They sidled around a tree and approached with great caution.

"I--I'm most fearfully sorry, sir," the eldest piped up. "Did it hurt terribly?"

Harry sternly quelled an impulse to laugh.

"Horrendously," he replied, lending the word maximum weight.

All three faces fell.

"But I dare say I'll survive." They recovered--and eyed him hopefully, large eyes fringed with long lashes, faces as innocent as the dawn. As his fingertips found the ball's seam, Harry gave. up the struggle and let his lips lift. He squatted, coming down to their height, and held out the ball, spinning it so that it whizzed like a top between his fingers. "Oh-- I say!"

"How d'you do that?"

They gathered about him, polite reticence forgotten. Harry showed them the trick, a facility learned over the long summers of his childhood. They oohed and aahed and practised themselves, eagerly seeking advice.

"James! Adam? Where on earth have you got to? Mark?"

The three looked guiltily about.

"We have to go," the ringleader said. Then smiled--a smile only a young boy could master.

"But thanks so much, sir."

Harry grinned. He stood and watched them hurry around the tree and over the lawns to where a rotund nurse waited impatiently.

He was still grinning when Mrs Webb's words floated through his head.

"One just has to decide what one wants most of life."

What he most wanted--he hadn't of it for years. He had once, more than ten years ago. He had been very sure, then, and had pursued his goal with what had been, at that time, his usual confident abandon.

Only to find himself--and his dreams--betrayed. So he had put them away, locked them in the deepest recess of his mind, and never let them out again.

Harry's lips twisted cynically. He turned away and resumed his stroll.

But he couldn't turn his mind from its path. He knew very well what he most wanted of life--it was the same now as it had been then; despite the years, he hadn't changed inside.

Harry stopped and forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Behind him, he could hear the piping voices of his late companions as together with their nurse they quit the park.

About him, youngsters cavorted and played under watchful eyeS. Here and there, a gentleman strolled with his wife on his arm, their children ranging about them.

Harry let out the breath trapped in his chest. Other lives were full his remained empty.

Perhaps, after all, it was time to re-examine the possiblities. Last time had been a disaster--but was he really such a coward he couldn't face the pain again?

He attended the theatre that night. For himself, he cared little for the dramatics enacted on the stage--and even less for the histrionics played out in the corridors, the little dramas of tonnish life. Unfortunately, the lovely Mrs Babbacombe had voiced her wish to experience Edmund Kean; Amberly had been only too happy to oblige.

Concealed in the shadows by the wall of the pit, opposite the box Amberly had hired, Harry watched the little party settle into their seats. The bell had just rung; the whole theatre was abustle as society's blessed took their seats in the tiers of boxes, the girls and ladies ogled by the bucks in the pit, while the less favoured looked on from the galleries above.

Hugging the deep shadows cast by the boxes above him, Harry saw Amberly sit Lucinda with a flourish. She was dressed in blue as usual, tonight's gown of a delicate lavender hue, the neckline picked out with silver thread.

Her dark hair was dressed high over her pale face. Settling her skirts, she looked up at Amberly and smiled.

Harry watched, a chill slowly seeping into his soul. Amberly laughed and spoke, bending closer so she did not have to strain to hear.

Abruptly, Harry swuhg his gaze to the other members of the party.

Satterly was chatting to Em, who had taken the seat beside Lucinda. Heather Babbacombe plumped down in the seat beyond Era; Harry spied Gerald standing behind her, his stance clearly proclaiming how he viewed his fair charge.

Momentarily taken aback, Harry frowned. Gerald's expression was easy for him to read, even at this distance. His brother looked far too intent. He was midway through making a mental note to have a quiet word in his baby brother's ear, when he pulled himself up short.

Heather Babbacombe might be young but she was, to his reading, an intensely carefree and honest young girl. Who was he to speak against her?

His gaze drifted back to Lucinda. His lips twisted, more in self-mockery than in humour.

Who was he to argue with love?

What other reason could he give for being here-- other than a deep need for rea.s.surance? Even Dawlish had taken to eying him with something perilously close to pity. When he had, somewhat irritably, demanded, "What the devil's the matter?" his dour henchman had rubbed his chin, then opined,

"It's just that you don't exactly seem to be enjoying yourself--if you know what I mean."

He had glared and stalked into the library--but he knew very well what Dawlish had meant. The last week had been sheer h.e.l.l. He had thought that cutting Lucinda Babbacombe out of his life, given she had only just entered it, would be easy enough. He was, after all, a past master at leaving women behind him; avoiding relationships was part of a rake's stock-in-trade.

But putting the lovely Mrs Babbacombe out of his thoughts had proved impossible.

Which left him with only one alternative.

As Mrs Webb had so succinctly put it--what he wanted most.

But did she still want him?

Harry watched as Amberly rattled on, gesticulating elegantly. He was a wit of sorts, and a polished raconteur.

The po~iblity that Lucinda, having rejected his proposal, might have set him aside in her heart, decided he was not worth the trouble and turned instead to someone else for comfort, was not a particularly rea.s.suring thought.

Even less rea.s.suring was the realisation that, if she had, he would get no second chance--had no right to demand another, nor to interfere with his friend's pursuit.

A vice closed around Harry's chest. Amberly gesticulated again and Em laughed. Lucinda looked up at him, a smile on her lips. Harry squinted, desperate to see the expression in her eyes.

But she was too far away; when she turned back to the front of the box, her lids veiled her eyes.

The fanfare sounded, erupting from the musician's pit before the stage. It was greeted with noisy catcalls from the pit and polite applause from the boxes. The house lamps were doused as the stage lamps flared. The performers in the farce made their entrance; all eyes were riveted on the stage.

All except Lucinda's.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Harry saw she was looking down, not at the stage, apparently staring at her hands, possibly playing with her fan. She kept her head up, so no one in the box behind her would suspect her attention was not focused on the play, as was theirs. The flickering light played over her features, calm but hauntingly sad, reserved but eloquently expressive.

Harry drew in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall. Some of the tightness in his chest melted away.

Abruptly, Lucinda lifted her head and looked around--not at the stage but at the audience, uncaring of who might notice her distraction. Harry froze as her gaze scanned the bOXes above him, then shifted further along. . ~ Even in the poor light, he could see the hope that lit her face, that invested her whole body with sudden animation.