When the ladies had both retired to their bedchambers Jake wandered over to the table and rummaged through the provisions. Taking out some cheese and bread, he listened to the sounds of their footsteps on the wooden floor as they went about opening cabinets and making up their beds. When he'd finished eating he had two gla.s.ses of Madeira, then he glanced at Ian. "You ought to eat something," he said.

"I'm not hungry," his friend replied shortly. Jake's eyes filled with puzzlement as he gazed at the enigmatic man who was staring out the window into the darkness, his profile taut.

Although there had been no sounds of movement from the bedchambers above for the last half hour, Jake felt guilty that the ladies hadn't eaten. Hesitantly, he said, "Shall I bring some of this up to them?"

"No," Ian said "If they want to eat, they can d.a.m.n we'd come down here and feed themselves."

"We're not being very hospitable to 'em, Ian." "Not hospitable?" he repeated with a sarcastic glance over his shoulder. "In case you haven't realized it; they've taken two of the bedchambers, which means one of us will be sleeping on the sofa tonight."

"The sofa's too short. I'd sleep out in the barn, like I used to do. Don't mind it a bit. I like the way hay smells, and it's soft. Your caretaker's brought up a cow and some chickens, just like the note said, so we'd have fresh milk and eggs. Looks to me like the only thing he didn't do was have someone clean this place up."

When Ian made no reply to that but continued staring off into the dark, Jake said hesitantly, "Would you be willing to tell me how the ladies came to be here? I mean, who are they?"

Ian drew a long, impatient breath, tipped his head back. and absently ma.s.saged the muscles at the back of his neck. "I met Elizabeth a year and a half ago at a party. She'd just made her debut, was already betrothed to some unfortunate n.o.bleman, and was eager to test her wiles on me."

"Test her wiles on you? I thought you said she was engaged to another."

Sighing irritably at his friend's naivete, Ian said curtly, "Debutantes are a different breed from any women you've known. Twice a year their mamas bring them to London to make their debut. They're paraded about during the Season like horses at an auction, then their parents sell them as wives to whoever bids the highest. The winning bidder is selected by the expedient measure of choosing whoever has the most important t.i.tle and the most money."

"Barbaric!" said Jake indignantly. Ian shot him an ironic look. "Don't waste your pity. It suits them perfectly. All they want from marriage is jewels, gowns, and the freedom to have discreet liaisons with whomever they please, once they produce the requisite heir. They've no notion of fidelity or honest human feeling."

Jake's brows lifted at that. "Can't say as I ever noticed you took the petticoat set in aversion," he remarked, thinking of the women who'd warmed Ian's bed in the last two years some with t.i.tles of their own.

"Speaking of debutantes," Jake continued cautiously when Ian remained silent, "what about the one upstairs? Do you dislike her especially, or just on general principle?"

Ian walked over to the table and poured some Scotch into a gla.s.s. He took a swallow, shrugged, and said, "Miss Cameron was more inventive than some of her vapid little friends. She accosted me in a garden at a party."

"I can see how bothersome that musta been," Jake joked, "having someone like her, with a face that men dream about, tryin' to seduce you, usin' feminine wiles on you. Did they work?"

Slamming the gla.s.s down on the table, Ian said curtly, "They worked." Coldly dismissing Elizabeth from his mind, be opened the deerskin case on the table, removed some papers he needed to review, and sat down in front of the fire.

Trying to suppress his avid curiosity, Jake waited a few minutes before asking, "Then what happened?"

Already engrossed in reading the doc.u.ments in his hand, Ian said absently and without looking up, "I asked her to marry me; she sent me a note inviting me to meet her in the greenhouse; I went there; her brother barged in on us and informed me she was a countess, and that she was already betrothed."

The topic thrust from his mind, Ian reached for the quill lying on the small table beside his chair and made a note in the margin of the contract.

"And?" Jake demanded avidly.

"And what?"

"And then what happened-after the brother barged in?" "He took exception to my having contemplated marrying so far above myself and challenged me to a duel," Ian replied in a preoccupied voice as he made another note on the contract.

"So what's the girl doin' here now?" Jake asked, scratching his head in bafflement over the doings of the Quality.

"Who the h.e.l.l knows," Ian murmured irritably. "Based on her behavior with me, my guess is she finally got caught in some sleazy affair or another, and her reputation's beyond repair."

"What's that got to do with you?" Ian expelled his breath in a long. irritated sigh and glanced at Jake with an expression that made it clear he was finished answering questions. "I a.s.sume," be bit out, "that her family, recalling my absurd obsession with her two years ago, hoped I'd come up to scratch again and take her off their bands."

"You think it's got somethin' to do with the old duke 'talking about you bein' his natural grandson and wantin' to make you his heir?" He waited expectantly, hoping for more information, but Ian ignored him, reading his doc.u.ments. Left with no other choice and no prospect for further confidences, Jake picked up a candle, gathered up some blankets, and started for the barn. He paused at the door, Struck by a sudden thought. "She said she didn't send you any note about meetin' her in the greenhouse."

"She's a liar and an excellent little actress," Ian said icily, without taking his gaze from the papers. "Tomorrow I'll think of some way to get her out of here and off my hands."

Something in Ian's face made Jake ask, "Why the hurry? You afraid of fallin' fer her wiles again?"

"Hardly." "Then you must be made of stone," he teased. "That woman's so beautiful she'd tempt any man who was alone with her for an hour includin' me, and you know I ain't in the petticoat line at all."

"Don't let her catch you alone," Ian replied mildly. "I don't think I'd mind." Jake laughed as he left.

Upstairs in the bedchamber at the end of the hall over the kitchen, Elizabeth had wearily pulled off her clothes. climbed into bed, and fallen into an exhausted slumber.

In the bedchamber that opened off the landing above the parlor where the two men talked, Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones had seen no reason to break her normal retiring routine. Refusing to yield to weariness merely because she'd been jounced about on the back of a wagon, ign.o.bly ejected from a dirty cottage into the rain, where she'd contemplated the feeding habits of predatory beasts, and then been rudely forced to retire without so much as a morsel of bread for sustenance, she nevertheless prepared for bed exactly as she would have done had she spent the day over her embroidery. After removing and folding her black bombazine gown she had unpinned her hair, given it the requisite one hundred slow strokes, and then carefully braided it and tucked it beneath her white nightcap."

Two things, however, put Lucinda so out of countenance .I that once she had climbed into bed and pulled the scratchy blankets up to her chin she actually could not sleep. First and foremost, there had not been a ewer and basin in her crude bedchamber that she could use to wash her face and body, which she always did before retiring. Second, the bed upon which her bony frame was expected to repose had lumps in it.

Those two things had resulted in her still being awake when the men below began to talk, and their voices had drifted up between the floorboards, muted but distinct. Because of that she had been forced to be an eavesdropper. In her entire fifty-six years Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones had never stooped to eavesdropping. She deplored eavesdroppers, a fact of which the servants in every house where she had ever dwelt were well aware. She ruthlessly reported any servant, no matter how high in the household hierarchy, if she caught him or her listening at doors or looking through keyholes.

Now, however, she had been relegated to their lowly level, for she had listened. She had heard. And now she was mentally going over every word Ian Thornton had spoken, examining it for truth, weighing each thing he'd said to that socially inept man who'd mistaken her for a menial. Despite her inner turmoil, as she lay upon her pallet Lucinda was perfectly composed, perfectly still. Her eyes were closed, her soft white hands folded across her fiat bosom atop the coverlet. She did not fidget or pluck at the covers, she did not glower and frown at the ceiling. So still was she that had anyone peeked into the moonlit room and seen her lying there they might well have expected to find candles lit at her feet and a crucifix in her hands.

That impression, however, was no reflection on the activity in her mind. With scientific precision she was examining everything she'd heard and considering what, if anything, could or ought to be done. She knew it was possible that Ian Thornton had been lying to Jake Wiley-that he had been professing to have cared about Elizabeth, to have wanted to ?? her-merely to cast himself in a better light. Robert Cameron had insisted that Thornton was nothing but a dissolute fortune hunter and an unprincipled rake; he'd specifically said that Thornton had admitted he'd been trying to seduce Elizabeth merely for sport. In this instance Lucinda was inclined to think Robert had been lying out of a desire to justify his shameful actions at the duel. Furthermore, although Lucinda had witnessed a certain fraternal devotion in Robert's att.i.tude toward Elizabeth, his disappearance from England had proven him a coward.

For more than an hour Lucinda lay awake, weighing everything she'd heard for truth. The only thing she accepted unequivocally was the one thing that other people of inferior knowledge and intuition had wondered about and refused to believe for years. She did not doubt for an instant that Ian Thornton was directly related to the Duke of Stanhope. As was often said, an impostor might be able to pa.s.s himself off as Quality to another gentleman in an exclusive club, but he'd better not present himself at the gentleman's home-for an observant butler would know him as an impostor at a glance.

That same ability extended to skilled duennas whose job it was to protect their charges from social impostors. Of course, Lucinda had the advantage of having been, 'during her early career, companion to the niece of the Duke of Stanhope, which was why she'd taken one took at Ian Thornton tonight and placed him immediately as a close descendant of the old man, to whom he bore an absolutely startling resemblance. Based on Ian Thornton's age and her recollection of the scandal surrounding the Marquess of Kensington's break with his family over his unsuitable marriage to a Scottish girl, Lucinda had guessed Ian Thornton to be the old duke's grandson within thirty seconds of clapping eyes on him. In fact, the only thing she hadn't been able to deduce within a moment of meeting him downstairs was whether or not he was legitimate-but only because she had not been present at his conception, and so could not know whether he had been conceived before or after his parents' unsanctioned marriage thirty years before. But if Stanhope was trying to make Ian Thornton his heir, which was the rumor she'd heard time and again, then there was no question whatever of Thornton's parentage.

Given all that, Lucinda had only two more matters to contemplate. The first was whether Elizabeth would benefit from marriage to a future peer of the realm-not a mere earl or count, but a man who would someday bear the t.i.tle of duke, the loftiest of all n.o.ble t.i.tles. Since Lucinda had made it her life's work to ensure that her charges made the best possible matches, it took her less than two seconds to decide that the answer to that was an emphatic affirmative.

The second matter gave her a trifle more difficulty: As things stood, she was the only one in favor of the match. And time was her enemy. Unless she was wrong-and Lucinda was never wrong in such matters-Ian Thornton was about to become the most sought-after bachelor in all Europe. Although she'd been locked away with poor Elizabeth at Havenhurst, Lucinda kept up correspondence with two other duennas. Their letters had often included casual mentions of him at various social functions. His desirability, which apparently had been increasing apace with news of his wealth, would increase a hundredfold when he was called by the t.i.tle that had been his father's-the Marquess of Kensington. That t.i.tle was rightfully his, and considering the trouble he'd caused Lucinda's charge, Lucinda felt he owed it to Elizabeth to bestow a coronet and marriage ring upon her without further delay.

Having decided that, she was faced with only one remaining problem, and it posed something of a moral dilemma. After a lifetime devoted to keeping unmarried persons of the opposite s.e.x apart, she was now considering bringing them together. She contemplated Jake Wiley's last remark about Elizabeth: "That woman's so beautiful she'd tempt any man who was alone with her for an hour." As Lucinda knew, Ian Thornton had once been "tempted" by Elizabeth, and although Elizabeth was no longer a young girl, she was even more beautiful now than she'd been then. Elizabeth was also wiser; therefore she would not be so foolish as to let him carry things too far, if and when they were left alone for a very few hours. Of that Lucinda was certain. In fact, the only things of which Lucinda wasn't certain were whether or not Ian Thornton was now as immune to Elizabeth as he'd claimed to be. . . and how on earth she was going to contrive to see that they had those few hours alone. She entrusted those last two difficulties to the equally capable hands of her Creator and finally fell into her usual peaceful slumber.

Chapter 12.

Jake opened one eye and blinked confusedly at the sunlight pouring through the window high above. Disoriented, he rolled over on a lumpy, unfamiliar bed and found himself staring up at an enormous black animal who flattened his ears, bared his teeth, and tried to bite him through the slats of his stall. "You d.a.m.ned cannibal!" he swore at the evil-tempered horse. "Sp.a.w.n of Lucifer!" Jake added, and for good measure he aimed a hard kick at the wooden slats by way of retaliation for the attempted bite. "Ouch, dammit!" he swore as his bootless foot hit the board.

Shoving himself to a sitting position, he raked his hands through his thick red hair and grimaced at the hay that stuck between his fingers. His foot hurt, and his head ached from the bottle of wine he'd drunk last night.

Heaving himself to his feet, he pulled on his boots and brushed off his woolen shirt, shivering in the damp chill. Fifteen years ago, when he'd come to work on the little farm, he'd slept in this barn every night. Now, with Ian successfully investing the money Jake made when they sailed together, he'd learned to appreciate the comforts of feather mattresses and satin covers, and he missed them sorely.

"From palaces to a d.a.m.ned cowshed," he grumbled, walking out of the empty stall he'd slept in. As he pa.s.sed Attila's stall, a hoof punched out with deadly aim, narrowly missing Jake's thigh. "That'll cost you an early breakfast, you miserable piece of living glue," he spat, and then he took considerable pleasure in feeding the other two horses while the black looked on. "You've put me in a sour mood," he said cheerfully as the jealous horse shifted angrily while the other two steeds were fed. "Maybe if it improves later on, I'll feed you-" He broke off in alarm as he noticed the way Ian's splendid chestnut gelding was standing with his right knee slightly bent. holding his right hoof off the ground. "Here now, Mayhem," he crooned softly, patting the horse's satiny neck, "let's see that hoof."

The well-trained animal, who'd won every race he'd ever run and who'd sired the winner of the last races at Heathton, put up no resistance when Jake lifted his hoof and bent over it. "You've picked up a stone," Jake told the animal, who was watching him with ears attentively forward. his brown eyes bright and intelligent. Jake paused. looking around for something to use as a pick, and found it on an old wooden ledge. "It's lodged in there good," he murmured to the horse as he lifted the hoof and crouched down, bracing the hoof on his knee. He picked away at the rock, leaning back against the slats of the next stall in an attempt to get leverage. "That's got it." The rock came loose, but Jake's satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake's ample rear end. "You vicious bag of bones," he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila's body. As if the horse antic.i.p.ated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the comer of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. "I'll get you for that." Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast.

Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. "Bruised you, did it?" Jake said sympathetically. "It's not surprisin', considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sip yesterday that you were hurtin'," he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, he patted the chestnut's flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. "That's because you're a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who's not fit to be your stallmate!"

If Attila cared one way or another for Jake's opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake's mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage.

Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. "Good morning," he said to Jake, studying the older man's thunderous frown.

"Mebbe you think so, but I can't see it. Course, I've spent the night freezin' out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my a.r.s.e already this mornin" And," he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, "your horse is lame!" Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian's grin faded. "He's what?"

"Picked up a rock, and he's favoring his left foreleg." Ian's chair legs sc.r.a.ped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go out to the barn.

"There's no need. It's just a bruise."

As she finished washing, Elizabeth heard the indistinct murmur of masculine voices below. Wrapped in a thin towel, she went over to the trunks her unwilling host had carried upstairs and left outside her door this morning, along with two large pitchers of water. Even before she dragged them into her bedchamber she knew the gowns they contained were all a little fancy and fragile to wear in a place like this.

Elizabeth chose the least flamboyant-a high-waisted white lawn gown with a wide band of pink roses and green leaves embroidered at the hem and at the fitted cuffs of its full, billowy sleeves. A matching white ribbon with roses and leaves embroidered on it lay atop the gown, and she pulled it out, uncertain how to wear it, if at all.

Elizabeth struggled into the gown, smoothed it over her waist, and spent several minutes fighting to close the long row of tiny b.u.t.tons down her back. She turned to survey her appearance in the small mirror above the washstand and nervously bit her lip. The rounded bodice, which had once been demure, now clung tightly to her ripened figure. "Wonderful," she said aloud with a grimace as she tugged on the bodice. No matter how she tried to pull it up, it persisted in falling lower as soon as she let it go, and she finally gave up the struggle. "They wore gowns cut lower than this during the season," she reminded the mirror in her own defense. Walking over to the bed, she retrieved the hair ribbon, debating what to do with her hair. In London, the last time she'd worn the gown, Berta had threaded the ribbon through Elizabeth's curls. At Havenhurst, however, her heavy hair was no longer twisted into elegant styles, but was left to hang partway down her back, where it ended in thick waves and curls.

With a shrug Elizabeth picked up her comb, parted her hair down the middle, and then caught it at the nape and gathered it together with the embroidered ribbon, which she tied in a simple bow; then she tugged two tendrils loose to soften the effect. She stood back to survey her appearance and sighed with resignation. Completely oblivious to the wide, bright green eyes looking back at her or the healthy glow of her skin, or any of the features that had made Jake say she had a face men dreamt of, Elizabeth looked for glaring flaws in her appearance, and when she didn't see anything out of the ordinary she lost interest. Turning away from the mirror, she sat down on the bed, going over last night's events as she'd been doing all morning. The thing that bothered her the most was relatively minor. Ian's claim that he'd received a note from her to meet her in the greenhouse. Of course, it was perfectly possible he was lying about that in an effort to acquit himself in front of Mr. Wiley. But Ian Thornton, as she well knew, was innately rude and blunt, so she couldn't quite see him bothering to shade the truth for his friend's sake. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall exactly what he'd said when he came to the greenhouse that night. Something like "Who were you expecting after that note-the prince regent?"

At the time she'd thought he was talking about the note he'd sent her. But he claimed he'd received one. And he had jabbed at her about her handwriting, which her tutors had described as both "scholarly and precise-a credit to an Oxford gentleman!" Why would Ian Thornton think he knew what her handwriting looked like unless he truly believed he'd received such a note from her? Perhaps he really was mad, but Elizabeth didn't think so. But then, she reminded herself impatiently, where he was concerned she had always been unable to see the truth. And no wonder! Even now, when she was older and hopefully wiser, it had not been easy to think clearly yesterday with those golden eyes raking over her. For the life of her she could not understand his att.i.tude unless he was still angry because Robert had broken the rules and shot him. That must be it, she decided, turning her mind to the more difficult problem.

She and Lucinda were trapped there, only their host didn't realize it, and she couldn't bear the shame of explaining it. Therefore, she was going to have to find some way to remain here in relative harmony for the next week. In order to survive the ordeal she would simply have to ignore his inexplicable antagonism and take each moment as it came, never looking back or forward. And then it would all be over, and she and Lucinda could leave. But whatever happened during the next seven days, Elizabeth vowed, she would never again let him make her lose her composure as she had last night. The last time they'd been together he'd confused her so much that she scarcely knew right from wrong.

From this moment on, she vowed, things would be different. She would be poised and polite and completely imperturbable. no matter how rudely or outrageously he behaved. She was no longer an infatuated young girl whom he could seduce, hurt, or anger for his own amus.e.m.e.nt. She would prove it to him and also set an excellent example of how well-bred people behaved.

With that settled in her mind, Elizabeth stood up and headed for Lucinda's room, Lucinda was already dressed, her black gown brushed free of every speck of yesterday's dust, her gray hair in its neat bun. She was seated in a wooden chair near the window, her spine too rigid to require any support from the back of the chair, her expression thoughtful and preoccupied. "Good morning," Elizabeth said as she carefully closed the door behind her.

"Hmmm? Oh, good morning, Elizabeth."

"I wanted to tell you," Elizabeth began in a rush, "how very sorry .I am to have dragged you here and subjected you to such humiliation. Mr. Thornton's behavior was inexcusable, unforgivable."

"I daresay he was . . . surprised by our unexpected arrival."

"Surprised?" Elizabeth repeated, gaping at her. "He was demented! I know you must think-must be wondering what could have led me to have anything at all to do with him before," she began, "and I cannot honestly tell you what I could possibly have been thinking of."

"Oh, I don't find that much mystery," said Lucinda. "He's exceedingly handsome."

Elizabeth would not have been more shocked if Lucinda had called him the soul of amiability. "Handsome!" she began, then she shook her head, trying to clear it. "I must say you're being very tolerant and kind about all this."

Lucinda stood up and cast an appraising eye over Elizabeth. "I would not describe my att.i.tude as kind," she thoughtfully replied. "Rather I would say it's one of practicality. The bodice on your gown is quite tight, but attractive for all that. Shall we go down to breakfast?"

Chapter 13.

"Good mornin" Jake boomed as Elizabeth and Lucinda walked downstairs.

"Good morning, Mr. Wiley," Elizabeth said with a gracious smile. Then, because she could think of nothing else to say, she added quickly, "Something smells wonderful. What is it?"

"Coffee," Ian replied bluntly, his gaze drifting over her. With her long, burnished honey hair tied back with a ribbon she looked extremely pretty and very young.

"Sit down, sit down!" Jake continued jovially. Someone had cleaned the chairs since last night, but he took out his handkerchief as Elizabeth approached and wiped off the chair seat again.

"Thank you," she said, bestowing a smile on him. "But the chair is just fine as it is." Deliberately she looked at the unsmiling man across from her and said, "Good morning."

In answer he lifted a brow, as if questioning her odd change in att.i.tude. "You slept well, I take it?"

"Very well," Elizabeth said. "How 'bout some coffee?" Jake said as he hurried over to the coffee pot on the stove and filled a mug with the remainder of the steaming brew. When he got to the table with it. however, he stopped and looked helplessly from Lucinda to Elizabeth, obviously not certain who ought properly to be served first.

"Coffee," Lucinda informed him dampeningly when he took a step toward her, "is a heathen brew, unfit for civilized people. I prefer tea."

"I'll have coffee," Elizabeth said hastily. Jake gave her a grateful smile, put the mug before her, then returned to the stove. Rather than look at Ian, Elizabeth stared, as if fascinated, at Jake Wiley's back while she sipped her coffee.

For a moment he stood there, nervously rubbing the palms of his hands on the sides of his legs, looking uncertainly from the fresh eggs to the slab of bacon to the heavy iron skillet already starting to smoke near his elbow-as if he hadn't the faintest idea how to begin. "Mayas well get at it." he murmured, and he stretched his arms straight out in front of him, linked the fingers of both hands together, and made a horrible cracking sound with his knuckles. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the knife and began vigorously sawing at the bacon.

While Elizabeth watched in puzzled interest he tossed large chunks of bacon into the skillet until it was heaped with it. A minute later the delicious smell of bacon began to waft about the room, and Elizabeth felt her mouth water, thinking how good breakfast was going to be. Before the thought had fully formed she saw him pick up two eggs, crack them open on the edge of the stove, and dump them into the skillet full of raw bacon. Six more eggs followed in rapid succession, then he turned and looked over his shoulder. "D'you think I shoulda let the bacon cook a wee bit longer before I dumped in the eggs, Lady Elizabeth?"

"I-I'm not completely certain," Elizabeth admitted, scrupulously ignoring the smirking satisfaction on Ian's tanned face.

"D'you want to have a look at it and tell me what you think?" he asked, already sawing off chunks of bread.

With no choice but to offer her uneducated advice or submit to Ian's relentlessly mocking stare, Elizabeth chose the former, got up, and went to peer over Mr. Wiley's shoulder.

"How does it look to you?"

It looked to Elizabeth like large globs of eggs congealing in unappetizing bacon fat. "Delicious."

He grunted with satisfaction and turned to the skillet, this time with both hands loaded with bread chunks, which he was obviously considering adding to the mess. "What do you think?" he asked, his hands hovering over the pile of Cooking food. "Should I dump this in there?"

"No!" Elizabeth said hastily and with force. "I definitely think the bread should be served. . . well. . ."

"Alone," Ian Thornton said in an amused drawl, and when Elizabeth automatically looked toward his voice she discovered that he'd turned halfway around in his chair to watch her.

"Not entirely alone," Elizabeth put in, feeling as if she ought to contribute additional advice on the meal preparation rather than show herself as ignorant of cooking as she actually was. "We could serve it with-with b.u.t.ter?"

"Of course! I shoulda thought of that," he said with a sheepish grin at Elizabeth. "If you don't mind standin' here and keepin' your eye on what's happenin' in this skillet, I'll go fetch it from the cold keg."

"I don't mind in the least," Elizabeth a.s.sured him, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the fact that Ian's relentless gaze was boring holes through her back. Since little of import was likely to happen to the contents of the skillet for several minutes, Elizabeth regretfully faced the fact that she couldn't continue avoiding Ian Thornton-not when she desperately needed to smooth things over enough to convince him to let her and Lucinda remain for the allotted week.

Straightening reluctantly, she strolled about the room with forced nonchalance, her hands clasped behind her back, looking blindly at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, trying to think what to say. And then inspiration struck. The solution was demeaning but practical, and properly presented, it could appear she was graciously doing him a favor. She paused a moment to arrange her features into what she hoped was the right expression of enthusiasm and compa.s.sion, then she wheeled around abruptly. "Mr. Thornton!" Her voice seemed to explode in the room at the same time his startled amber gaze riveted on her face, then drifted down her bodice, roving boldly over her ripened curves. Unnerved but determined, Elizabeth forged shakily ahead: "It appears as if no one has occupied this house in quite some time."

"I commend you on that astute observation, Lady Cameron," Ian mocked lazily, watching the tension and emotion play across her expressive face. For the life of him he could not understand what she was doing here or why she seemed to be trying to ingratiate herself this morning. Last night the explanation he'd given Jake had made sense; now, looking at her, he couldn't quite believe any of it. Then he remembered that Elizabeth Cameron had always robbed him of the ability to think rationally.

"Houses do have a way of succ.u.mbing to dirt when no one looks after them," she stated with a bright look.