Upstairs in her room, Daphne locked the door, took off her dress, and all of her underclothes, and went and stood in front of the cheval mirror in the corner.

She studied herself carefully, and from all angles. She wasn't showing yet. However, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were bigger, and they were also sore on occasion. Once she started to show, and her b.u.mp began to grow, she would have to leave Cavendon. There was no alternative. She couldn't even go to their house in Mayfair. Because of the servants. They would notice her condition immediately.

Looking at herself in the mirror once again, she shook her head and turned away, went to her closet, picked out a silk robe. As she slipped it on, she wondered if she could carry it off ... pretending not to be pregnant for the many months ahead of her ... going to live in Paris when she was showing. Being taught like a student to speak French, to learn about art and French history. And being shown how to become elegant and chic in the French manner. Could she follow the program Charlotte Swann had mapped out for her?

She could, she was positive about that. After all, she had a strong will, and once she made her mind up to do something, she did it.

But now, for the first time, she wondered if she wanted to go through that. It was playacting and being dishonest, and she would certainly have to learn the art of dissimulation ... she was open and honest by nature, not given to telling lies.

Walking over to her dressing table, she sat down, stared at her face, leaning closer to the mirror. For once in her life she saw herself objectively, and she understood how beautiful she was. Hugo had fallen in love with her because of that beauty.

Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes, and thought of Hugo. He was nice-looking, and charming. She imagined he was a gentle soul, from what she had observed in those few days he had been here at Cavendon. And people who had never met him took to him immediately. Family and staff, who had known him as a young man, welcomed him with open arms. That said a lot, didn't it?

Marriage to a powerful and wealthy man would protect her, wouldn't it?

One thing was certain, it would ease the terrible burden on her parents. She had heard her mother say recently to her father that the situation was like living under the sword of Damocles.

Could she marry Hugo? Did she want to? Would he let her keep the baby? Or would she have to give it up for adoption? And could she do that? Give her baby away?

Then there was the question of intimacy. Eventually, she would have to be his wife, not only in name, but in every way. s.e.xual union would be part of that marriage. Was she ready for that? Could she share an intimate life with Hugo?

She shuddered, thinking of Richard Torbett and the way he had been rough and cruel with her when he had forced himself on her, raped her. She was still fearful of s.e.x because of that fiend.

Thinking about Torbett now, she realized that being a married woman would, in fact, protect her from that vile man. He wouldn't dare do anything to her, or her family, if she had a husband like Hugo Stanton.

Then again, if she married Hugo she would never experience that wonderful feeling of falling in love and adoring the man she loved, of wanting to be his in every way. She would never know true love ...

What to do?

Daphne lay down on the bed, found her pillow, and buried her face in it. She was on the horns of a dilemma ... she did not know which way to turn.

There was one thing she was totally aware of, and that was the need to be strong, to be in control of her own destiny. She was determined to be her own woman, make her own decisions.

Thirty-three.

Felicity knew only too well that Charles loved the end of the evening, when dinner was over and everyone had retired for the night. It was then that he could be alone with her in her cozy upstairs sitting room, which adjoined her bedroom.

Comfortable in his nightclothes, he would sit in front of the fire, chatting. Sometimes Charles brought a small gla.s.s of cognac with him, or a scotch. Her choice was always a gla.s.s of cold water flavored with lemon.

Tonight, after the long afternoon in Harrogate, she was glad she could now relax in front of the fire in a comfortable chair, sipping her lemon water. And waiting for Charles. She wasn't looking forward to spending some time alone with him, but she had no alternative.

She could hear his voice on the other side of the door. He was in his dressing room with Walter Swann, and the two of them were talking about Winston Churchill, the politician. From what she was hearing, they both seemed to favor him, spoke of his brilliance and his apt.i.tude for public speaking.

A moment later, the door opened and Charles walked in, wearing pajamas and a dark blue silk dressing gown, and carrying a small balloon of brandy.

"You were being very laudatory about Winston Churchill," Felicity said, looking up. "There are some who don't like him, you know."

Charles nodded, then gave her a knowing smile as he sat down in the chair opposite her. "They're just envious of his brilliance, and his amazing ability to get things done, that's what all that is about."

"I'm sure you're right," she responded, and settled back in the chair.

"You didn't say much about Anne when you returned from Harrogate. How is she, actually?" Charles asked sympathetically.

"In her spirit she's more or less the same, Charles. Undefeated. Positive. Won't surrender to self-pity. She's extremely English in that sense ... very stoical. Puts up a brave front. But I know she's in pain, and she is having morphine more frequently." Felicity let out a long sigh. "She is one of the bravest people I've ever known."

"She is indeed, and I'm so sorry, darling, I do realize how much her cancer worries you. And I just want to say that I'm here for you, whenever you need me. I'll always do what I can."

She put out her hand, squeezed his arm, gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

After taking a sip of the Napoleon brandy, he said, "I have something to tell you. I haven't had a chance before. Well, actually, I have, but I didn't want to burden you, I know you've been feeling a bit under the weather."

Felicity looked across at him, and said in a firm voice, "I'm much better today, and you sound serious. Is there something the matter?"

"Well, no, I couldn't say that..." He paused, took another swallow, and put his gla.s.s on a small table next to his chair. Leaning closer to her, he said, "The day Hugo left for London he came to see me. He told me he had fallen in love with Daphne, and did he have my permission to court her? If she was not already spoken for, of course. He said it was love at first sight, and he had serious intentions."

"I hope you said yes!" Felicity exclaimed, staring at him intently, her eyes bright, alive, her pale face filled with sudden animation.

"I did not," Charles answered. "I told him I would have to ask Daphne if she would like that. I explained it was her decision."

"No! No! No!" Felicity cried, sounding unusually vehement. "It's not for her to decide. We have to make the decision for her. Obviously Hugo is a solution to all of her problems. And ours. What a coincidence that Hugo arrived at Cavendon when he did. Or perhaps it wasn't a coincidence at all. I think it was meant to be. No, it was G.o.d's will."

For a moment Charles was stunned by her vehemence and the way she spoke so easily of G.o.d's will. Felicity didn't often invoke G.o.d's name. He frowned, explained quietly, "I cannot force Daphne to accept the overtures of a man she's not interested in. Nor would I ever push her into a marriage where there was no love involved on her part. That would be unthinkable. Monstrous, in my opinion. Living with someone you don't love would be impossible."

Staring at him aghast, Felicity said, "But you were going to marry her off to a duke's son, and she probably wouldn't have loved him either."

"That was never my intention, Felicity, and you know that full well. I wanted to find the right young man, bring them together, and hoped they would fall in love. I am far too modern a man to tolerate an arranged marriage for a daughter of mine."

"Sometimes they work very well," Felicity pointed out a little sharply. "Arranged unions have been known to last a lifetime."

Charles was angry, but he controlled himself, and quietly said, "But mostly they don't work. And both people are unhappy, miserable, and eventually get divorced. I don't want that for Daphne."

"So Hugo is going to be turned away, is he?" she asked sarcastically.

"Far from it," Charles responded swiftly. "I have explained the situation to her, and Daphne confided that she likes Hugo. She thinks he's good-looking, charming, and rather nice. She will give me an answer in a day or two. In my opinion, she will agree to the courtship."

"Well, let's hope it works, because to me it's the best solution there is. She would be married, protected, and there would be no gossip." Felicity sat back in the chair, looking adamant.

"If she doesn't want to marry him, we will have to go back to the original plan of concealing it, sending her abroad," Charles pointed out.

"I suppose we will, but that will be a strain on us all. You must persuade her, Charles, make her see the wisdom of marrying Hugo."

Charles nodded, and picked up the brandy balloon, swirled the cognac around, staring into the amber depths. His wife had startled him with her immediate acceptance of the idea of Hugo and Daphne marrying, and without giving a thought to their daughter's desires, or her ultimate happiness. It was out of character, so unlike her. But then she had been under strain lately, hadn't been herself at all.

Felicity picked up on his mood, even though he was silent, and ventured, "I want the best for her, and this is the best solution. I think it's fantastic, and it's been handed to us on a plate. What did Charlotte say?"

He lifted his head and stared at her in surprise, struck by her knowledge of him. She had immediately a.s.sumed he had discussed the matter with Charlotte, without his having to tell her.

He sipped the brandy, put the gla.s.s down, and said in a low voice, "She agrees with you that it would be the perfect solution to a ghastly problem, much easier for Daphne to handle, and us as well. However, she thinks it should be Daphne's decision."

"I see."

"Hugo would have to be told the truth, Felicity, and we would have to hope he would not turn away from her, because of her pregnancy. It's a risk to take, confiding in him, but I tend to agree with Charlotte, who doesn't think he would talk ... that he would keep our secret, protect the family. She thinks he's true blue, like all the Ingham men."

"She would say that," Felicity exclaimed in a pithy tone, her expression disdainful.

Charles frowned, studied her intently for a moment. "What are you suggesting? That we Ingham men don't have honor and integrity?"

"No, I'm not. However, Charlotte was truly influenced in every way by your father, and she's also a Swann. It's ingrained in her to take the Ingham side, die for an Ingham if necessary. That's their role in life and has been for generations."

"I know all about the Swanns."

"Not as much as they know about the Inghams," Felicity countered. "Anyway, she loved your father, doted on David."

"Everyone loved my father, that was the kind of man he was."

"Oh, you know what I mean, Charles!" she shot back, sounding exasperated. "Don't pretend otherwise."

"There was never one iota of gossip about my father and Charlotte, and you are fully aware of that."

Felicity stood up. "I must go to bed now."

He also rose. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight, or do you want to be alone?"

She offered him a small smile. "You know you are always welcome in my bed," she lied, trying not to show her dismay.

Not quite true, he thought, as he took her hand in his. Not lately anyway. He had been constantly spurned in the last six months, and had genuinely endeavored to understand. He couldn't entirely blame it on her worry about her sister. He sensed that she was no longer interested in the intimate side of their marriage. Why this was so he had no idea. It puzzled him.

Felicity got into bed and turned out the bedside lamp. Charles also turned out a lamp, and as usual he strode to the window, drew back the draperies. There was a full moon tonight and it flooded the room with its silvery light.

Climbing into bed next to her, Charles put his arms around his wife and held her close. After a moment he bent over her and kissed her cheek, then found her mouth. She responded to his kisses, and this pleased him, and he began to touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s lightly, murmuring how much he loved her.

Felicity was silent, held herself still, waiting for him to take her to him, to make love to her. And then it would be over and she would be in peace.

He did not do that, and she was filled with relief. She did not desire him anymore, but fought desperately to conceal this lack of interest in him. For her own preservation at this moment.

As he continued to kiss and caress her, Charles recognized that he was unable to make love to Felicity. He was impotent. For a moment, he panicked and then pushed that ridiculous feeling aside. He was, very simply, worn out, plagued by all the events of late. That was what this failure was all about.

After a few moments, he said softly, against her hair, "I'm so sorry, darling. Like you, I'm totally exhausted."

"It's perfectly all right," she murmured. "Good night, Charles."

"Good night, darling," he answered.

Charles was unable to sleep.

He lay awake for several hours. Finally, he slipped out of bed and went through his dressing room into his bathroom. Turning on the light, he stared at himself in the mirror, shaking his head in bafflement.

He could not understand why he had not been able to get an erection tonight. It had never happened to him before. Was he suddenly impotent? On a permanent basis? How could that be? He was only forty-four years old.

He closed his eyes for a moment as an awful thought occurred to him. Had her rejection of him all these months had a disastrous effect on him? He had no answer for himself.

Still troubled, even disturbed, he left the bathroom and went into his own bedroom. He would sleep alone tonight, as he mostly had lately. He had a busy day on the estate tomorrow.

Thirty-four.

Charlotte sat at the Georgian desk near the window in her living room, making notes for her meeting tomorrow with Charles. They were to go over some of the old estate books; he had also explained that he wished to hire more men from the villages, and encourage tenanted farmers to work the land.

This had pleased her. She cared as much about their people as he did, and employment was important in Little Skell, Mowbray, and High Clough.

That was the true reason for the existence of a landed estate and a great house owned by a t.i.tled aristocrat: employment for the local people, not only on the land but in the house. Housekeepers, maids, cooks and butlers, footmen and lady's maids; and on the outside, gamekeepers, beaters, gardeners, and tenant farmers who worked the land around their villages. It was a whole world unto itself, something like a fiefdom.

Putting the notes aside, Charlotte took a sip of cognac and savored it. She preferred brandy to the scotch Alice and Walter occasionally liked, which was why she served it to them when they visited her, if they asked for it.

She glanced at the photograph of David in its silver frame. She took it out of the desk drawer every night and placed it here on the desk, where she could constantly look at it. She missed him, and at times wept for him. He had died too young.

When she had seen his coffin being lowered into his grave, she had wanted to throw herself onto it, wrap her arms around it, and be buried with him. She had even contemplated suicide, because she had nothing to live for without him.

She had not killed herself, because she saw that as an act of weakness, and she prided herself on being strong. Also, she had promised David she would look after Charles, help him whenever he needed it. And she had promised to remain at Cavendon.

"I need my devoted Swanns on the estate, where they belong, and you in particular," he had said to her before he died. "Then I will be able to rest in peace."

And so she had stayed here ... but where would she have gone? This was the only place on earth for her, where she had been so happy. And he was buried here.

Charlotte jumped up in surprise, when there was a quick knock on the door, and Alice came straight in. She was earlier than Charlotte had expected her, and in her haste she forgot to return the photograph to the drawer. She never had it on display. It was only on the desk when she was alone.

"You look tired, Alice," Charlotte said, walking over to the sideboard. "Would you like a scotch?"

"Thank you," Alice said, and sat down in one of the two armchairs. As Charlotte poured the drink, Alice looked across at the desk, and immediately saw the photograph of David Ingham, the fifth earl. She was surprised it was not in the drawer.

Miraculously, there had never been any gossip about the two of them, yet Alice had known everything about their relationship. All that messing around between the Inghams and the Swanns had gone on for 160 years.