Ava Fairchild, deep in conversation with her companions, glanced briefly at him, then jerked her gaze up again, the surprise of recognition glimmering in her eyes. He was instantly and rather warmly reminded of those lovely green eyes in far more intimate circ.u.mstances.

That sultry, seductive kiss in his carriage-what had it been, almost a year ago?-had been an impetuous act just like dozens before it, nothing more than a bit of harmless flirtation. But looking at her now-the faint blush in her cheeks, the clear green eyes, the blond hair peeking out from beneath her black bonnet, he recalled that the kiss had stayed with him well into the next day because she'd been so...delightfully fervent about it.

He bowed. She blinked and looked nervously about. He lifted a quizzical brow as he put his hand out to receive hers. She managed to gather her wits and stepped forward to give him her hand.

"Good afternoon, my lord," she said, curtsying.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Ava," he said, and noted that her companions looked at her with great astonishment as he bowed over her hand. He deduced, judging by the way she closely watched him as if she expected him to confess how he'd made her acquaintance, that she had not told anyone about their carriage ride together-an encounter that was now playing itself out in his mind's eye.

When he let go of her hand, she gave him a brief and anxious smile. "I, ah...may I introduce you to my sister, Phoebe, and my cousin, Greer?" she asked, gesturing to each companion in turn, her eyes never leaving him.

The two curtsied politely but peered at him suspiciously.

"How do you do," he said, and turned back to Ava. "I offer you my condolences for the loss of your mother."

"Oh," Lady Ava said, her lovely face falling. "Thank you. It's been almost a year since she left us, yet she is still greatly missed."

"Lady Ava." Harrison had come down off his horse and stepped up to greet her. "How do you do?"

"Lord Harrison," she said, smiling warmly. "So good to see you again."

"Is Lord Downey still in France?" he asked. "When we last spoke, you rather thought he'd return for the Season."

"At present, he is still in France, but we do expect him in the near future."Not thinking clearly and terribly uncertain what he was about, Jared asked, "Will you attend the Season'sevents?"

Ava Fairchild blinked. "We are in mourning."

"For one month more," her cousin hastily interjected. "When we come out of mourning, we shall bepleased to accept invitations."Lady Ava jerked her gaze to her cousin."Then I shall very much look forward to seeing you again in a ballroom, Lady Ava," he said with a smile.

"I recall that you enjoy dancing."Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "I do indeed, my lord-particularly a waltz."He almost laughed. "Then perhaps you will allow me the honor of reserving a waltz now?""How very kind of you to ask," she said, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a beguiling little smile.

He understood, of course, that she did not necessarily agree to his request. He smiled with amus.e.m.e.nt,

and noticed that she was indeed quite fair. He hadn't really recalled just how fair.Lady Ava's cheeks flushed an appealing shade of pink at his scrutiny; she glanced at the timepiecepinned to her breast. "Oh dear, we really must be on our way." She lifted her gaze to him, her green eyesshining with some delight. "If you will pardon us?"

"Of course," Jared said, stepping back to allow them room to pa.s.s. "I look forward to seeing you during

the course of the Season-and to the dance you have promised me.""Good day, my lord," she said, smiling coyly. She shifted her gaze to Harrison and curtsied, as did hersister and cousin. "Good day."

"Good day, ladies," Harrison said, lifting his hat. He and Jared watched as the three of them walked on,

their heads together, their arms linked.

Jared's mind was whirling around the improbable, inconceivable idea that had popped into his head without warning and now refused to dislodge itself.

As if he were reading Jared's mind, Harrison sighed playfully. "Well," he said, glancing sidelong at Jared."She is an earl's daughter. I suppose you could do worse."Jared smiled.

"Have you considered, old chum, what a certain widow will make of it?""I've not considered a blessed thing," he said truthfully. But as he admired Lady Ava's derriere as shemoved away, he was struck by the peculiar feeling of being particularly intrigued, just as he had been thefirst time he'd met her. He glanced at Harrison and winked. "Miranda..." He shook his head, reachingfor his horse. "I will speak with Miranda."

Five.

"B ut how did you meet him?" Phoebe demanded for the hundredth time since they'd arrived homeyesterday afternoon. "I don't recall your being introduced."

"Don't you? I suppose it happened before Mother died," Ava said as she quickly dressed to go out, her mind on an extremely urgent matter.

"No, I don't," Phoebe insisted. "I am certain I would have recalled it. And why should he ask for a place on your dance card now? It's not as if you are out in society, and even if you were, he rarely attends the b.a.l.l.s. I don't quite understand it."

"There is nothing to understand," Ava said. "He was just being kind. And really, we have far more important things to think about than that."

"Perhaps you do, but I am rather curious," Phoebe said, and looked up from her sewing. "It seemed as if he knew you."

"Dear lord, will you please think of something else?" Ava said. "Think of a butler. We must have a butler if we are to reenter society."

No one argued, for the three of them were perfectly aware that every fine house in Mayfair had a full coterie of servants, and if a house did not have them, it was a foregone conclusion that the house no longer had its fortune. And if the poor souls of a house were thought to be without fortune, they were thought to be without prospects.

As it happened, they had reached the most desperate of moments several months ago, one that called for the most unthinkable actions, but nevertheless, Ava and Greer had begun to slowly and steadily fill the house with servants. They had done it by joining the Ladies' Beneficent Society, their only escape during their long months of mourning suffered under Lucy Pennebacker's watchful eye. She was never far from their side, hovering about them like a vulture, taking her charge to look after them very much to heart- she was fiercely determined to see after them and their virtues.

Their only way out was through charitable works, for even Lucy couldn't object to that. The society was a group of women formed under the auspices of St. George's parish church, whose function was to help those less fortunate than themselves. Each week, the ladies a.s.sembled to visit a small parish workhouse, where they took fruit and sweetmeats to the poor souls who had come from what the ladies a.s.sumed were wretched dens of iniquity. In exchange for the fruit and sweetmeats, the parish wards were asked to listen to the ladies' recitation of select Bible verses, and at the conclusion of the readings, to affirm that they had dedicated themselves to leading proper, G.o.d-fearing lives.

Lady Downey used to laughingly say that this practice was the least the good church ladies could ask, being so astoundingly free of sin and poverty themselves.

The members of the Ladies' Beneficent Society were delighted to see Ava and Greer among their number, and spoke fondly of Lady Downey and her wonderful sense of charity. It was something the girls had never really known about their mother. Honestly, Ava had believed it to be a social club.

At the parish workhouse-which was, surprisingly, situated behind the public stables on Portland Street, near the fashionable Regent Street-Ava and Greer handed fruit to the residents, read aloud the Bible verses, and shrewdly studied the inhabitants when they weren't working to appear very pious.

Through a series of visits to the parish poorhouse, they managed to convince a few carefully chosen inhabitants to come to the Downey house on Clifford Street, where they would be given food and shelter in exchange for their service.

The lack of wages, however, made it a difficult proposition to even the poorest of the workhouse'sdenizens. Ava and Greer had managed to coax only three into their home. Sally Pierce, a reformedharlot, had become their lady's maid.

"But what if she is not entirely reformed?" Phoebe had fretted the first night Sally was in their employ.

"Best hope that she is, darling, for we shall all be completely ruined if she is not," Ava had whispered.

They had also managed to retain Mr. William Pell and his son, Mr. Samuel Pell, who had both been injured in a horrible carriage accident. Mr. Pell the senior had lost a leg and therefore could no longer light lamps, as was his profession. His son, an apprentice, had a mangled arm that hung at a strange angle on his left side. But between the two of them, they managed to make one fairly decent footman.

The Fairchilds did not, however, have the services of a butler, and Ava could imagine nothing worse than if someone were to call and be greeted at their door by Lucille Pennebacker. She was determined to pluck a suitable butler from the ranks of the poorhouse at once, so that she might teach the lucky man a bit about butlering before they reentered society.

She was preparing to do just that when Greer stood. "Ava. Before you go, there is something I must tell you."

Both Ava and Phoebe, who was working to hem a gown-she was altering old gowns to make themlook new for their reentry-turned and looked at her.

"I've been doing quite a lot of thinking about our situation, and...well, here it is: I've an uncle on my father's side to whom I believe my father's fortune was bequeathed when he pa.s.sed," she said, clasping her hands tightly together. "Uncle might be of some use to us, for if I am correct, there are no other male heirs to whom the family fortune would naturally go. There is a good chance that I may be the sole heir. Therefore, I have written my uncle requesting an audience and I intend to make a plea that he advance a bit of my inheritance now. An annuity or something very near to it, to help us make our own way. What do you think?"

"It's a marvelous idea!" Phoebe exclaimed at the same moment Lucy bustled in carrying an armful of freshly laundered linens. "Where is he, then? Berkeley Square, I should think-there are scads of elderly folk milling about there."

"Who is at Berkeley Square?" Lucy instantly asked.

"Berkeley Square?" Greer asked incredulously, ignoring Lucy. "That's not as much as a mile from here, Phoebe! Wouldn't you suppose that were he in Berkeley Square, I might have called on him? No, no- he's in the Marches, silly!"

"The Marches?" Phoebe cried, clearly taken aback. "Greer! You cannot possibly think to go there! It's practically all the way to America!"

"No...but it is Wales," Greer said with a thoughtful frown. "I've not seen it in some time."

"You've not seen it since you were eight, Greer," Ava reminded her as Lucy dropped the linens and gaped at Greer.

"But I've not forgotten it," Greer said quickly. "I have rather a good memory of it, actually, and a letter with a direction in my mother's things. I can make my way about.""Dear G.o.d, she is serious," Phoebe said, aghast."I shall be away for only a few months," Greer doggedly continued. "Perhaps three at the utmost. How long could it possibly take to reach Wales and then convince my uncle to loan me a bit of my own inheritance? I think it should be very tidy, really."

"Tidy? Don't be absurd!" Ava cried. "How do you think to even get to the Marches?""In a public coach...with Mrs. Smithington. She asked Lady Purnam for recommendations of a goodtraveling companion, and Lady Purnam thought of me."

"Oh, I am certain she did!" Ava exclaimed with great exasperation. Lady Purnam's meddling in their liveshad not abated in the least since their mother's death."But it's so far away!" Phoebe said."Don't be a ninny, girl," Lucy said harshly. "Let her go if she wants. She'

s got a proper traveling companion and it's one less mouth to feed, isn't it?""Lucy!" Phoebe cried."What, then, you think it is easy to feed you and the poorhouse rats underfoot on what Egbert allots?""Lucy, please," Ava said irritably. "The parish pays us five pounds per person to take them off thepoorhouse rolls, yet you won't allow them to eat more than a few potatoes-""I suppose I should give them your food, should I?" she responded, just as irritably. "Let her go," shesaid again. "When Egbert returns, you'll all be gone," she added ominously, and turned on her heel,quitting the room.Her words sobered them all. No one spoke-they just looked at each other as the truth of Lucy's wordsclosed in around them."I leave on the morrow," Greer said quietly. "Mrs. Smithington desires to begin in Hertfordshire andleisurely make our way west.""Oh no," Phoebe said, and a tear slid down her cheek. "I won't be able to bear your absence.""Dear G.o.d," Ava sighed, giving in, and moved to embrace her sister. Greer joined them, and the three ofthem held each other tightly for some time, whispering that they would reunite, that this would all one daybe behind them like a bad dream.

That afternoon, as Ava walked across town to the parish poorhouse, she struggled to hold on to her belief that these were only temporary circ.u.mstances for them, that there would come a day again, perhaps soon, when their lives would return to what they had always known. Ava had to believe it, for she had nothing else in which to believe.

And besides, she'd had another idea, something she'd been mulling over for several weeks now.

No one could possibly understand the weight of the responsibility she felt along with her grief of losing her mother, but she was keenly aware that as the oldest, she was the one who should look after Phoebe and Greer. She felt alarmingly unprepared to do that and terribly anxious about it-she fully expected Lucy was right, that her stepfather would want to rid himself of the three of them quickly. Worse, she had no doubt that she would be the first to be offered up in marriage.

It was inevitable. It had been inevitable from the moment of her birth. But it had occurred to her-late one night as she lay awake worrying, as had become her habit-that if marriage was indeed inevitable, then wouldn't she be wise to take advantage of her stepfather's absence and shape her own destiny?

In other words, if she secured an offer for her hand-a proper offer-before her stepfather presented one to her, she could provide for Greer and Phoebe and thereby prevent them from suffering the same fate as she, of having to marry before they were fully prepared to do so.

She really had no other recourse. She was a woman. It wasn't as if she could suddenly take up a trade and earn their keep, for G.o.d's sake-or buy a commission in the Royal Navy, or inherit her mother's estate, or invest the thirty pounds she kept hidden in a porcelain box.

Yet marriage! It seemed such an astonishingly huge proposition.

Lord G.o.d, how she missed her mother! Her mother would know precisely what to do.

Life had been so gay when she was alive-Mother embraced life and relished the soirees and dinners she attended, loved more than anything else to shop along Bond Street for clothing and accessories and linens and furnishings for her house. She was always laughing, delighting in the tales the girls would bring back to her from the many a.s.semblies they attended, matching them with tales of her own.

She'd been a good mother to them. She'd taken Greer in when she was eight, and while Ava's father was alive, they had all lived at Bingley Hall.

In the summer, the girls would play in the meadow amid wildflowers and grazing horses. During the long cold winters, Mother would organize plays for them to perform, and they would dance and sing for Father, who always clapped enthusiastically for each and every performance. If they did their schoolwork, they were rewarded with a trip to Mother's closets to play among her many gowns and hats and shoes.

"Mind your manners and be a proper young lady, and one day you shall have as many gowns as this," she'd told them all, twirling around in the latest fashion to arrive from London.

"I shall make my own," Phoebe would insist. Even at the age of six she'd had a love of needlework.

"Shall we all go to b.a.l.l.s?" chubby little Greer would ask, and Mother would catch her by the hands and twirl her around and reply in a singsong voice, "You shall attend b.a.l.l.s and soirees and a.s.semblies, of course! You shall be the toast of London, my darlings, and every man shall desire to marry you!"

But then she would grow sober and sink to her knees so that she could look them square in the eye. "But you will promise me, won't you, my dear lambs, that you will not be silly and fall in love, for marriage is an act of combining money and convenience. Love comes afterward," she'd add with a wink.

Of course they'd all dutifully promised, but Ava never really understood her mother's reasoning. She believed her mother had truly loved her father-the days at Bingley Hall were halcyon days. Surely her father's fortune hadn't mattered to her mother. But Ava harbored no illusions about her mother's second marriage. There was perhaps a bit of affection between her and Lord Downey, but love? All-consuming, heart-stopping love? No, never.

It wasn't until Ava came out into society that she understood what her mother had meant-several debutantes had married men who had matched them more in fortune and standing than in temperament. She could think of only two debutantes who had purportedly married for love, and their standing in society had not profited from their unions. If anything, their status had been somewhat reduced.

But was that so terribly wrong? Was social standing more important than love? Ava couldn't help wondering if a person's life was not dramatically improved with a bit of genuine affection for one's bedmate, regardless of wealth.

Her confusion on the matter was one of the reasons why Ava had never really settled on a particular suitor. Now she was regretting her carefree life. Now she was worried what would become of them and feared the worst. She could almost hear her mother: "Now it is a matter of convenience, darling. Now it is time for you to have a husband and the security of his fortune."

All right, then, she'd marry, but she'd not marry the likes of Sir Garrett. No, she'd decided she would hunt for someone better suited to her tastes, and she had in mind someone far more handsome and far more dangerous: Lord Middleton.

Since she'd experienced that illicit kiss, which she still remembered with shining clarity, she could think of no one else. As long as she was to be married, she would like to know more of that sort of kiss-and beyond. And if she had to marry for convenience and fortune, what better fortune than that of a man who would one day be a duke?

She had thought about it long and hard and had concluded that she had nothing to lose by trying to win an offer from him.

Her only dilemma was, how exactly did one go about hunting a duke?

Six.

O ne week later, Ava had her butler. Mr. Morris, an elderly jeweler's a.s.sistant who had been dismissed because his eyesight had become so bad he could no longer clearly see the jewels on which he worked, and without income of any sort, had ended up in the parish poorhouse.