Cradling her to him, he held her, both of them exhausted and supremely replete.

Gradually, awareness returned, along with a realization that the room was now bathed in a heavy twilight of shadows.

She sat up, their bodies still connected. "Blast it, I've missed tea."

He chuckled and skimmed a hand down one of her arms. "You were too busy feasting on other things."

She cuffed him on the shoulder. "Behave, sir, or I shall never make the mistake of doing so again. Now, help me dress and let's be quick. I've got to be going or I shall be missed."

"As you wish, my dear Julianna." He drew her close for one last kiss. "And thank you."

Surprise lit her eyes. "For what?"

"For making it better, sweeting. And for giving me exactly what I needed."

In answer, she smiled and bent down, making herself another five minutes late.

Chapter Twelve.

COACH WHEELS HIT a rut, making the landau rock on its springs. Julianna caught her breath and reached for the inside strap, clutching the leather for a long moment until the ride became smooth once more.

Ensconced on the matching silk upholstered seat opposite, Maris held on as well, the disturbance briefly interrupting her observation of the verdant English countryside passing by outside the windows.

Catching each other's gaze, Julianna and Maris exchanged smiles, then Julianna returned to her book. She wished Maris had brought her own novel to keep her mind occupied during the journey to this weekend's country house party. But Maris had said that reading in the coach gave her a headache and she preferred a few hours of boredom to the possibility of pain.

Maris sighed and fell to staring out the window once more.

Turning a page, Julianna tried to concentrate on the printed words, but she'd scarcely finished a single sentence before her thoughts drifted away, settling-as they far too frequently did-upon Rafe.

What is he doing? she wondered. How is he doing? Has he returned to London yet?

She nearly expelled a sigh of her own, recalling the long, disquieting two weeks that had passed since he'd been called away on unexpected business at his estate in West Riding. She hadn't even realized he owned an estate, and certainly not in the north country where he had grown up. But apparently he did, as she'd discovered the last time they met.

"I am sorry, my dear," Rafe had said, drawing her down next to him on the sofa in the first floor drawing room soon after her arrival, "but I cannot stay today. An emergency has cropped up at one of my estates that I see no reasonable way of avoiding."

"What has happened?" she asked, turning toward him in concern.

"There was a powerful thunderstorm apparently, with a great deal of wind and lightning. A few of the cottagers' homes lost roofs and barns, leaving people in need of temporary shelter. As for my own house, a tree, of all things, blew in through one of the library windows and caused a fair amount of damage. My steward wrote to tell me about the trouble and asked me to come as soon as may be."

"Certainly you must go. How long will you be away?"

"I don't know for certain. A week, perhaps two." Raising her hand, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. "I would have left this morning, but I couldn't go away, not without seeing you first."

Meeting his river-green gaze, she smiled softly. "I'm glad you did not."

His mouth had crushed hers then, joining their lips and tongues in a passionate kiss that she knew would have to last them both until his return.

A short while later, he'd driven her toward Mayfair, then stopped to procure a hackney cab that would take her to Bond Street, where she could walk to her own waiting carriage.

And then he'd been gone.

Since that day, she had not heard from him-they had agreed that exchanging letters was unwise. Now, though, she wished she'd urged him to write, each day more interminable than the last.

Does he miss me? she wondered. For as foolish and ridiculous as it might be, she had felt his absence with a fierceness that alarmed her, and with a strength she knew was dangerous to feel.

So when Viscount Middleton invited her and Maris to join him and a dozen others for a house party at Middlebrooke Park, his estate in Essex, she had agreed. Henrietta had been included in the invitation, but had bowed out because of her dislike of road travel. And Harry, who was to have accompanied them, stayed home, confined to his bed with a dreadful spring cold.

Before leaving the city this morning, though, Julianna had broken her agreement not to contact Rafe, penning him a note to let him know that she was away and would return at first week. Assuming, of course, he reached London again before she did.

The landau's wheels rumbled over a bit of rough earth, the perfume of wild lilacs wafting briefly into the coach's interior. Sweet and luxurious, the scent, together with another one of Maris's poignant sighs, proved powerful enough to disturb Julianna's musings.

Glancing across at her sister, Julianna couldn't help but notice the downward turn to Maris's lips, nor miss the sheen of melancholy haunting her usually lively gaze. For a girl traveling into the countryside for a weekend of relaxed entertainment, she did not look happy or excited.

Julianna gave up all pretense of reading and closed her book, setting it next to her on her seat. "Is everything all right?"

Maris glanced over, sadness visible in her gaze. Her expression cleared seconds later and she smiled. Or rather she forced herself to smile, Julianna realized.

"Of course things are fine," Maris declared in a cheery voice. "Why would they not be?"

Now I know something is amiss, Julianna thought. Maris was generally cheerful, but never that cheerful.

"Are you sure?" Julianna pressed.

Maris stared for a long moment, emotions racing like a dark river in her eyes. Still, she remained silent.

"Are you concerned about the weekend perhaps?" Julianna queried. "I know you may have certain expectations, which are only natural given the circumstances. Viscount Middleton has been extremely attentive over the past few weeks, making a point of singling you out. And now this invitation to his home. Any woman would be wondering if an offer of marriage is imminent."

Maris frowned and stared down at her clasped hands. "Yes, that is what Cousin Henrietta said. She is sure he will come up to scratch during our visit."

"Are you worried she is wrong and that he may not?"

When her sister said nothing again, a new speculation dawned.

"Or are you worried that he will?"

Up flashed Maris's eyes, a hint of guilt in their depths. "He is very charming and handsome. I should be ecstatic at the prospect of being his bride."

"But you are not?"

"I do not know," she said, pleating her skirt with her fingers. "I like him, but he is so much older and I...I just am not sure."

Julianna had told herself she wouldn't meddle, but how could she not when Maris was so clearly in need of guidance? "If you are not sure, then you are not ready. If he asks, you must refuse."

Maris's lips trembled. "But how can I? Especially after agreeing to come here for the weekend. No matter how I may feel, I have given him every reason to think I would be agreeable to his suit. If he asks for my hand, I will have to say yes."

"You most certainly do not have to say yes. Haven't I told you that you are to marry for love and nothing less?"

"Yes, but what if I never find the right man? I must marry sometime, so why should it not be the viscount?"

"Because he is not the one for you, and more than anything you deserve to be happy."

As Julianna watched her sister, a fresh suspicion emerged.

"Unless you have already found that special someone. Major Waring, perhaps?"

Heat leapt into her sister's cheeks, turning her fair skin the color of a ripe strawberry. "The major is not in the least special. Besides, he has stopped calling and has no particular regard for me."

Lips drooping again, Maris lowered her eyelashes, her misery plain.

"I always thought he seemed to have a great deal of regard for you," Julianna observed in a gentle voice. "Why did he stop coming around? Did you quarrel?"

"No, I...well, in a way, I suppose. Oh, Jules, I thought he truly liked me...even loved me perhaps, especially after he kissed me at the Chiltons' garden party-" Maris clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes rounding like saucers. "Oh, gracious, I shouldn't have told you that, should I?"

How innocent she can still be, and how glad I am of it, Julianna mused. "So long as it was no more than a kiss, there is little harm done."

Maris shook her head. "It was only the one and nothing else. He stopped calling on me soon afterward and I...haven't known what to think. I can only conclude that he took me in disgust. Maybe he simply did not like me...that way."

"Hmm, or perhaps he liked you that way too much."

"What do you mean?"

"He is a younger son and has few prospects. Perhaps his feelings for you were genuine, but he did not believe he could approach Harry to ask for your hand. To continue to court you under those circumstances would not have been honorable, and so he withdrew."

"If that is true, then he ought to have told me. How utterly foolish to walk away when my dowry is more than sufficient to support both of us."

"Perhaps he worried of being called a fortune hunter. Men have their pride, you know, some more than others. And I think the major may have lost more than just his arm over there on that bloody field in Spain."

"Mayhap. Poor William has suffered much, it's true. But that is no reason to have made me miserable as well, assuming you are correct about him. I still believe he simply does not care. If he loved me, he would never have let me go, no matter the state of his finances."

Weaving her slender fingers together in her lap, Maris hung her head. "No, what was between him and me is dead and I must move on. I had convinced myself to do so with Viscount Middleton. But now that the moment is nearly at hand..." Her head lifted and she met Julianna's gaze. "Oh, Jules, what am I to do?"

"What I told you to do ten minutes ago. Do not accept."

"But he will be hurt. Or worse, angry."

Maris might be right, Julianna decided. For all the viscount's outwardly affable behavior, she wasn't sure he would take a rejection, especially one given in his own home, with equanimity. And at the very least, the party atmosphere would be in ruins, forcing her and Maris to race back to London with gossip trailing not far behind.

Hmm, she considered, what to do?

"Do not refuse him outright. Simply tell him you need a few days to consider the matter. Explain that you are young and still in your first Season and do not wish to hurry into matrimony without making sure you are ready. He may well be annoyed by your hesitation, but he'll accept it nonetheless. Can you do it, Maris? Can you put him off?"

"Yes," Maris agreed. "I believe I can manage."

"And maybe you will find you have worried for naught and he will not propose. Either way, there are a dozen other invited guests, ladies and gentlemen both, so relax and make merry. When we return to London, we will tell Harry you do not wish to accept Middleton and he can do the refusing."

Relief swept across Maris's face. "Would Harry do that, do you think?"

"I am sure he will. He is your brother and guardian, after all. It is no less than Papa would do if he were still alive."

A long moment passed, the sound of the coach wheels rumbling over the Essex county roads.

Maris smiled, her expression genuine this time. "Thank you, Jules. I feel much relieved."

Bending forward, Julianna reached across and covered one of her sister's hands. "You may always come to me, you know. So next time, do not keep everything bottled up inside. Talk to me, please!"

"I will," Maris said with a laugh. "I promise."

"And now if you would all follow me, we will visit the portrait gallery."

With that statement ringing on the air, Mrs. Thompson, Viscount Middleton's plump, apple-cheeked housekeeper, led the way out of the ornate gold ballroom and down a long second-floor hallway.

Julianna exchanged smiles with Maris, then strolled forward with the rest of their small group, mostly ladies, who had decided to stay and tour Middlebrooke Park. The other house-party guests had left with Lord Middleton shortly after breakfast to survey the extensive grounds of the estate by way of horseback.

Plainly, the viscount had been hoping Maris would make herself one of his party-he'd even picked out a gentle mare for her to ride. But she had declined, pleading weariness after her long journey the day before. Smiling politely, Maris had told him she would see him during nuncheon at midday. Having no choice but to accede to her wishes, he had bowed and moved away.

Although Maris appeared lighthearted and smiling, as if she were having a delightful visit, Julianna knew her sister's nerves were on edge. Busy with his duties as host, Middleton had made no attempt to speak privately with Maris-so far. Yet with nearly two days of the visit ahead, plenty of time remained for him to make Maris an offer should that be his wish.

"...The portraits you see displayed here date back to the reign of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth," Mrs. Thompson explained as their group walked into the long portrait gallery, shoes rapping softly against the polished oak floorboards.

"For his brave and loyal service to the crown," the housekeeper continued, "Her Majesty bestowed this land and the title upon the first Viscount Middleton, Lord Gregory St. George. As I mentioned previously, Lord Gregory is responsible for building the central portion of Middlebrooke Park. Here is his portrait, and alongside it the likenesses of his wife and their three sons. The entire St. George family is represented in this hall, forty-two paintings in total."

As they moved slowly along the gallery, Julianna watched history unfold before her eyes, generation by generation, as fashion and hairstyles changed in intriguing, and sometimes amusing, ways. Van Dykes and ruffled collars gave way to towering pompadours, panniered skirts, frock coats, and beribboned high heels-shoes even the men wore-before finally evolving into the more modern styles of the past few decades.

The housekeeper drew the group to a halt. "And this is my master's father, the late David St. George. What a kind man he was, and generous to a fault. I remember him quite fondly from my youth, for he used to give all of us children peppermint sticks whenever he'd return from one of his many trips away."

Several people chuckled at the enthusiasm in Mrs. Thompson's voice for her childhood remembrance. Julianna smiled and gazed upward at the painting.

Her heart leapt in a crazy beat, blood thundering suddenly in her ears as she stared into the face of her lover.

Dark hair. Cool river-green eyes. Strong, square chin and cheeks with long, enchantingly male dimples.

Rafe's cheeks.

Rafe's eyes.

Rafe's face!

The room whirled strangely around her, blood rushing through her veins with the speed of a raging river, while saliva dried uncomfortably against her tongue.

Barely aware, she gave a strangled whimper.