The grin faded from Ben's face. "I owe her an apology."

"Do you?" she asked. "Did you not apologize when it happened? She was not hurt, I hope?"

"I do not believe so," he said, though he remembered that she had been sitting on the ground when he first became aware of her. "But I ripped up at her, Bea, and blamed her for the near catastrophe-and her dog, which is an ugly brute if ever I saw one. I owe her an apology."

"Perhaps we will see her at church on Sunday," she said. "I would not go riding up to the doors of Bramble Hall, if I were you. For one thing, you have not been introduced and it would be vastly improper. For another, I do believe the sister-in-law might well have an apoplexy if she discovered a single gentleman on the doorstep. Either that, or she would attack you with the nearest umbrella or knitting needle."

He could just forget about the whole episode, Ben supposed a few minutes later as he made his slow way upstairs to change out of his riding clothes. But he hated to recall that he had behaved in a manner unbecoming a gentleman-and that was a bit of an understatement.

He definitely owed her an apology.

Samantha and Matilda went to church as usual the following Sunday. It might have amused Samantha that Sunday service had become the big outing and social event of her week, if it had not also been so pathetic. For so it had been for the past five years, even though she had been only nineteen when she first came to live at Bramble Hall. And the situation was not about to change, despite the fact that she no longer had Matthew to tend at home.

She sat beside Matilda in their usual pew at the front of the church, her prayer book on her lap, and turned her head neither to the left nor to the right, though she would dearly like to have seen which neighbors were also present. She would have liked to nod genially to them as she had always done in the past. But Matilda sat rigidly still, and, foolishly perhaps, Samantha felt constrained to match her piety, if that was what it was.

It was only after the service, then, when they had risen to pa.s.s down the aisle and out to the waiting gig, their faces properly hidden behind their veils, that she saw that man again. It was how she had been thinking of him, with growing indignation, for two days.

That man.

He was sitting in the pew across the aisle and one row back from hers. He must have been able to see her all through the service. He was still sitting, not jumping to his feet as soon as her eyes alit incautiously upon him, as any proper gentleman would have done, especially one who had treated her so ill. And it was not that he had not noticed her. His eyes were directly upon her.

How dared he?

He was not wearing his hat inside the church. His face was narrow and angular, as she had observed at their first meeting. He had a straight, finely chiseled nose and slightly hollowed cheeks, a firm chin and hard blue eyes beneath midbrown hair. He must have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. He was not a youth now, though. It was hard to guess his age, but his face bore evidence of having looked upon a great deal of hard living, perhaps of suffering. It was still handsome, however, she conceded grudgingly, perhaps the more so for not being boyish.

It would have been more satisfying if he had been ugly. All villains ought to look the part.

She would have looked away with deliberate disdain and continued up the aisle, but she had hesitated a moment too long, and the lady beside him, who was on her feet, spoke to her. She was Lady Gramley. Of course she was-this was her usual pew.

"Mrs. McKay," she said kindly, "how do you do?"

"I am well, thank you, ma'am," Samantha replied. She could feel Matilda's hand firm on her back. Good heavens, was it improper for a grieving widow even to exchange pleasantries with her neighbors at church?

"Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of presenting my brother, Sir Benedict Harper," Lady Gramley said. "Mrs. McKay, Ben. And Lady Matilda McKay."

And finally he considered getting to his feet, though he was in no hurry even now. He looked to one side, away from Samantha and Matilda, and picked up two canes, which he arranged on either side of him. They were not ordinary canes. They were longer and had handpieces partway down, with leather loops through which he slid his hands. They circled his arms as he grasped the handpieces and hoisted himself to his feet.

Had he fallen from his horse since she last saw him? Samantha wondered hopefully and unkindly. But no. Those canes must have been specially made. She had seen nothing like them before.

Even when he was slightly hunched over them, she could see that he was tall and thin. No, not thin. Lean. There was a difference. And his well-fitting, fashionable coat and pantaloons, over which he wore highly polished Hessian boots, emphasized his pleasingly proportioned physique. He was an attractive man, she admitted without feeling in any way attracted. She felt as irritated with him as she had been two days ago. More so, perhaps, because now she could see that he had had an excuse for not jumping from his horse to rush gallantly to her rescue on that day, and she did not want him to have any excuse at all.

"Sir." She inclined her head with as much frosty hauteur as she could muster. She was aware of Matilda slightly curtsying and murmuring his name.

"Ma'am," he said, inclining his head. "Lady Matilda."

Benedict. It was far too pleasant a name for him. It sounded like a blessing-a benediction. She wondered if there was any profane word in existence that he had not used in that meadow. She doubted it.

"My brother has been kind enough to give me his company at Robland Park for a few weeks before I join my husband in London for the second half of the Season," Lady Gramley explained. "Perhaps we may call upon you one afternoon, Mrs. McKay? I have not spoken to you since soon after your husband was laid to rest, and I would not have you feel that your neighbors are neglecting you in your grief."

Samantha felt uncomfortable, for no longer than three weeks ago the Earl and Countess of Gramley had invited her and Matilda to dinner and Matilda had persuaded her that it would be unseemly to accept, that Lady Gramley ought not even to have suggested such a thing. Samantha had been surprised, but she had still been in the grip of lethargy and had allowed her sister-in-law to send a refusal, politely worded, she hoped. Even so, she thought it good of Lady Gramley not to have taken offense.

"That would be delightful," she said, though she could have wished that the lady's brother was not included. But perhaps she could suffocate him with courtesy if he came and show him what true gentility was. It would be a fitting revenge. It was more likely, though, that he would make an excuse not to come. "We will look forward to it, will we not, Matilda?"

"We are still in deep mourning, ma'am," Matilda reminded Lady Gramley, as if their heavy blacks were not hint enough. "However, there can be no objection to receiving an occasional afternoon call from a genteel neighbor."

Oh, good heavens. It was no wonder Matthew had been the black sheep of his family and had detested the lot of them, his sister included. Matilda was calling a countess a genteel neighbor as though she were conferring some great favor upon her.

Sir Benedict Harper had not removed his eyes from Samantha's face. She wondered how much he could see of it. And she wondered if he felt embarra.s.sed at seeing her again. Did he recall calling her woman? She recalled it, and she bristled at the memory.

Samantha inclined her head again and moved on. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute, but it had left her with ruffled feathers. Would he accompany Lady Gramley when she called? Would he dare?

She inclined her head civilly to a few other members of the congregation and offered her hand to the vicar and a comment on his sermon. Matilda praised him at greater length and with stiff condescension. And then they were in the gig and on their way home.

"Lady Gramley appears genteel enough," Matilda observed.

"I have always found her both kind and gracious," Samantha said, "though I have not had many dealings with her over the years. Or with any of my other neighbors, for that matter. Matthew needed almost all my time and attention."

"Sir Benedict Harper is crippled," Matilda said.

"But not bedridden." He could even ride, Samantha thought. "Perhaps he will not accompany his sister if she calls on us."

"It would be tactful of him not to," Matilda agreed, "since he is a stranger to us. It is a pity we could not have avoided the introduction."

For once Samantha was in accord with her sister-in-law. It did not happen often.

Matilda was as different from her brother as it was possible to be. A self-avowed spinster at the age of thirty-two, who had long ago professed her intention of devoting herself to her mother in her declining years, she seemed to lack any softness or femininity. Her father was next only to G.o.d in her esteem. Matthew had been three years older, handsome, dashing, charming-and quite irresistibly gorgeous in his scarlet regimentals. Samantha had met him at an a.s.sembly when his regiment was stationed a mere three miles from her home. She had been seventeen years old, young, naive, and impressionable. She had tumbled headlong into love with Lieutenant McKay, as he had been then, as had every other girl for miles around. It would have been strange, perhaps, if she had not. When he married her, she had thought herself the happiest, most fortunate girl in the world, an impression that had remained with her for four months until she discovered that he was shallow and vain-and unfaithful.

Yes, he had been very different from his sister. Of the two, she would take Matthew any day of the year. Not that she any longer had a choice in the matter. The thought brought a stabbing of grief.

The severe wounds he suffered in battle had destroyed Matthew in more ways than one. He had been a difficult patient, though she had always tried to make allowances for his pain and his disabilities and the deteriorating condition of his lungs. He had been demanding and selfish. She had devoted herself to his care without complaint even though she had fallen out of love with him before he went away to the Peninsula.

His death had caused her real grief. It had been hard to watch the destruction of a man who had been so handsome and vital and vain-and to watch him die at the age of thirty-five.

Poor Matthew.

Matilda reached over and patted her hand. "Your grief does you credit, Samantha," she said. "I shall tell Father so when I write to him tomorrow."

Samantha reached beneath her veil and dashed away a tear with one black-gloved hand. She felt guilty. For there was relief mingled with the sadness she felt at Matthew's having to die. She could no longer deny that fact. She was free at last-or would be when this heavy ritual of mourning was at an end.

Was it wicked to think that way?

4.

"I wonder," Ben said, "if Mrs. McKay has told her sister-in-law what happened a few afternoons ago."

"I really do not know the lady," Beatrice replied, "but I must confess that she strikes me as being a bit of a battle-ax."

They were traveling toward Bramble Hall in an open carriage, with the blessing of Beatrice's physician, who at last had p.r.o.nounced her fully restored to health. It was a sunny day and quite warm for springtime. Two days had pa.s.sed since their encounter with the McKay ladies at church.

"I did not behave as I ought to have when I first encountered Mrs. McKay," Ben said. "I really do need to make amends, Bea. Yet if I blurt out an apology over tea, I may embarra.s.s her before her sister-in-law. I cannot help agreeing with you about the lady, even though we spoke with the two of them for what was probably no longer than a minute on Sunday, and it was impossible even to see their faces. Have you ever seen facial veils quite as black and heavy as theirs? I wonder they can see out. One half expects them to walk into walls."

"Perhaps their grief is great," she said. "Poor Captain McKay is said to have been exceedingly handsome and dashing once upon a time. War is a cruel thing, Ben, not that I need to tell you of all people that. It would have been kinder, perhaps, if he had been killed outright. Kinder for him, kinder for his wife, kinder for his sister."

Dash it, would he ever escape from those wars? Ben thought irritably. What d.a.m.nable fate was it that had set him to jumping that particular hedge at that particular moment on that particular day when he had jumped nothing on horseback in longer than six years? And what had led Mrs. McKay to walk just there when apparently she had scarcely set foot outside her own home since she moved there with her invalid husband five or six years ago?

Fate? He very much doubted it. And if it was, then fate was a d.a.m.nably weird thing.

This visit he was about to pay was the last thing on earth he wished to be doing. One did not like to be caught out in ungentlemanly conduct, and one did not like having to beg pardon of the offended party, especially when she was as cold and haughty as Captain McKay's widow appeared to be.

"If I see even the glimmering of an opportunity," Beatrice promised as the carriage drew to a halt outside the front doors of Bramble Hall, "I will draw Lady Matilda away or at least out of earshot, Ben, so that you may make your peace with Mrs. McKay."

There was an instant response to the rap of the knocker against the door in the form of a deep, excited barking from within. The unruly hound, no doubt.

Bramble Hall was a solid stone house, a manor more than a mansion, but of pleasing proportions and set in gardens that were well tended even if not extensive. The interior too was handsome, Ben soon discovered, though the hall was paneled in dark wood and the sitting room into which they were shown was scarcely any lighter, since the dark wine velvet curtains were more than half drawn over the windows. The furniture was old and heavy and predominantly a dark brown. Dark-toned landscape paintings hung on the papered walls.

The ladies rose to their feet as the butler announced their visitors. They both, of course, wore black dresses that covered them from neck to wrists to ankles. Lady Matilda was also wearing a black lacy cap over her fair hair, tied in a neat black bow beneath her chin. Ben wondered uncharitably that she had not dyed her hair black.

Mrs. McKay's head was uncovered. Her very dark, glossy hair was styled in a tight coronet of braids about the crown of her head, the rest combed smooth, without a suggestion of a curl or ringlet to soften the severity. Her eyes were very dark too and large and long-lashed, her nose straight, her mouth generous and full-lipped, her skin dark-toned. She almost undoubtedly had some foreign blood in her veins, though he could not place her origin. Spain? Italy? Greece?

Her dress was of some heavy, rather stiff fabric and was ill-fitting and unbecoming. Nevertheless, it could not hide the fact, as her cloak had done on both previous occasions he had seen her, that she was generously curved and voluptuous of figure. She had the height to carry it too.

He had expected her to be ugly. She had looked ugly through her veil. She was, to the contrary, utterly, stunningly beautiful. And younger than he had estimated.

His impression of both ladies was gathered in a moment. Fortunately, he was prevented from staring overlong by the infernal hound, which looked every bit as ugly now as he had in the meadow a few days ago. He was prancing about them in the sort of orgy of undiscipline one might expect of an untrained puppy but not of a grown dog that lived inside the house. He seemed undecided whether to be ecstatic that they had come to visit or offended that they had dared trespa.s.s upon his domain. However, he seemed altogether willing to give them the benefit of the doubt if they showed the slightest tendency to play with him.

Beatrice laughed and patted his head. "What a lovely welcome," she said.

"Hush, dog," Lady Matilda commanded-to no effect. "Samantha, do have him removed."

"Sit, Tramp," Mrs. McKay said, "or you are going to have to be banished to outer darkness."

The dog did not sit, but he did stop his prancing to look up at his mistress, panting, tongue lolling, and then he padded off to plop himself down in the shaft of daylight that beamed through the narrow gap in the curtains, his ears c.o.c.ked lest he miss someone offering further entertainment.

Wretched hound. Without him, Ben might well have cleared that hedge and ridden back to Robland without even realizing that he had frightened the devil out of a lady and narrowly missed killing her. He would not even have known that an apology was in order. And he would have glanced at those two black-shrouded females in church with absolutely no wish whatsoever of making their acquaintance.

"Lady Gramley," Mrs. McKay said, stepping forward to offer a hand to her guest, "I do beg your pardon for Tramp's bad manners. How kind of you to call upon us. You were not very well the last time you did so, I recall. I was touched that you came at all. I do hope you have recovered your health. We have been very dull with only each other for company, have we not, Matilda?"

She turned to Ben after Bea had a.s.sured her that she had made a full recovery from her stubborn chill. Mrs. McKay's expression changed imperceptibly from warmly welcoming to coolly gracious as she shook his hand too.

"Sir Benedict," she said, "it was good of you to accompany your sister. Do have a seat."

She glanced at his canes but did not try to steer him to a chair, he was relieved to discover. Some people did.

A polite conversation ensued before a tea tray was brought in. Mrs. McKay poured, and her sister-in-law carried the tea and a plate of sweet biscuits to their guests. The dog came and snuffled first at Beatrice and then at Ben. He seemed to prefer the latter, even though Bea patted his head again and Ben most decidedly did not. He plopped down at Ben's feet and rested his chin on one of Ben's boots.

The animal must be as thick as a plank. Had not Bea said he knew who liked him?

"Samantha," Lady Matilda said, "do call a servant to remove that dog. He really ought not to be allowed to roam at will, especially when you are entertaining visitors. You know my thoughts on the matter."

He must be the ugliest dog in creation, and Ben had certainly not taken kindly to his decision to favor him with his company. Yet when it came to a choice between a battle-ax of a woman-yes, he had decided, Bea had hit upon quite the right description of Lady Matilda McKay-on the one hand and a gangly, drooling, undisciplined, undiscerning dog on the other, the decision was not even difficult.

"If the dog-Tramp, is it?-is no bother to Mrs. McKay," he said, "he certainly is not to me, Lady Matilda. I beg you to allow him to remain where he is."

Mrs. McKay shot him a glance that defied interpretation. Suspicion? Resentment? Reproach? It was surely not grat.i.tude.

Quinn, Ben's valet, would probably be polishing dog drool off his boot tonight and not looking too happy about it.

"He appeared on my doorstep two years ago," Mrs. McKay explained, "a determined, decrepit vagabond who would not go away even after I had fed him. My husband said, quite rightly, I suppose, that he would not go away because I had fed him. But how could I not have done? His long legs were like bent sticks, his ribs were all quite visible, his coat was dull and tufted, and he had such a look of longing and hope in his eyes that ... Well, I would have had to be made of stone to turn him away. He lived on the doorstep for a while. How he got from there into the house and became master of all he surveyed I do not know, but he did."

"He would not have done so if I had been living here with you at the time, Samantha," Lady Matilda said, "as I would have been had Mother not suffered palpitations with every word that reached us about Matthew's condition. Even now I would urge you to send him to the stables and make him stay there. Animals do not belong in a decent house, as I am sure you would agree, Lady Gramley."

"You will think me a thorough weakling, I daresay, ma'am," Mrs. McKay said as a maid removed the tea tray. "I love him, you see. How anyone could love an ugly, impudent fellow like you, Tramp, I do not know, but I do."

She contrived to look at the dog, Ben noticed, without also looking at him. Her every word was directed to Bea, as though he did not exist. She was obviously very vexed with him.

"Pets become as much a part of one's family as the other persons in it," Beatrice agreed. "While our spaniel was still alive, one of my sons once accused me of loving her more than I loved him or his brother. And my reply was that sometimes she was easier to love. I was smothering my son with hugs while I was saying it, I hasten to add."

Ben had spoken scarcely a word. At this rate he was going to feel worse when he left than he had before he arrived. For if he did not apologize now, he never would, and he would forever feel in the wrong-as he was, dash it all.

Mrs. McKay might be a considerable beauty, but he really could not like her, perhaps because she had held up a mirror in which he had seen the ugliest side of himself. He caught Beatrice's eye and raised his eyebrows. Good manners probably dictated that they leave very soon.

"Lady Matilda," she said, "I fear I have eaten too many of those excellent biscuits and would welcome some exercise before the drive back to Robland Park. Would you be willing to take a turn on the terrace with me?"

Lady Matilda looked anything but willing. However, she was a lady and her social manners prevailed.

"I shall fetch my bonnet and cloak," she said and left the room.

Beatrice drifted after her, having asked Mrs. McKay apologetically and rhetorically if she minded. That lady looked as if she did mind, though she answered politely enough to the contrary. She looked down at the hands clasped in her lap when she and Ben were alone together, and silence descended, apart from one contented sigh from the dog, who had looked interested in the stroll on the terrace but had decided against making himself one of the party, perhaps because its number was to include Lady Matilda.

Clearly Mrs. McKay had no intention of breaking the silence.

Ben cleared his throat. "Mrs. McKay," he said, "I believe I owe you an apology."

"Yes." She raised her eyes and looked so directly into his own that he felt himself move his head back an inch or so even though she was some distance away from him. "You believe correctly, sir."

Well. Had he expected her to simper and a.s.sure him that he had done nothing to offend her?

"What happened the other day was entirely my fault," he said. "I ought not to have jumped that hedge without knowing what was on the other side. And when I did jump it and almost killed you, I certainly ought not to have thrown the blame upon you and ripped up at you as I did."

"We are in perfect accord upon that," she a.s.sured him, her chin up, her eyes steady, her whole manner disdainful. She continued. "I suppose it would be a bit absurd if every rider felt obliged to dismount and push through a hedge before he jumped it just to make sure that some stray pedestrian was not strolling along on the other side. He could, perhaps, cry out a tallyho! as he came, but that might sound rather peculiar. What happened was an accident. No one was to blame for that, at least."