"I beg your pardon?"

He looked down into her flashing eyes. The words had slipped out without his thinking. Obviously they had aroused her ire. "Well, it's true. If you were mine, I wouldn't allow you to be running about on the heath alone at night."

"It is a good thing that I am not 'yours,' then, isn't it? That att.i.tude is precisely why I decided never to marry. As if a woman could be your possession, a slave to do your bidding, with no will or mind of her own."

A faint smile curved his lips. "I think that is something no one will ever accuse you of. However, that was not precisely what I meant. I meant 'mine' as in related to me, dependent on me. I know that the last thing one can expect from a woman is loyalty or obedience."

"Two very different things, sir," Camilla pointed out tartly. "Obedience is what one expects from a child or a servant. Loyalty is what is freely given by a thinking, autonomous adult."

''Well, neither of them is a virtue I have found in women."

"Then you have made a poor choice in the company you keep."

"Obviously," he agreed grimly.

"That is the problem with most men-they choose a woman because she is beautiful to look at, rather than for the qualities that count, such as her intelligence or loyalty or courage.''

He thought of Annabeth's pale beauty, and the venal heart it had hidden so well. But he could not resist challenging Camilla. "I would have thought loveliness one of the primary qualities one would seek in a wife."

"There. You see?" Camilla came to a stop, putting her hands on her hips in exasperation. "That is just like a man. Will a pretty face provide you witty conversation at the dinner table or a thoughtful discourse beside the fire? Of course not. Does it make a sour disposition easy to bear or a dull mind less boring?''

"Well, it would make it more pleasant to look at your companion through life."

"Ha!" Camilla's voice dripped scorn. "If all she is is pleasant to look at, within a few months you won't even be there to see her. You will have been driven mad by boredom and will spend all your hours at your club."

Benedict could not help but chuckle, thinking of one of his friends, to whom this exact fate had befallen. Enamored of a fragile blond-and-white beauty, he had married her, only to find once they were alone together, without chaperones, friends and family, that the poor girl had no conversation and little wit. She had the same dimpling smile and sweet expression that had bewitched him, but when they talked, there was nothing to say. He had, indeed, taken to spending most of his time with his friends at the club.

"There, you see? You've seen such marriages, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have," he admitted.

"Then admit that what I am saying is right. If a man chose a wife for her mind or her conversation, he would be much more likely to be happy."

"Pa.s.sion plays no part?"

Camilla looked at him, feeling suddenly as if she had stepped onto treacherous ground. Her usual answer in the past would have been a contemptuous dismissal of such a base appet.i.te as pa.s.sion as reason for marriage. However, remembering how she had felt this morning, when Benedict kissed her, she could not be so scornful.

Her eyes went involuntarily to his lips, and he gave her such a knowing smile that Camilla longed to hit him.

"I think it a flimsy foundation," she told him primly, "for a lifetime of devotion."

"Flimsy?" Something flickered in the dark depths of Benedict's eyes as he reached up and twined one of the wispy curls that framed Camilla's face around his finger. "I would have said that it is a very strong thing, pa.s.sion."

Camilla could think of no answer. Indeed, she could scarcely breathe.

"It hit me like a fist this morning," he went on in a soft, conversational tone.

Camilla drew a shaky breath. He was going to kiss her again, she thought, and she realized with astonishment how much she wanted him to. The thought seemed to break her trance, and she pulled back abruptly.

"We'd best go, or we shall be late." She whirled and started quickly toward the stairs again.

With a soft, rich chuckle that sent a quiver through her, Benedict matched her pace, saying, "Of course, madam. At your service."

Camilla was surprised-and, she told herself, relieved-that Benedict made no advances toward her over the next couple of days. He did not come up to their room at the time she was undressing and bathing; indeed, he did not come in until after she had finally fallen asleep. Nor did he spend much time with her at any other point. When she inquired where he had been, he responded vaguely.

But Anthony was quick to give her his opinion. "Snooping! That's what he's doing," he sputtered angrily. "Looking here and there, talking to everyone. I've seen him all over the house. Lord, he has probably been exploring the west wing, too. The man is up to no good, I tell you."

"Oh, hush. You sound like a suspicious old priss." However, Camilla had to admit that she was rather curious, too, as to where Benedict had been and what he had been doing.

"Well, why else would he be talking to all the servants?" Anthony pointed out reasonably. "I went down to the servants' hall last night to cajole a little snack out of Cook, and I heard one of them say that he was in Purdle's room, talking to him."

"He was talking to Purdle?" Camilla's eyebrows sailed upward. "But, Anthony, Purdle would never say anything to him. Besides, what does he know?"

"Nothing to any purpose. But he spies on me. Him and Jenkins both," Anthony said bitterly.

"Oh, now, Anthony..."

"They do. For Grandpapa. Oh, they don't mean any harm, I know that. But sometimes it's enough to drive me mad. I have to sneak out of the house if I don't want one of them questioning me."

"Even so, Purdle would never reveal family business to a stranger."

"Well, they don't think he's a stranger, do they? They think he's your legal husband."

"Still, that's not enough to make Purdle say anything that might harm you."

"Oh, you don't know. They always say it's for my own good. That they're worried about me. It's enough to make a fellow wish he were an orphan."

"You don't mean that. But I understand. I really do. All that 'taking care' of one can make one feel smothered."

"Exactly. I knew you'd understand." Anthony smiled at her, but continued to pace agitatedly. "Can't you do anything about him?"

"Who? Benedict?"

"Yes."

"What are you suggesting? That I get rid of him?"

"It's what I'd like to do. But I know there's no chance of it. Just watch him, keep him on a shorter leash. He's supposed to be married to you. Can't you make him do things with you?"

"All right, all right. I will try."

So it was that the next morning Camilla put on her riding habit when she got up and went downstairs in search of Benedict. She found him in the breakfast room with Mr. Oglesby. If he was trying to worm anything out of Mr. Oglesby, Camilla thought with a smile, then he was having rough going. She had tried to talk to the man after dinner the evening before, and he had hardly said a word.

"Camilla!" Benedict arose with a smile and came over to brush a kiss against her cheek. Camilla was not sure if he was putting on an act for Mr. Oglesby, who had also risen politely at her entrance, though more slowly than Benedict, or if he was genuinely glad to see her.

She breathed in the elusive scent of his masculine cologne and replied, a little shakily, "Benedict."

He led her to the seat beside him, pulling out her chair for her.

She nodded at the other man at the table. "Good morning, Mr. Oglesby."

"Mrs. La.s.siter," he replied, a little stiffly. "How are you this morning?"

"Quite well, sir." She realized with a bit of surprise that this statement was the truth. She was in an absurd situation, one that would be ruinous to her reputation if she was found out, and yet she was in excellent spirits.

Benedict solicitously dished up a plate of food for her from the long breakfront, while Camilla vainly attempted again to engage Mr. Oglesby in conversation. He spoke only in answer to questions, and then largely in monosyllables, not rudely, but with an air of discomfort. Camilla could not decide whether he was very shy or very dull.

"I find the country air quite refreshing myself," Benedict said, joining in her effort to converse. "A pleasant change from the city. Are you from the city, Mr. Oglesby?"

"Yes, yes, I am." Mr. Oglesby shifted a little in his chair.

"London?"

"Yes."

"Of course, there's little of the excitement of London here," Benedict went on.

"No. There is not."

"We reside in Bath," Camilla put in.

"But I have lived in London in the past," Benedict said. "Perhaps we might have some acquaintances in common."

"Oh...I...I wouldn't think so."

"What part of London do you live in?"

Oglesby looked even more uncomfortable. "Mm, well, near St. James Place."

"Then you must live close to Cousin Bertram. Is that how you met?"

He gaped at her for a moment, then said hurriedly, "Yes, yes, that's right. Happened to meet walking down the street one day. Down St. James, in fact." Oglesby stood up, giving them a stiff smile. "I beg your pardon, but I must leave now."

Camilla looked at his plate, where half his food still remained. He followed her gaze, and color rose in his face. "I...ah...I'm afraid I must not have been as hungry as I thought. If you will excuse me..."

He sketched a bow toward them and left the room. Camilla watched him go, then turned back to Benedict. "Odd."

"What is, my dear?"

"Mr. Oglesby. Didn't he seem awfully nervous to you? What do you think was the matter?"

"I don't know. Perhaps we are an imposing couple."

Camilla grimaced. "Nonsense. We were only trying to make conversation."

"Perhaps he felt that we were interrogating him."

"What else can one do but ask him questions? He won't say anything but a direct answer to a question- preferably in one word."

"Perhaps he feels...mm...intimidated."

"Intimidated? But why?"

"Some people are awed by things that do not faze the granddaughter of an Earl."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this house." He nodded toward the end of the long table, which was centered by a huge silver epergne, then at the heavy mahogany sideboard, with its load of glittering silver dishes, and the liveried servant standing by to fill one's gla.s.s and cup or to serve something from one of the chafing dishes. "Not everyone is used to living on a country estate, nor to conversing at breakfast with an Earl's family."

"You seem to have no problem," Camilla pointed out tartly.

He grinned. "No. But I overcame my inhibitions long ago. It's easier for scoundrels, you know, to be at ease in any company."

There was something about the twinkle in his dark eyes that made Camilla wonder all over again if she had been wrong about his low birth. The whole time he had been here, there had been no slip in his speech, no mistake made in his att.i.tude. His manners did not have the elegance of Mr. Sedgewick's or her cousin Bertram's, it was true, but there was in him the air of someone who acted as he chose, not because he did not know better. He showed none of the awkwardness that had been so apparent in Mr. Oglesby.

"Purdle tells me that he is 'not quite a gentleman," she said, putting aside for the moment the question of Benedict's own qualifications.

"What? Why?"

Camilla shrugged. "I'm not sure. That is all he said. Purdle had that look on his face that he gets when he's talking about certain people-those who don't fit his ideas of what is proper or genteel. He's a terrible sn.o.b." It occurred to her that Purdle had made no such comment about Benedict. Of course, he thought Benedict was her husband, but Purdle usually had his ways of making his opinion subtly known.

"I have generally found that a butler or a valet is much better at dividing the 'Quality' from the riffraff than the aristocracy are."

"Well, it seems very odd that Bertram brought him here. Cousin Bertram is something of a sn.o.b himself. He always surrounds himself with the best-his clothes, his furnishings, his possessions."

"Your cousin must be a wealthy man, then."

"Actually, I don't think so. He is his father's heir, of course, but not Grandpapa's. Anthony will inherit everything from Grandpapa. Uncle William is wealthy enough, I suppose, but I don't think he gives Cousin Bertram a generous allowance. I suspect that Cousin Bertram is down here avoiding his creditors, like Mr. Thorne."

"He is a man of some wit, your cousin."

"Yes. You would hardly guess that he is Graeme's or Harold's brother, for neither of those two could be said to have a facile intellect."

"Graeme Elliot?" Benedict asked, startled. "He is your cousin?"

"Why, yes." Camilla looked at him oddly. "Do you know him?"

"No. No, of course not. It is just-I was astounded at the existence of yet another cousin."

"I told you about him yesterday. He is a lieutenant in the Hussars."

"Ah, yes, the Army man."

"Those are only my Elliot cousins, though. I have another whole batch on my father's side. Those are the ones that you know."

"What? The ones I-oh!" He remembered the presence of the liveried servant at the sideboard. "Oh, yes. The ones you were traveling with when we first met." He smiled, his eyes glinting with amus.e.m.e.nt, and he reached across the table to take her hand. "Tell me, my love, do you think of those days with fondness, as I do?"