As he laid her on the bed, he held back her hair and let it drift down last to lie all around her like a silvery pillow. "That's all right then," he whispered and lowered his head to kiss her.

Later, he leaned over her and pushed her damp hair off her face. Gently he said, "It is still goodbye, my lovely one."

Blanche stroked his smoothly muscled shoulder. "I know it, love. You're not a man to keep a mistress when newlywed. I hope you never keep one again. I'll miss you, though."

He smiled. "That's soothing to my ego. If you want, you'll have the pick of London to replace me."

"Ah, but there's not many with your beauty," she said honestly and with a cheeky twinkle. "I like to just look at you, you know. Care to come back and pose a few times?"

He laughed and sprang out of bed to strike a n.o.ble pose.

"Mmm." She lay watching as, he dressed.

When he was ready, he took a flat box from his pocket with a trace of hesitation and came back to sit on the bed. "There's always been more between you and me, Blanche, than payment," he said. "Can you take this gift in friendship, with my grat.i.tude? I never have enough friends."

Blanche had expected a gift, and in a way she had dreaded it. It smacked too much of a baser relationship. She felt tears tickling the back of her eyes at his sensitivity, even though she should have expected it. She opened the box to see a paper which proved to be the deed to the house in which they stood. She glanced at it, but her attention was snared by what was underneath-a glittering rainbow of a necklace, exquisite flowers of emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, and topaz yellow.

She gasped then laughed up at him. "Lucien, you gaby. What am I supposed to do with this?"

He grinned. "Save it for your retirement?"

"I'll wear it in private if I'm feeling low." She gave him her sweetest smile. "You will always have a friend in me, my dear, and," she added carefully, "you need never fear I'll try to be more."

She looked down at the necklace for a moment and then back, frowning slightly. "I would like to say something else. About virtuous minds. There's little I don't know about men and women, love, and little I haven't experienced, but you've always treated me as a woman of honor. Virtue is a standard society puts on us, often an unreasonable one. Honor is something within ourselves. Only we can give away our honor."

Moved by her words, he kissed her hands and her lips. "I will always honor you, Blanche."

With that he was gone, and she could let the tears fall as she smiled at the ridiculously gaudy necklace.

Lucien impulsively stopped by at White's. He was in no mood for his own company and found the Belcraven mansion a bleak place unless filled with guests. He was rewarded by the sight of Con Somerford, Viscount Amleigh. The dark-haired young man was frowning as he read the day's Times. When he heard his name, he looked up, and the frown was replaced by a smile. "Good day, Luce."

"It's good to see a friendly face, Con," Lucien said as he took the viscount's hand. "I'd no real hope of meeting anyone I knew. I thought everyone would be in Melton still."

"Was," said the handsome young viscount as he summoned more of the claret he was drinking. "Couldn't keep my mind on foxes with all this going on." He waved the paper. "Anyway, I heard Nicholas was in Town."

That could only be the Honorable Nicholas Delaney, leader of the schoolboy clique to which they had both belonged and which had been revived the year before for more serious business. "Nick's here? Why?"

"Same thing," said Con, indicating the paper. The viscount's gray eyes turned bleak. "There's nothing to do, of course, but he must feel as sick as I do over it after all he did last year." He looked soberly into his wine. "I'm rejoining my regiment."

Lucien felt a chill. "It'll come to that again?"

"Bound to."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it all, someone should have shot the Corsican." Lucien thought of all the friends who had lost their lives in the long war. Was it all to do again? "I wish to heaven I felt free to fight. Perhaps if I have a son...."

Con looked at him quizzically. "I don't think Boney'll wait that long. You're not even married yet."

"As good as," Lucien admitted. "Notice is in the papers. Doubtless in that very one you're reading."

The viscount blinked in astonishment but then raised his gla.s.s. "Congratulations! The Swinnamer girl?"

"No," said Lucien, making a snap decision not to reveal the truth to this or any other friend. "You won't know her. Name of Elizabeth Armitage. From Gloucestershire."

"Knocked you for a loop, has she?" remarked the viscount, clearly not giving the matter much attention. "Even so, old boy, I don't think the question of Napoleon will last ten months or so. It'll be this summer and you'd do best to stay home. It'll be b.l.o.o.d.y."

"What of you? You have responsibilities now." Con had sold out the year before when he inherited the t.i.tle.

"The army's short of experienced officers," said Con. "Shipped the best regiments off to the Americas when Napoleon seemed done for. Dare's offered his services at the Horse Guards. I tried to warn him off, but they'll probably find something for him to do. I think that'll be it from the Rogues. But look," he said in a brighter manner, "there's a gathering at Nicholas's tonight."

"Who'll be there?"

"Stephen," Con said, adding in a sonorous tone, "being an important man in the government." Stephen Ball was member for Barham. "And Hal."

"Hal!" exclaimed Lucien, a grin starting. Hal Beaumont had been his closest friend until their paths had split when Hal joined a line regiment and been posted to the American war. "I haven't heard from him in over a year. Thought he was still in Canada."

"Part of him still is," Con said gently. "He's lost an arm."

"Christ." Lucien stared at his friend numbly. He and Hal had been partners in so many youthful adventures, most of them depending on superb physical condition.

"Cannon exploded. He's come through it well enough. He'll want to see you. Was thinking of going up your way."

Lucien wanted to see Hal, too, but was aware of a reluctance to see him maimed and was instantly ashamed of it. "Tonight at Lauriston Street?" he confirmed briskly. "I'll send round a note. Is Eleanor here, too?"

"Of course. And the child. They're on their way to a family gathering at his brother's place. Just came up a bit early to get the latest news."

Lucien buried the shock of Hal's injury under the pleasant prospect of meeting friends. He wondered how Nicholas Delaney was now, four months after his return to England, seven months after their last meeting. That had been on the night when Nicholas had succeeded in gaining the plans of a plot to liberate Napoleon from Elba and restore him to power in France.

That success had been at great cost to himself, and in those days Nicholas had been tense and worn. His efforts had almost cost him his life, and his marriage, too. And after all the sacrifices it had all turned out to be a fraud. Or had it?

Napoleon, after all, was back in France and in power.

The beautiful Madame Bellaire had said in the end that the supporters of Napoleon had been tricked and that she was keeping the money for her own use. Had that been yet another lie? And if so, would Nicholas consider himself to blame in that he had only won the list of names from the woman and not relieved her of her ill-gotten gains?

Lucien had had letters from Nicholas which painted a pleasant picture of contentment with rural life, matrimony, and a new baby, but he'd be pleased to have it confirmed with his own eyes.

He'd be curious too to see the little Delaney. Arabel must be four months old. The babe had only been a few days old when last he'd seen her, and he couldn't say she'd shown promise of beauty back then.

That evening, when he was ushered into the elegant house at Lauriston Street the first sight to meet his eyes was Eleanor Delaney-looking finer and happier than she ever had-dressed in silk and jewels, with her baby in her arms. She turned and a wide, vivacious smile lit her face.

"Lucien!" she exclaimed as she came over to greet him. "We were so thrilled to receive your note. And you are due our congratulations." She reached his side and leaned forward for a kiss. "You must tell us all about your bride-to-be."

He had to work around a fragrant infant to kiss her cheek, which was a new experience. He looked down to be trapped by enormous gold-brown eyes fringed by outrageous lashes.

The child had incredible skin-he would never be able to call a woman's skin petal-soft again-and a sweet, soft mouth.

"Lord above, Eleanor. You can't let that loose on the world. There'll be no male left sane."

Eleanor smiled down in pride. "She is quite pretty, isn't she? But not much hair yet. There's no guarantee she'll be anything out of the ordinary later though. Babies are generally appealing."

"Appealing has nothing to do with it. She's a man-slayer."

Eleanor chuckled with pleasure at this praise. "Here," she said and pa.s.sed the child over. "Be slain. I just have to have a word with Mrs. Cooke."

"Eleanor!" protested Lucien as the child settled in his arms. "Come back here!"

"Nicholas is in the drawing room," she called as she disappeared.

Lucien looked down at the child. It was disconcerting to be so readily accepted. Arabel was not the slightest bit disturbed by being in strange arms and appeared fascinated by his sapphire cravat pin. Delicate starfish fingers reached aimlessly for it. "Typical woman," grumbled Lucien with a smile. "Fascinated by something glittery. Come on. Let's find Papa."

But as he crossed the hall the thought of a child of his own became for the first time something other than a burdensome duty.

He entered the drawing room to find his host, Nicholas Delaney, talking to some members of the Company: Sir Stephen Ball M.P.; Lord Darius Debenham-third son of the Duke of Yeovil; and Amleigh. They all turned and grinned at the sight of him with a baby in his arms.

"Good Lord," said Nicholas, coming forward. "I heard you were engaged to marry, but aren't you a bit beforehand?"

Lucien couldn't help a grin, but he said, "This, if you can't recognize it, is yours."

Nicholas took the babe easily, and Arabel broke out a bright smile and a chortle. "So it is."

Lucien found simple pleasure in seeing how healthy Nicholas appeared-his skin tanned, his gold-flecked brown eyes clear and happy. He'd known from Eleanor's radiant looks that nothing had occurred to tarnish their new-built marriage, but now it was confirmed.

He hadn't realized what a burden of concern he'd carried until it was removed.

The business Nicholas had involved them all in last year had seemed a j.a.pe at first, very like the schoolboy plots they had indulged in at Harrow. It had stopped being a joke when Lucien had realized how it was hurting Eleanor to know her husband was so often with another woman; he had become a great admirer of Eleanor Delaney.

It had taken longer for him to realize how playing the lover for Therese Bellaire was slowly destroying Nicholas.

He hadn't really understood until the night he'd tried to be n.o.ble and distract the predatory Madame's attention to himself. She'd managed merely with a look of her eyes to make him feel raped. When Nicholas finally drew her off, Lucien had been beyond feeling n.o.ble and had merely felt grateful. The one good thing, he supposed, was that since then he'd been more thoughtful in his dealings with women, knowing how it felt to be so casually defiled.

He remembered with a touch of shame the way he'd handled Elizabeth Armitage, doing in a cruder way what Therese Bellaire had done to him. It had been necessary, he'd thought. But if she weren't quite as he thought....

"Trouble?" asked Nicholas softly, a smile still on his lips but his eyes serious. Trust Nick to see beyond the surface.

"Some," admitted Lucien.

"We're here for a week," Nicholas said and left it at that. "Come and help yourself to sherry. You'll have gathered we're not standing on ceremony."

The conversation was all of Napoleon. Stephen, a slender blond man with shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes, was concerned with alliances and the balance of power; Dare couldn't quite suppress his excitement; Amleigh was angry with the resolute anger of the professional soldier.

They all turned as Eleanor entered the room with Hal Beaumont at her side.

He looked the same, Lucien thought. Almost. They hadn't met for four years, and heaven knew what Hal had experienced in that time. There were new lines in his face, but his smile still quirked to the right, his dark hair still waved handsomely, and he was even taller and stronger than he had been at twenty-one. Lucien was filled with tremendous joy that his friend was still alive.

"Hal!" Lucien went forward and took his friend's right hand in his own. His eyes went irresistibly to the empty sleeve tucked in between the b.u.t.tons of his friend's jacket, and he felt a surge of rage at fate. And an awareness of frustrating impotence. This was something neither wealth nor rank could alter.

Hal read his face and shrugged. "There are worse things. The devil of it is, I won't be able to take my turn at bashing Boney." He in turn gave Lucien the once-over. "You look suitably rich and powerful, Luce."

Lucien took refuge in the familiar teasing about his high estate. "n.o.blesse oblige, old boy. Can't have the higher aristocracy groveling in the gutter."

"a.s.suredly not. Personally, I think you should wear strawberry leaves around your hat."

"I'm saving that for when I'm duke."

By then everyone else had gathered around, conversation became general, and Lucien had opportunity to try to come to terms with it all. He'd had friends who'd died in the war but none until now who'd been maimed. It was easy to forget the dead, or at least remember them as they had been, but Hal was a living reminder of suffering.

He looked at Amleigh and Debenham and wondered if this evidence of the consequences of war gave them pause. Or whether, as with him, it created a renewed desire to fight-to get revenge but also to a.s.suage his guilt. Guilt he felt because he'd been here in England-getting drunk, dancing at Almack's, making love to Blanche-when that cannon had exploded, when the army surgeons had hacked off what remained of his friend's arm.

Even as he thought all this, he was smiling and adding the odd quip to the light-hearted conversation. They all knew there was no point in miserying over the matter, and Hal would hate it.

And, of course, the Marquess of Arden couldn't take the easy way out and go off to suffer and die. He had to marry and produce the next generation of great and n.o.ble de Vaux.

Which brought everything, as always, back to Elizabeth Armitage-whom he didn't trust but sometimes liked, and who, despite being so d.a.m.ned ordinary, was far too often in his mind.

Eleanor once more had the baby and was playing a silly game which seemed to involve talking nonsense and rubbing noses. It made sense to Arabel, at least, for she was smiling and making happy gurgles which sounded like a language of its own. A nursemaid was hovering ready to take the child away, but Eleanor was clearly in no hurry to part with her child.

Nicholas was being a good host and even taking part in the discussion, but half his mind was clearly on his wife and child, and probably always was. Lucien suspected Nicholas would rather be part of that strange gurgling conversation than discussing the amazing pig-faced woman with Dare. Lucien caught at least two shared glances between Nicholas and Eleanor which spoke of the joy they found in each other's presence, even hinted at more private, familiar, and antic.i.p.ated delights.

He remembered he had once thought that Eleanor Delaney was the kind of wife he'd like as opposed to Phoebe Swinnamer who seemed to be the kind of wife he was expected to choose. All the candidates for Marchioness of Arden had seemed to be beautiful, well-bred fashion dolls with just brain enough to master polite conversation. Eleanor Delaney had a shrewd brain and a pleasantly natural manner.

Nicholas topped up Lucien's gla.s.s and followed his gaze to his wife. "She's still taken," he said lightly but added more seriously, "A newly betrothed man shouldn't be looking at another man's wife quite like that, you know."

It was an opening, deliberately given. Lucien wasn't ready to bare his heart, but he would appreciate any sc.r.a.ps of wisdom. "I was just wondering," he said lightly, "if you ever felt the urge to throttle her."

Nicholas quirked a brow. "Just because she left you holding the baby?"

"Not Eleanor. Elizabeth."

Nicholas looked puzzled for a minute but then smiled. "Ah, your Elizabeth. Want to throttle her, do you? I could suggest," he said with a grin, "that it is in lieu of other forms of intimate contact." He sobered. "But no, I never felt that urge. But then we hardly had a normal courtship and Eleanor is not one to stir the coals. And I," he added, smiling in self-mockery, "I have always prided myself on controlling everything, including my emotions."

Lucien wondered what lay behind the slightly bitter tone. "Whereas I," he responded to pa.s.s the moment off, "being a de Vaux, have never felt the slightest need for self-control in my whole life."

Nicholas laughed. "Hardly fair on yourself. So, what does your future marchioness do to stir the coals?"

Lucien found it difficult to express concisely the hundred ways Beth Armitage churned up his emotions, and so he fastened on the most obvious problem. "She's a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft."

Nicholas was raising his gla.s.s to his lips. It froze. A spark of incredulous humor lit his eyes, escaping in a full laugh. Wine splashed from the gla.s.s. "G.o.d Almighty!" he exclaimed when he'd got control of himself. "The whole story. Now."

Everyone else had turned to listen, and Lucien realized he'd gone too far. He shrugged and simply said, "Sorry."

Nicholas sobered and nodded. "Doubtless illegal," he said smoothly. "Can't have things like that with Stephen in the room." Again, he said, "We're here for a week."

Not having heard the first part of the conversation, the others were satisfied with this and conversation became general again. Nicholas made no attempt to pry, and though Lucien was aware of a few thoughtful looks from his host, there was no further reference to his personal life. He really didn't know if he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Nicholas at all. There were too many secrets involved.

When Lucien left in the small hours of the morning it was with Hal. There was a light drizzle, but their greatcoats and beavers were adequate protection.

"Where're you staying?" Lucien asked.