She was glad that General Pettigrew's rank entitled him to be seated on her right. He consumed his bowl of lukewarm soup without the least sign that anything was amiss, chatting cheerfully the while. Nerissa did her best to respond, but she abandoned her soup in dismay and she noted many another bowl being taken away half full. She was puzzled. They had come into the dining room on time, not kept the dinner waiting. Admittedly the kitchen was some distance away, but Cook usually managed to serve food hot. No doubt providing a formal meal with several removes to each course had flustered her, though she had extra help in the kitchen.

All the rest of the first course was equally cold. Nerissa caught Snodgrass's eye. He made a helpless gesture and discreetly disappeared, to remonstrate with Cook, she hoped. Fortunately the main dishes were a fine turbot in aspic and a ham, and the lobster salad was delicious.

The second course hot dishes-game and vegetables and a fricassee of veal-arrived steaming, and the cakes, pastries and jellies all looked most appetizing. In relief, Nerissa reached for her wine, which she had scarcely tasted.

The glass toppled over, before she even touched it, she could have sworn. A red stain spread across the white damask tablecloth.

General Pettigrew stopped the flood with his napkin just before it reached the edge of the table and dripped onto his trousers. He patted Nerissa's hand. "No harm done, my dear," he assured her.

But people were staring, in surprise, sympathy, or disdain, according to their natures.

Snodgrass quickly covered the stain with clean napkins. Flurried, Nerissa turned to the gentleman on her left, Clive Digby's father, and offered him the gravy for his roast pheasant. As she passed it to him, her sleeve caught on thin air. The gravy-boat emptied its contents into Mr Digby's lap.

He sprang up with a cry. Once again Snodgrass was there, his soothing murmur promising clean inexpressibles, gently urging the ruffled gentleman from the room.

Nerissa began to think she must be asleep in her bed, dreaming. Any moment she would wake up, go down to breakfast, laugh with Miles over her dreadful nightmare. But there he was at the far end of the table, determinedly making conversation with old Mrs Firston. In between, on face after face, surprise turned to dismay, sympathy to pity, disdain to contempt.

She could not eat another bite. Somehow she stopped herself rushing out. When everyone seemed to have finished their dinners she caught Miss Sophie's eye, Caroline Pettigrew's eye, and rose to lead the ladies out.

As if the movement loosened them, her hairpins started to come out. A tress flopped down to her

shoulder and she felt the rest begin to uncoil.

Her foot tangled in her train. She stumbled, all but sprawled across the besmirched table, saved in the nick of time by General Pettigrew's strong arm and swift reaction.

"Bosky, by Jove!" said a male voice further up the table.

"Disgraceful!" said a female.

Head held high, face burning, Nerissa moved towards the door. There she met Mrs Pettigrew, who

regarded her with unconcealed disapprobation and not a little alarm.

And somehow Nerissa's foot landed on Mrs Pettigrew's train just as that lady stepped forward. There was a horrid ripping sound. A gaping hole appeared between bodice and skirt.

"What can you expect of an actress?" enquired Euphemia in the smuggest of tones.

"General," said Mrs Pettigrew frigidly, "Caroline, Anna, we shall leave at once."

Nerissa fled.

Miles found her in her chamber. She stood half concealed by the flowered chintz window curtains,

forehead pressed against the glass, white-knuckled hands clenched on the sill, dishevelled hair about her shoulders.

"Have they all gone?" she asked dully as his footsteps sounded on the polished floorboards.

He stopped just behind her. "Yes, all of them. Caroline Pettigrew and young Mrs Firston wanted to stay but..."

"Caroline had to obey her mother, and Jenny her mama-in-law. They are right, I am not fit for well-bred

young ladies to consort with."

"Balderdash!" Miles exploded. "Such a string of disasters didn't happen by chance. I know perfectly well you were not bosky, and far from being clumsy you move with exceptional grace."

"Theatrical training." She turned and gave him a wavering smile, her grey eyes swimming in tears.

"It was your dear relations. They set it up, I'll be damned if I know how but I'd wager a fortune on it.

Don't cry, Nerissa," he said helplessly as the tears spilled over. "I'll share your grandfather's fortune with you, you know I will."

He took her in his arms and held her while she wept into his shoulder, his heart aching for her.

"It's not the m-money," she said through sobs. "It's knowing my family h-hates me, and being sh-shamed

before all those people."

"I'll bring 'em back," he vowed. He'd think of a way. He had to. "I shall convince them none of it was your fault, if I have to go from house to house on bended knee, I promise."

"Oh, Miles!" She raised her head and those lovely eyes gazed up at him. "How very, very kind you are."

Kissing her was the most natural thing in the world. Her lips were tender, sweet, with a tang of salt tears. Her hair was silken-soft beneath his hand. Her body fitted to his so perfectly he could not believe he had ever wanted a shorter, plumper woman.

And want her he did. Desire burned through him, flamed in his loins. She clung to him and he clasped her tighter, her breasts crushed against his chest, the thunder of her racing heart echoing his own. Her lips parted...

"Stop, Sophie, you sapskull!" hissed a venomous voice. "Not yet!"

"Stop!" cried Miss Sophie, dashing into the chamber all a-twitter, leaving a ribbon from her sleeve in her sister's grasp. "Oh dear, you simply must not, my dears."

Miles found himself several feet from Nerissa, staring at his flushed face in the mirror. He smoothed his ruffled hair with a shaking hand, turned, and said with the best attempt at amused nonchalance he could manage, "I shan't ravish her, you know, ma'am. Not with the door wide open."

"I did not think so," she said uncertainly, and crossed to the bed, where Nerissa sat with bowed head, shoulders hunched, hugging herself. Patting Nerissa's shoulder, Miss Sophie explained, "But Effie was so sure..."

"Mrs Chidwell is all too apt to believe her own fantasies. I was merely comforting Nerissa. It was a friendly kiss, brotherly, not the sort that leads anywhere."

"Of course, Miles dear."

He appeared to have persuaded Miss Sophie of the innnocence of their embrace. What Nerissa thought he could not guess. He himself was quite aware he was lying. If they had not been interrupted, in another few moments he might well have carried her to the bed and let the tides of passion sweep him away-to ruin him, and doubly to ruin her.

He had to act as if the kiss had never happened.

Chapter 18.

"You said we were to rush in, Effie."

"Not until they were actually in the throes of passion!" Having summoned Sophie to her chamber, Euphemia sat solidly on her dressing-table stool like a magistrate on the bench, her erring sister standing before her. "I was just about to send you for Harwood when you ruined everything," she added, exasperated.

"I misunderstood. Besides," said Sophie spiritedly, "I was never married so how do you expect me to recognize when the right moment came?"

Bravo, Sir Barnabas silently applauded. If only he had persisted when Euphemia bullied Sophie into refusing his offer. Pride had refused to let him risk another rejection, or perhaps he could have been married to the dear girl these many lonely years. What a wife she would have made, what a gentle mother for Anthea, instead of dwindling into an old maid as unpaid companion to her fat, selfish tyrant of a sister.

Nerissa's arrival had given her a new lease on life. She had welcomed the child with an open mind and come to love her enough to defy Euphemia for her sake-while he, her own grandfather, had done his best to ruin her.

Wincing, he recalled the dreadful dinner party. In an unreasoning fury he had wreaked havoc, left Nerissa's dignity and self-respect in tatters, and again pride was to blame. He would not be proved wrong.

But he was wrong!

Nerissa had been brought up in the immoral world of the theatre, yet Anthea and the fellow she married had somehow succeeded in preserving her innocence. Nothing lacked in her conduct but a few paltry tricks of etiquette. She recognized Sophie's worth, so long disregarded, and returned her affection. The servants-even Snodgrass!-respected and defended her. In spirit she was a lady through and through.

As for Miles, gamester and rake though he undoubtedly was, he had the self-control to keep his appetites in check when necessary. The boy was also a diligent landowner, a fair but compassionate landlord, and a staunch, generous friend. His offer to share a fortune with Nerissa, which had brought a mist to Sir Barnabas's eyes, was all of a piece with his constant support and protection of his rival for the inheritance.

She had helped him, too. They would make a splendid couple, man and wife, but no, it was too much to hope for. Miles had more than once firmly stated that he was not a marrying man.

Sir Barnabas sighed. He should have put a clause in his Will to ensure that, in the event of Miles dying without legitimate issue, Nerissa's eldest son should have Addlescombe. Of course, when he wrote the damned thing, he had been so very sure neither would inherit the place.

They still might not, if Euphemia had her way.

"Nerissa is out of the way," she was saying, "but it just means Miles takes the lot unless we stop him. I fear it is futile to try to lure him into gambling. That nonsensical make-believe game Nerissa has him playing seems to suffice him. No, it must be a woman."

"I am sure Mr Harwood will not permit you to invite a ... a woman of easy virtue to the manor, Effie."

"A pity, but you are right." Effie ruminated, then brightened. "What has hampered us so far is Nerissa's resistance, I am certain of it. Men are by nature more lustful than females, and Miles is a gambler. If he could have persuaded Nerissa to lie with him, he would have risked the consequences."

"Oh, surely not!"

Rapt in her scheming, Euphemia ignored this negativism. "However, now Nerissa has nothing to lose by giving in to his importunities. All we have to do is confine them together for a few hours..."

"That is what you said before," Sophie dared to point out.

Effie glared at her. "But it was I who was confined for an entire afternoon, due to your incompetence. Besides, everything is different now that Nerissa will not care if she is caught."

"What do you mean to do?"

"I have not decided yet. We must wait for an opportunity."

Sir Barnabas no longer supposed for a moment that Miles would make advances or Nerissa succumb to them however long they were shut up together. Nonetheless, he resolved to throw every impediment within his power in Euphemia's way. It would be a pleasure.

After a wretched night of miserable dreams, Nerissa awoke to find reality no improvement. She was not sure which she dreaded most, facing her relatives after the catastrophic dinner or Miles after his kiss. To him, it had been no more than an offer of brotherly comfort. To her, it had been a devastating revelation.

At last she understood all the warnings, the prohibitions, the insistence on chaperons. Held close in Miles's arms, enveloped by his virile strength, the heat of his body permeating her, his mouth on hers, she would have done anything he asked of her. So experienced a gentleman must have been aware of her response, her racing pulse, the strange weakness in her limbs accompanied by a burning tension within.

Her grandfather was right. At heart she was a wanton, and worse, an ill-bred wanton who had disgusted all her guests.

For all Miles's kind words, he'd never be able to reestablish her reputation, if he still wanted to after her disgraceful display. In any case, Mr Harwood would probably demand that she leave at once. Even the good-natured little lawyer must have been scandalized by her deplorable blunders at the dinner party.

She had failed. There was no hope of taking home a fortune to Mama and Papa, and far more painful, she was dreadfully afraid she had forfeited Miles's respect and friendship.

In her purse was enough of the pin-money Mr Harwood allowed her to take her home to York. She could sneak out, ride Vinny down to Riddlebourne, and catch the stagecoach. But no, she would not cry craven. She must show those who hated her that they had not crushed her spirit. And since she had to face them sooner or later, let it be sooner. She would go down to breakfast as if nothing were amiss.

She rang the bell for Maud. The maid bustled about with even more than her usual alacrity, silent sympathy radiating from her in waves. It found expression at last as she draped a blue and grey Paisley shawl about her mistress's shoulders.

"There, miss, that'll keep you warm. Oh miss, we'm all on your side, even Mr Snodgrass. He don't hold wi' pixies and such, Mr Snodgrass, but he said it were like some mischeevious imp stood at your elbow and kept a-jogging of it."

"That is what it felt like, Maud." She shuddered. "Every move I made led to another mishap."

"Cook's going to start putting out bread and milk for the Little Folk every night."

That made Nerissa smile, and she went down to the breakfast parlour buoyed by the servants' support. Not that her situation had changed, but it was a little easier to bear.

Matilda and Raymond were already down. Both wished her good morning with an air of commiseration, not the triumphant scorn she expected.

"Came a nasty cropper last night," said Matilda gruffly. "Want you to know I didn't have anything to do with it. Bad as shooting a fox."

Raymond gave her an approving look. "Not my idea of fair play," he agreed. "To seek out transgression is a duty; to induce it a sin. 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches,' but you have been cheated of both, Cousin."