"I would not let him go away to school, or mix with the village children. He was never sick. I thought it a positive good-I didn't know-I thought these things were outgrown. I didn't know an adult could have measles at all, far less that-" He stopped. "God knows, I learned to know how I could lose him to all the damnably desperate things he does! To see that scar on him! But if I have done this; if he dies and I have been the cause-" He shook his head blindly. "I pray God to forgive me.

I will never forgive myself."

It was after one o'clock that they sent for the doctor. At first it seemed that Lord Winter's breathing had eased, growing so quiet that Zenia set her hand on his throat to feel it. Beneath her fingers, his skin was fiery and dry, but she could not even feel a pulse, only the faint, faint lift of his chest in tiny soundless pants. She gripped his slack hand and shook him, but he lay unresponsive, his head rolling aside on the pillow.

She looked up at Lord Belmaine, but he was already out of his chair and striding for the door. The minutes Dr. Wells took to come seemed like hours-Zenia did not let go of Lord Winter's hand, squeezing so hard that her muscles ached.

The doctor came hastily in, calling for more light, displacing Zenia and leaning over to lift his patient's eyelids. This time, Lord Winter made no response at all to the bright lamp.

"He has slipped into a coma. Now, Lady Winter, I want you to talk to him. And you, my lord. On any subject; ask him questions, say whatever you think may evoke a response. The Arabic would be appropriate, since he used it in his dementia. I will see a hot bath prepared."

The earl looked terrified; he did not even seem able to follow the doctor's instructions, but stood back from the bed with his hands in rigid fists.

Zenia took a breath, sat down on the bed and began to speak.

His feet were burning. He could not lift them out of the red sand; it swallowed him up to his neck in a blaze of heat.

But he could hear a voice, a constant voice, familiar and beckoning, speaking words he could not understand.

He saw light everywhere, a cold white light. He was so hot that he wanted to rise up into that cold light; he tried to let go, to make himself so light that he would rise, ignoring the insistent voice that called him back. He was too hot; he could not bear it; he could not stay any longer; the red heat tortured him, filling up his head with agony.

But the voice kept talking. He couldn't understand it; it seemed he had once, but not anymore. He wanted to tell it to stop, to let him sleep, let him drift up into the cold. Sometimes he was vaguely aware that it had gone away, only because it came back again. And strangely, he. heard his father talking to him. He heard death in his father's voice, and gave himself to it, floating easily toward it, cooler and cooler, until finally the voices faded away, along with all he knew.

Sweet and soft, there was a song. There was an angel and a cathedral, and then the cathedral vanished like a waking dream, but the sweet song stayed. His mind sorted among fancies and visions, trying to put the song where it belonged. He saw a bright line and realized it was light; it hurt his eyes but he wanted to see the singer.

He lifted his lashes, blinking against the pain of it. There was a woman, holding his hand between hers, singing down at it as sincerely as if she were in a church and reading from a book of hymns. For a moment he could not remember her name, but he remembered her. He remembered her song.

He tried to ask her if she was an angel, and startled himself with how weak his own voice was. The words emerged in a faint whisper, barely audible even to himself.

But she heard him. Her head lifted. Her hands clutched at his.

He remembered her name. "Little wolf," he said, stronger, curling his fingers about hers.

And she smiled. It was like dawn breaking, like the light that suddenly struck over a mountain, spreading glory. "You came back," she said. And just as suddenly as she had smiled, she began to cry.

He closed his eyes. He could feel her wet face pressed on his hand. He would have liked to listen to her sing again, but he couldn't keep his mind connected with the world long enough to ask. Sleep drew him under, safe and deep while she held him tight, binding him to life.

CHAPTER 24.

"Ten days, the doctor ordered," Mrs. Lamb said, "and ten days in bed it will be."In truth, Arden was not ready to leave the bed himself. He closed his eyes at thisnews and sighed, swallowing the tonic with a grimace. He felt weak and sleepy, and long periods of time seemed to pass that he could not remember. He was sitting upnow, with pillows propped behind him, but he would have been glad to lie down."Zenia was here," he said."That she was," the nurse said, "and the doctor said she was a rare trooper, too, the good girl.""Where is she?""In Bentinck Street, sir, and asleep if she is wise.""When will she come back?""Now, shame, sir, you will not say she is a prettier nurse than Henrietta Lamb? She has her baby to see to, and I am to nurse you until you are upon your feet again.And a sensible system it is, too, for I've yet to see the man who would not make lifea misery for the wife who tries to nurse him to recovery."

"She could bring Beth. They could take the next room.""Fie, do you want her to see you still looking like something the cat dragged in? She has a very neat beau in that Mr. Jocelyn, and you, sir, are not fit to be seen bydaylight.""Mr. Jocelyn?" Arden asked sharply, and began to cough.Mrs. Lamb cast him a keen look. "He has come by every day, and stayed to dinner often."

Arden pushed himself up in bed. Mrs. Lamb brought a tray with disgusting-lookingmashed matter of various colors on the plates."What is this?" he asked hoarsely."Minced veal, pease pudding, and pureed turnips.""I can't," Arden said, moving his head back.She picked up the tray. "A fine-looking man, that Mr. Jocelyn," she remarked. "A bachelor; no doubt he enjoys a dinner in company with a lady for a change. He's

gone to Edinburgh, but he will be back after Candlemas."Arden cleared his throat, staring glumly at the tray as she paused. "You are a beast,Mrs. Lamb."

"There, you see how it is. But I'm accustomed to such nasty abuse from mypatients, having brought up boys by the score."But Arden was not a bad patient, in spite of Mrs. Lamb's predictions. Though they said he had been near to dying- for the second time in as many years-he had little memory of the past few days. He recalled getting a hellish cold, and vaguely remembered frowning at the sudden rash on his skin, but little more than that beyond strange dreams, and that Zenia had been there with his father. Compared to his nightmarish struggle to live through his wound in the desert, the weeks of agony and deprivation, this easy bed and accommodating service was perfectly delightful.

He felt no real pain, except his throat was raw, but his body and brain seemed sunk in lassitude. He did not even mind his father's daily presence; the earl came and sat reading and writing for hours at a time, but he said little and left the inquiries and beleaguering to Mrs. Lamb, who had an instinct for knowing to precision just how far she could go. Arden talked to his father now and then, on such innocuous topics as the weather and likely reward of partridge shooting in January, but the earl seemed strangely subdued, almost shy.

The doctor came and went, and pronounced Arden fit to sit in a chair, and then to walk about the parlor. He began to feel himself again, not so sleepy or inclined to want to lie down, not so nauseated by the sight of food. It was, in its way, almost a pleasant interlude. He waited patiently for his body to restore itself; waiting in a new and tranquil patience that he had never felt before, based on the certainty that Zenia loved him.

He was taunted daily with the threat of Mr. Jocelyn, but he did not take it seriously. His father, he knew, was sending daily reports to her of his progress, and if Arden rather wished that he could see her, he found that he was vain enough to hear the truth in Mrs. Lamb's description of him as something disgraceful to behold. With the shedding of the measle eruptions had come a general patchy peel of his desert-tanned skin, and he was not inclined to be seen looking like some sort of molting rooster. He thought of writing Zenia himself, to tell her what he felt, how he had woken to see her there singing-but he started it twenty times and every attempt seemed to falter into a stiff and hollow "thank you," that conveyed worse than nothing of what he meant.

So he waited. Once he asked his father if she had mentioned anything about the future, but the earl shook his head. "No. When I first went to her-before I discovered you ill-she said that she could not give an answer yet. But she's mentioned nothing since. I've only called twice, though, and then only for a moment. She seems to be doing well, and Miss Elizabeth is quite recovered."

Arden frowned. "You never said anything about that damned plan to send her abroad, did you?"

"Nothing at all. Nothing, I assure you. In fact, Mr. King says he has all but lost the draft proposal he drew up about that-some new clerk came in after Christmas and seems to have mislaid it permanently. I told him not to bother drafting another."

"Good," Arden said. "You can tell him to tear it up if he finds it."

Zenia had decided that perhaps Mrs. Lamb was correct, and on such a quiet, clear day, Elizabeth would enjoy a visit to the park. It was still January, and quite cold, but Zenia's convictions about insulating her daughter from any possible ailment had received a severe blow. She had discussed children's health at length with Mrs. Lamb and the doctor, and was now deep in a number of recommended books of advice on the subject. Some of them were not quite convincing-but she found that she could agree with the idea that as long as violent changes in temperature were avoided when the child was broken out in a perspiration, exposure to fresh, dry, cold air was more beneficial than otherwise. Besides, the atmosphere of London had been ugly and damp for weeks, and this first radiant blue Sunday seemed impossible to ignore.

Certainly no one else was ignoring it. Zenia said nothing when Mrs. Lamb insisted that Hyde Park would surely be too crowded to be attempted, and Regent's Park was a far better choice. Ever since her return the week before from nursing Lord Winter through his recovery, Mrs. Lamb had been subjecting Zenia to the most blatant matchmaking efforts. While she was not entirely deaf to them-not deaf at all -she could not forget the sheaf of papers from Mr. King's office. According to Mrs. Lamb, he was on pins to see her, but that, Zenia did not doubt, was mere hyperbole. If he wished to see her so badly, he could have called. He had been declared recovered and free to go about for a week. Every knock upon the door had sent Zenia hurrying to brush her hair or pull off her apron, but he had not come.

However, Mrs. Lamb's shameless gaiety about this Sunday outing seemed highly suspicious. So suspicious, in fact, that Zenia decided to wear the azure-colored dress, the blue wool that Lady Belmaine could not approve for a dinner gown, but had reluctantly admitted might make up into a walking dress. It had a tight, short-waisted spencer jacket with military trim of black braiding, and with her black cape and muff, and a black bonnet with a wide blue ribbon added to tie beneath her chin, she thought it was rather lively. Leaning close to the mirror, she wondered if it really did bring out the dark blue in her eyes, or if that was only her imagination. But there was no time to ponder that, as Mrs. Lamb came hurrying in with Elizabeth, announcing that the hackney was at the door to carry ma'am to church.

It had been arranged that Mrs. Lamb and Elizabeth would meet Zenia after the church service, since St. Marylebone was just outside the park. They were waiting, Elizabeth so shrouded in warm clothes that only her face and her feet showed, her bright eyes staring about her in fascination.

Zenia gave her a laughing hug, just because she was such a silly-looking bundle in her mounds of petticoats and pantaloons and little cape. Mrs. Lamb undertook the task of carrying her as they followed a crossing boy to negotiate the road and then entered the park gates.

Under a perfect blue sky, the long white facade of houses that lined the park's perimeter seemed to glow. Their spired domes were tinted a soft verdigris and tamed into the same perfect regularity of the houses themselves, face upon face all the same, stretching away along the boundary. Inside the iron fence, ladies strolled in cloaks as bright as Zenia's dress, scarlets and purples and golds, holding the arms of dark-coated gentlemen.

Elizabeth gazed silently at the packs of children running under the leafless trees, tossing crumbs to the ducks or drinking steaming chocolate from one of the refreshment tents. "I shall buy us a pie," Zenia announced.

"I'm sure she would like it, ma'am," Mrs. Lamb said amiably. 'Though she ate all her porridge not an hour ago."

When Zenia returned, the nurse was sitting on a bench, watching Elizabeth and another small boy gaze at one another, both of them standing still and expressionless, not two feet apart. Just as Zenia reached them, a school of shrieking children ran past, sending both of the toddlers tumbling in heaps upon the grass. The little boy started to cry, but Elizabeth sat up laughing. She began to run in a bobbing circle, her arms out straight for balance, as the other children danced about her.

Zenia watched. Then she sat down next to Mrs. Lamb and shared out the pie, eating her own portion with relish.

Elizabeth fell down again, and by the time she stood up, the older children had passed on, yelling and shoving at one another. She stood looking after them. After a few tentative steps in that direction, she lost her nerve and looked back doubtfully toward Zenia and Mrs. Lamb.

Her face lit suddenly. "Gah-on!" she cried, and began to run back on an angle that would take her right past the bench.

Zenia turned. Lord Winter was bending down, the long skirts of his dark blue greatcoat sweeping the ground; Elizabeth raced into her father's arms as fast as her bobbling legs would carry her. He lifted her up high in the air.

An army officer stood a few yards beyond him, gorgeous in plume and gold braid, but to Zenia there was no outfit more superb than Lord Winter's dark simplicity; no one handsomer or taller or with such a smile. Such a smile; it was still lingering when he settled Elizabeth against his shoulder and looked toward Zenia.

She felt her lips curl shyly. Mrs. Lamb put on a look of utterly blank innocence. He was paler than he had been, but he appeared fit. Looking at him now, Zenia could hardly recall the gaunt, suffering face of his illness-he had life in his smile and in his body; he moved with the same easy dominance, swinging Elizabeth down and sitting on his heels before Zenia.

"Hullo," he said softly, glancing at her and then back at Elizabeth.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Perfectly well." He took Elizabeth onto his knee, putting his head down to hers. "But I'll thank you not to give me any spots again, beloved."

Elizabeth crowed happily. "Gah-on!" she said, looking at him so closely that they touched noses.

"She seems stout," he said.

"Oh, yes. She came through it splendidly."

There was an awkward moment, in which the sound of children shouting and a distant band from somewhere in the park did not give Zenia any ideas for further conversation; at least none that she felt comfortable introducing in public. He seemed to find a duck waddling quickly after a fleeing child to be quite fascinating.

He stood up, letting Elizabeth slide off his knee. For a moment of panic, she thought he was going to take his leave.

"Perhaps you-" He cleared his throat. "I am a member of the Zoological Society. Would you like to walk in the gardens?"

Zenia lifted her face. Before she could answer, he added quickly, "The menagerie is open to members today. I thought Beth might like to see the animals."

She smiled. 'That would be pleasant."

He took off his hat, reaching down and lifting Beth, perching her on his shoulders.

Zenia pursed her lips, frowning. "I don't think you should go without your hat in this cold."

He held it out to Mrs. Lamb to carry, batting Elizabeth's skirts away from his face as he cast an amused half-glance toward Zenia. "But please may I stay out another half-hour, Mama?"

She returned an arch look. "Someone must look after foolish children and madmen."

He smiled at her, clapped Elizabeth's hands over his ears, and walked ahead down the broad path.

Mrs. Lamb and Zenia made diligent small talk about the park and 'the weather as they strolled under the bare trees toward the Zoological Gardens. Arden felt happily at ease, listening silently, feeling Beth's warm weight on his shoulders.

He had reached a decision in the long, quiet days of his recovery. She had been badgered by lawyers; coldly informed of her best interests and Beth's; Arden had made love to her as if she were his by right-she was, but there were forms and conventions; there was a correct and proper way to go about these things, and he had grievously neglected it.

A lady, his book of Polite Usage and Diction informed him, had a right to be courted.

Without precisely planning it with Mrs. Lamb, the most flagrant of allies, he had resolved on this meeting in the park. The weather had done him a great favor, and Mrs.

Lamb had done the rest-he had been walking here every day for the past three, in hopes they would come out, but it being Sunday gave him the excuse of the zoo, which would take hours to tour, if he had anything to do with it.

"Let me take her down to feed the ducks, sir," Mrs. Lamb said, as they passed out of the Inner Circle, where a scent of recently turned soil permeated the winter tranquillity of the beds. Without subtlety, she added, "You need not hurry. We will meet you the other side of the water."

Arden traded his hat for Beth, who toddled off willingly after a mallard that knew just how to stay a tantalizing few feet in front of her. Arden did not give himself time to grow ill at ease: he knew that the more time he allowed to pass the more difficult it would be to make his tongue form words; he would begin to hear how silly they would sound; how likely she would think him an ass-God and St. George! he thought sardonically, and plunged into his prepared speech.

"Miss Bruce," he said, dashing a look at her profile. "I would like to call you Miss Bruce, because I would like to begin again. At the beginning. I should like to-" He felt the foolishness of it begin to creep in, undermining his confidence. "You will think it ridiculous, perhaps. But if we could start as if we had just met-I have thought that the trouble between us might be a result of the unusual circumstance; the rather strange manner in which we- became entangled in this situation. That is- you do not know me in this setting, and I do not know you. And I hope-I should very much like-should be honored, that is to say-to make your acquaintance, Miss Bruce."

There, he thought. And it sounded just as absurd as he had feared. And she was not looking at him, or answering. And he stood holding his hat, frowning down at the brim, until he remembered the next part. He reached under his cloak and drew the white rosebud from his waistcoat.

"Because you are as rare as a rose in winter," he said-shameless plagiarism from his book of diction, "I thought of you when I picked this."

Of course he had not precisely picked the thing; he had obtained it on the advice of A Lady of Quality, the one who had written the book-and gone to the devil of a lot of trouble and expense to find the only florist in the city who did not laugh at the idea of a true white rose in this season-a small detail which apparently carried no weight with Ladies of Quality.

She accepted it, looking down at the flower. Arden could not see her expression.

He waited.

His breath frosted around him. He stared at a distant black dog that wove its way along the iron fence at the park edge.

"There are several petals damaged," he remarked, because the silence had become such an abhorrent vacuum.

She began to giggle. To his vast humiliation she began to laugh.

He stood rigidly before her, while passersby turned at the sound-he saw them grinning-it must be obvious she was laughing at him, at what he had done and said, for she was holding the rose where everyone could see it.

He felt as hot and ill as he had two weeks ago; flushed with stiff misery, his jaw set hard. He would rather have been facing a battery of Ibrahim Pasha's heavy guns than stand there, but he could not think what else to do.

"Oh!" she said, lifting her face. "Oh, did you truly think of me?"

He realized slowly that her cheeks were pink with cold and pleasure, her eyes wide with a wonder as new and innocent as Beth's. She was still giggling, a strange hiccup-ing mirth from deep in her throat that he suddenly recognized was halfway to tears.

"Certainly I thought of you," he said gravely. "And if you are going to laugh at my rose, Miss Bruce, I shall take it back."

The rose vanished under her cloak and muff. "You may not have it, my lord."

It was hardly repartee of any great wit. He had not ever felt a particular need to banter with his lovers, nor to pursue any woman through flirtation. He had generally found that by looking at a desirable female in a certain way, he got his point across, and then they either sought him out or they did not. But they had been experienced women, always; they had not come for pretty badinage. Though he did not himself have any idea of it, Lord Winter, in his detached reserve, his satanic looks and intriguing travels, his well-known ruthlessness in ending any affair at his own convenience, had rather a reputation for being dangerous-even with the ladies who were considered dangerous themselves.

He felt, at the moment, more like a maladroit gawk. Women as objects of appetite were well within the range of his expertise; if she had been the usual amorous widow he would have simply let her talk as he walked her to his rooms or hers. But as much as he wanted to take her directly to bed and hold her and thrust himself inside her and use her until neither of them could move, Zenia was distinct and different; her rebuff could wound him; her disdain would exile him-he felt like a vagabond standing outside a lamp-lit room, liable at any moment to be invited in or driven away.

"May I offer you my arm?" he asked, on the advice of A Lady of Quality. As she accepted his escort, she said nothing. And the longer that she said nothing, the more he felt himself on the verge of blurting something rash or stupid.

"Do you like flowers?" he asked-uninspired but safe.