on the street. The heat in the room struck her. There had been no wind or clouds for several days, and she could feel sweat trickling between her shoulder blades.

"I will take my leave then." Bathwick bowed at the waist.

Rachel's gaze followed his departure before swinging back around to Ryan. "How could you-?""How could I not? What do you think you're doing-?""Maybe you two might want to know why I returned to London." Johnny interrupted. He slid a fistful of papers into the center of the table. "We have a potential problem."

Heart racing, her argument with Ryan momentarily on hold, she scraped up the papers. "A structuralintegrity issue has surfaced at the Forth site," Johnny said."Brittle fracturing?" Rachel's voice was unsteady as she handed the report to Ryan."The kind of problem that sends bridges crashing into the ground. I've put a temporary halt to any further construction at both sites."

"Which bridge span?" Ryan asked Johnny.

"The north span. Erected five months ago," Johnny said. "Had we not found the problem, we would have

been faced with a disaster. As it is, we need those records I've been asking for to trace the foundry where the steel came from. We need to know if any of the other sites are affected."

"We've been on that for two weeks, Johnny," Rachel said."The recent renovations have caused some problems." Ryan returned the paper to Johnny. "Dispatchteams to begin inspections at the major bridge sites we've completed in the last year," he said. "I don'ttrust local governments to do the job."

"Neither do I," Rachel agreed, having had her fill of bureaucracy in the past.

"I've already done that." Johnny's face remained expressionless, but his posture betrayed the tensionevident in his shoulders. "What else can I do?""Go home and sleep," Ryan said. "Tomorrow I'll have Stewart bring up a list of the foundries that supply our steel. Not one has alerted us to a problem, and I'm curious to know why. On Monday, we'll put

more people to the task of finding the records."Johnny turned to look at her, but Ryan had already moved to the door and awaited his brother'sdeparture. Clearly, he felt the topic was finished. "What all of us want to know"-Johnny asked her-"ishow did David marry the two of you at all?"

Rachel spared an involuntary glance over his shoulder at Ryan. "He smashed your brother in the jaw and

threatened to shanghai Ryan to San Francisco."

"David did that to Ryan?" Johnny's eyes widened in barely contained amusement. "This is too preposterous not to be true. He always could best his baby brother in a fight."

"Very amusing, Johnny," Ryan said.

Rachel thought Johnny might strangle for lack of holding back his laughter. "So did David catch you with your hands in the cookie jar, brother?"

More like he caught her hands in the jar, Rachel groaned. Eyeing her brother-in-law, she realized some

things never changed. Ryan could be a hundred years old and still be treated like a guilty twelve-year-old by his family. "You could, of course, try to congratulate him," Rachel pointed out, annoyed. "Or me."