The Countess and Polly exchanged a look, in total accord.

"Poor Lucille," the Countess murmured sotto voce.

"Just when she was beginning to feel a little better as well!"

The unrelenting summer heat continued. The Dowager Countess had taken to dozing the afternoon hours away, and with Lucille also confined to bed and Nicholas out about estate business, Polly would wander in the shade of the gardens or curl up with a book in the pergola beside the lake. It was too hot for riding. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Lord Henry March night. Part of her longed to see him when he came to Wood bridge, but her practical side told her that this was unlikely. Whilst Lord Henry might well escort his mother and sister on the journey, he would hardly stay long in a provincial backwater which could hold no interest for one used to far more sophisticated pleasures. It seemed even less likely that Henry would choose to seek her out. Since he had not called in London after the ordeal, he would be unlikely to do so now.

Polly frowned, putting her book down on the painted seat of the paG.o.da and looking out across the dazzling water of the lake. There was no doubt that Lord Henry March night was an enigma. She had guessed he was not the foolish dandy he pretended to be, though his reputation as a rake was perhaps another matter. But there was something suspicious in his behaviour. Mr Dit ton's words at the ball, half- forgotten, came back to give her a slight shock. A gentleman who was bored with his aristocratic lifestyle might well become involved in criminal activities for excitement. He might well be lurking during a riot--could even be an instigator of the discontent that had led the mob to turn on them.

Polly shivered. Surely she was being foolish, particularly when she cared for him as she did. She could not equate her feelings for him with such doubts about his integrity. Yet something did not quite fit.

She got up, intending to walk off her fit of the dismals. She took the path which skirted the lake, enjoying the play of light on its surface and considering whether it would make a suitable subject for her painting.

Polly had not picked up her paintbrush since returning to Suffolk, but it was an activity which she thoroughly enjoyed and she had some skill.

It was a beautiful day to be outside, although a little too hot for comfort, but Polly's parasol kept the direct sunlight off her face.

The Dilling ham lake drained, by way of a small stream and a sluice gate, into the River De ben, and Polly slipped through the little gate and took the riverside path. Strictly speaking, this was not Sea grave land and belonged to Charles Far rant, but Polly knew he would not mind her trespa.s.sing. The Fan-ants and the Sea graves had grown up together.

There was a small fishing-house a little way further down the bank.

With a smile, Polly remembered that this had been the scene of various childhood expeditions in the hot summers of years that had gone by; they had sat on the balcony of the fishing-house, dangling their lines in the river and losing patience before they had caught anything. The boys had been allowed to swim, but her governess had scolded Polly for asking to join in too, and had only reluctantly allowed her to dangle her bare feet in the water of the pool inside the fishing-house. Polly smiled at the memory. The pool, lined with coloured tiles and marble imported specially by Charles Far rant's father, had always fascinated her. The water had been so clear and deep, shadowed and secret. She was minded to peek inside just to see if the reality was anything like her childhood memories.

Polly pushed open the fishing-house door and, in the split second that followed, her startled gaze took in everything before her. The interior was smaller than she remembered, but the tiles of a swirling green and blue were just the same. Light filtered down from the balcony above, dappling the water and illuminating the statues of mermaids and merman, which, in varying states of tasteful undress, lined the walls.

Polly certainly did not remember them. Her gaze lingered, half-shocked, half-intrigued at the sensuous display. Then she looked again at the pool and experienced a sensuous shock of an entirely more physical nature.

The pool was occupied. Polly, her hand still on the latch, took a hasty step backwards. And at that moment Lord Henry March night, his wet, fair hair as sleek as an otter's pelt, hauled himself out of the pool, the water running down his bronzed torso, shimmering droplets glistening on his naked body.

Polly gave a strangled squeak. She clapped her hand over her mouth, then wondered foolishly if it would be better to shield her eyes, since she seemed incapable of tearing her gaze away from Lord Henry's body.

His nakedness was a shocking echo of the cla.s.sical poses of the statues.

But they were inanimate, whilst he was all too vividly alive. The strong, graceful lines of his body were utterly compelling. Somehow, Polly managed to raise her gaze to Lord Henry's bare, broad chest, where it appeared to become fixed once again. He had an excellent physique, she thought dazedly, without an ounce of fat, the powerful shoulders and chest tapering to the narrow waist and down to strong thighs, all too clearly displayed to her view.

Lord Henry turned aside in leisurely fashion to reach for the towel which lay across a wicker chair and Polly's fascinated gaze followed.

Then, as he finally draped the towel about his waist, she was released from the spell and met his eyes, full of speculative amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Have you seen enough. Lady Polly?" Lord Henry asked, scrupulously polite, his hand hovering suggestively over the knot at his waist.

Polly could not answer. A huge wave of heat washed over her, compounded of sheer sensual awareness and burning embarra.s.sment. Even as her mortification struggled for mastery, she was aware of other, more demanding and disturbing feelings, feelings she could not control or understand. She turned on her heel, b.u.mping clumsily against the door in her attempt to get out of the fishing-house more quickly. The path was rough beneath the flimsy soles of her shoes as she ran from him. The sun suddenly seemed blindingly hot, the gra.s.ses threshing against her skirt, the colours spinning in a whirling kaleidoscope.

Behind her, she thought she heard Lord Henry shout,

"Polly!

Wait!"

She did not turn. Branded on her mind was the vision of Lord Henry's naked perfection, overlaid with the conventional gloss of how utterly she had humiliated herself and that she would never be able to face him again as long as she lived.

She did not see the rabbit hole, did not realise her danger until she had tripped headlong into the gra.s.s and nettles to lie still, winded, with tears of pain and embarra.s.sment stinging her eyes and the sound of Lord Henry's footsteps drawing ever closer.

Chapter Eight.

QyssQ.

roily brushed the tumbled hair out of her eyes and hastily attempted to sit up. A sharp pain shot through her ankle as she tried to put her weight on it. At the same time, tiny stinging patches of nettle rash seemed to rise on every exposed bit of skin.

With a groan she lay back in the gra.s.s.

The blue sky was abruptly blotted out.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" Lord Henry March night demanded, with something less than his customary aplomb.

Even through her pain and misery, Polly was aware of relief that he had taken time to dress before he had followed her. He was not, perhaps, as immaculately turned out as usual, but there was something powerfully attractive about the sight of such casual dishevelment. Polly turned her head away with another groan. To be able to think of nothing but Henry March night's attractions at a time like this argued a disordered intellect.

Henry's gaze took in her tumbled hair and the lines of pain on her white face, and his tone changed abruptly.

"You're hurt!" He stretched out a hand and Polly flinched back, trying to scramble to her feet. She saw the angry colour come into his face at her reaction, though his voice remained level.

"I a.s.sure you that you can trust me. Lady Polly. I am not so far gone in debauchery as to take advantage of a de fenceless woman! Besides, what were you intending to do--get up and hop away from me? Attack me with your parasol, perhaps?"

He had gone down on one knee beside her in the gra.s.s now.

"This is no time to be missish." He had taken her ankle in his hand now and was exploring it with gentle fingers warm against the silkiness of her stockinged foot.

Polly closed her eyes in an agony of confusion and mortification. Still shocked and aroused by their confrontation in the fishing-house, she found his touch almost unendurable.

But there was nothing remotely suggestive in Lord Henry's behaviour.

"You have sprained your ankle," he said in matter- of-fact tones.

"I doubt that you could walk on it even if you wanted to! I will take you back to the Court. It is not far." He scooped her up in arms that made nothing of her weight.

Polly had started to feel very unwell. The heat and the pain were making her head swim and the colours all seemed too bright and blurred.

She turned her head against Lord Henry's shoulder, forgetting for a moment her earlier discomfort in his presence.

"Oh, no, you cannot! I cannot allow--' Her qualms surfaced again before they had gone more than twenty steps. Lord Henry did not even slow his pace.

"Indeed? Can I not?" He sounded grimly amused. "And how do you intend to stop me?" He settled her more comfortably in his arms.

"Close your eyes, if you cannot bear to think of being in my arms!"

After the bright glare of the sun, the cool entrance hall at Dilling ham Court was blissfully shaded. Polly, who had been lulled into comparative peace by the gentleness with which Henry had carried her, opened her eyes with reluctance. Medlyn was hurrying across the hall towards them, his brows almost disappearing into his hair at the sight of Polly clasped close to Lord Henry yet again. It was beginning to look like a habit.

"Lady Polly! Lord Henry! Whatever has happened, sir?"

"Lady Polly has fallen and hurt her ankle," Lord Henry said tersely.

"Send someone for the doctor please, Medlyn, and if you could show me to Lady Polly's room " Put me down! " Polly hissed in a mortified whisper.

"Certainly not," Lord Henry said, in exactly the same terse tone.

"Do not be so foolish! You cannot stand!"