And, of course, each invitation was a potent reminder that the Valentine ball had gone from a passing fancy to an inevitable fact.

She resisted the urge to sigh again as she tied the ribbon and dropped it into the basket.

No doubt it was the weather making her so blue-deviled, she told herself. It was certainly unlike her to brood in such a manner.

It was with a sense of relief that she heard the door to the parlor open, and rising to her feet, she watched Lady Hartshore cross the floral-patterned carpet to peer at the basket.

If anyone could distract her unwelcome thoughts, it was this woman.

Clapping her hands together, the countess regarded Emma with pleasure.

"Oh, my dear, the invitations are lovely."

"Thank you."

"I shall have them delivered today," Lady Hartshore decided in her abrupt style. "Now we must turn our attention to the decorations. What do you think of turning the ballroom into the forest of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'? The ceiling could be draped in a spangle cloth with gauze on the walls and the columns decorated as trees. And, of course, the servants would be attired as various fairies . . . ." She paused as she pondered the magical event. "Do you suppose we could convince Bart to come as Puck? How charming for him to mingle among the guests quoting Shakespeare. 'Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females mad.' "

Emma was forced to bite her lip at the mere notion of the large, rather gruff gentleman playing the role of Puck. She could not imagine anything more absurd.

"I would be very much surprised," she said gently.

Lady Hartshore appeared to come to the same conclusion as herself, and she gave a tiny shrug.

"No matter. We shall find someone. And what of you, my dear? Have you decided upon a costume?"

Emma gave a small shudder at the mere thought. "Actually I believe that it would be inappropriate for me to attend at all."

"Absurd. Everyone will be most eager to meet you. Besides, I shall need you at my side."

"Really, I would prefer-"

"What of Delilah? Or perhaps Cleopatra?" The countess overrode her protest with bland indifference. "No, something more subtle. Perhaps Rosalind or Helen of Troy? Well, I shall no doubt think of something lovely."

"Please do not go to any effort on my behalf, Lady Hartshore. I would be much more comfortable in my own gown."

A rather worrisome smile played around the older woman's mouth. "We shall see. Now, what of refreshments?" She abruptly turned the conversation. "Champagne, of course, and for dinner we can safely depend upon Mrs. Borelli. Perhaps she will make the tarts in the shape of a cupid. Or something with hearts. It shall all be most romantic."

Emma barely prevented a grimace. "Yes."

"And perhaps you will find your own true love," the woman said in coy tones.

A surprisingly sharp stab of pain clenched Emma's heart. Ridiculous, considering she had already reconciled herself to the knowledge that she would never be in a position to fall in love. She was content with the path she had chosen, she fiercely reminded herself. Quite, quite content.

"I have no desire to find true love," she forced herself to declare.

Lady Hartshore gave a tinkling laugh. "My dear, I fear Cupid takes little interest in whether we wish to be struck by his arrow or not. I certainly did not intend to fall in love with Fredrick. I had already captured a very charming duke, when he strolled into my mother's drawing room and I was lost." She paused and tipped her head to one side. A clear indication that she believed her deceased husband was speaking to her. "Yes, yes, Fredrick. I have never regretted my choice. What is being a duchess compared to a life filled with happiness?"

Ignoring Lady Hartshore's conversation with her private ghost, Emma gave a shake of her head.

"Cupid rarely aims his arrows at companions, thank goodness."

"I sense you might be in for a surprise."

For no comprehensible reason, the thought of a dark countenance with a pair of golden eyes flared in Emma's mind.

With a sharp motion she turned to collect the large basket. "Shall I take these to Mallory?"

A speculative smile curved Lady Hartshore's mouth, but she gave a nod of her head.

"If you would be so kind."

"Of course."

With brisk motions Emma left the room and went in search of the butler. She was in no hurry to see the invitations delivered, but she had no desire to remain in the room discussing some imaginary gentleman whom Lady Hartshore had fancifully conjured.

For goodness' sake, gentlemen did not tumble into love with drab companions. Especially not drab companions who also happened to be the daughter of a notorious jewel thief.

It would not matter what costume she wore to the Valentine ball.

Stepping into the foyer, she discovered Mallory advising a young footman on his proper duties. At her arrival he dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand.

"Miss Cresswell."

"Lady Hartshore requested that these be delivered today."

The butler gave a ready nod of his head. "I shall see to it at once."

"Thank you." With a smile Emma turned to retrace her steps to the parlor. She had nearly reached the door, when a sharp bark echoed through the hall. With a frown of bewilderment Emma continued down the corridor and turned the corner to discover a familiar puppy wagging his tail in greeting. "Pudge, good heavens, how did you get in here?"

She reached down to grab him, only to stumble forward when he abruptly turned around and raced down the hall. She gave an impatient click of her tongue as she set off in pursuit. Certainly Lord Hartshore must be consumed with worry at his missing pet. She had to capture the dog before he became truly lost.

Of course, catching the puppy was easier said than done. Hampered by her heavy skirts, she could barely keep pace as Pudge scrambled through the west wing and turned to the short hall that led to the conservatory.

Emma breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that Pudge would be trapped. There was only one entrance to the pretty glass-and-wrought-iron structure. Once she had closed the door, his game would be at an end.

Stepping into the conservatory, Emma firmly closed the door behind her. Then, turning around, she searched for sight of Pudge.

It took only a moment to find him happily settled next to a pair of glossy Hessians. Emma's breath caught as her gaze traveled up the boots, the casual buckskins, and the form-fitted mulberry coat. At last she encountered the glittering golden gaze.

"My lord," she breathed in shock.

He slowly smiled down at her. "I had hoped this beast would lead you to me."

She blinked in astonishment as she realized this gentleman had deliberately used Pudge to lure her to the conservatory.

No doubt she should be furious at his deceit. It was hardly proper behavior for a respectable gentleman.

But what she felt was not fury. Instead, there was a wholly unreasonable tingle of pleasure rushing through her.

Suddenly all of the restless dissatisfaction that had plagued her for days vanished as the morning mist beneath the blaze of the sun.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Ah, it is a surprise, of course."

Emma gave a shake of her head. Until meeting Lord Hartshore she had discovered most surprises to be singularly unpleasant. A predictable legacy of living with the Devilish Dandy.

"Yet another surprise?" she quipped.

He lifted his hands in an elegant motion. "What is life without surprises?"

"Peaceful?" she suggested.

His smile widened at her swift retort. "Dull," he corrected her, reaching out to take her hand and lead her toward the back of the conservatory.

Not about to be outdone, Emma tilted her head to meet his teasing gaze.

"Harmonious."

"Insipid."

"Content."

"Tedious."

The words hovering on her lips went unspoken as they passed a bank of flowers and she spotted the table set beside the glass panes. Covered with a pretty cloth, it was graced with a large wicker basket as well as two champagne glasses already filled.

"Oh."

He glanced down at her startled expression. "Although my cook cannot compare with Mrs. Borelli, she is thought to possess her own share of talent. Will you join me?"

Emma abruptly realized that she was quite alone with Lord Hartshore. And that she had thoroughly forgotten to treat him with the cool aloofness that she assured herself was only proper.

Still, it was the realization that she very much wanted to share this secluded picnic with Lord Hartshore that made her hesitate.

"Lady Hartshore will be expecting me."

"Mallory will inform her where you have disappeared to."

So, he had included the servants in his secret plot, she acknowledged, uneasily wondering what they thought of such an unconventional tryst. Of course, working at Mayford ensured the staff was prepared for the unconventional.

"You appear to have it all planned."

His expression became wry. "I have learned not to depend upon chance with you, Miss Cresswell. A well-plotted strategy seemed to be wise."

Emma briefly glanced toward the table before slowly returning her attention to the gentleman at her side.

"Why?"

He appeared caught off guard by her abrupt question. "What do you mean?"

"Why have you gone to such trouble?"

It took a moment before he at last gave a shrug. "Because it pleases me."

"That is no answer."

"Does it matter?"

"I believe it does," she admitted slowly.

He reached out to place a finger beneath her chin. "Do you fear I possess nefarious intentions?"

"No," she swiftly denied. Lord Hartshore might be dashing and unpredictable, but she never doubted that he was a gentleman. "Of course not."

"Good, because I do not steal the virtue of innocent maidens," he said softly. "Even if they are wood nymphs."

"It just seems that you would possess a better means of spending your afternoon," she persisted.

The golden eyes darkened before he gave a slight shake of his head, as if he had no desire to ponder whatever thought had suddenly struck him.

"There are few gentlemen who could think of a better means of spending an afternoon than with a beautiful lady." His tone was light as he dropped his hand and nodded toward the table. "Shall we?"

Emma was far from certain that she should remain. It was true she had no fear for her virtue. Or even her reputation. But the prickling sense of excitement she felt whenever she was in this gentleman's company seemed utterly improper.

And even a bit dangerous.

Yes, she really should return to the parlor and Lady Hartshore, she told herself, but even as she made her decision, her treacherous feet were carrying her toward the table. In the blink of an eye she was settled on the wrought-iron seat with no notion of how it occurred.

Swift to take advantage of her momentary bout of insanity, Lord Hartshore took his seat opposite her and began unloading the basket.

"Let me see what I can tempt you with," he teased, filling two plates with the large bounty. "Buttered lobster, potatoes in cream sauce, carrots, beef olives, cheese, and what appears to be a custard."

Emma accepted the proffered plate with the rueful knowledge she was destined to act out of character in this gentleman's company.

Common sense might tell her to flee, but the renegade desire to remain had won the day.

Picking up her fork, she glanced at the sinfully irresistible food set before her.

"Did you request your cook to feed the entire neighborhood?"

"No, just one slender maiden who looks as if a wayward breeze might topple her over." He once again reached into the basket to remove a perfect pink rose that he set beside her plate. "For you."

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling that dangerous prickle race through her body. Egads, it was no wonder she did not know if she was up or down. He managed to make her feel as if she were the most special creature in all of England. What maiden, no matter how sensible, could resist?

The sound of an off-key baritone voice belting out a rather naughty ditty was a welcome distraction, and Emma peered out the glass to discover Bart digging not far from the conservatory.

"Oh, there is Mr. Carson."