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COLD FISH, THE EARL OF FALLODEN thought as he left Mr. Transome’s house. And the same thought chilled him during the coming week, when he saw nothing of his prospective bride and father-in-law but carried on with his usual activities almost as if nothing extraordinary was happening to his life. It all seemed unreal until acquaintances began to comment on his betrothal and some even congratulated him, and he discovered the announcement in the
Morning Post
.
    He was about to be married to a cold fish. He shuddered at the memory of his interview with her. He had expected warmth, excitement, triumph, gratitude, chatter, vulgarity—something. He had expected something. Not the silence and the immobility and the thrust-out chin and the look of contempt in her eyes.
    But why? She was getting what she wanted, was she not? She was getting her precious title and her
entrée
into society. Perhaps it was that she felt him enough her victim—and she was perfectly correct in that—that she did not need to pretend to an ardor or a gratitude she did not feel. Or perhaps it was that she had not been brought up to sensibility and the niceties of courteous behavior.
    Certainly her coldness extended beyond himself. Her father had worked hard and schemed hard to net her an aristocratic husband and the life she wanted. And now he was dying, evidently in some pain. And yet she cared not one jot for him. When he had held out his arms to her, she had ignored them and kissed him coldly on the forehead. When he had wanted to celebrate her betrothal, she had told him to go to bed. They might have seemed to be words of kindness and concern, perhaps, if one had not heard the chilly tones in which the words had been uttered.
    It was only after he had left the house that he realized that the father had been correct about one thing. She was a beauty. She was of medium height and slim and curved in all the right places. Her hair was a dark red, her eyes green, her mouth wide and generous. Neither the hair nor the mouth seemed to suit the girl’s character, though, suggesting as they did warmth and passion.
    She was a beauty. He was to have a beautiful countess, if that was any consolation. But he found her totally unappealing. The thought struck him that it was going to take an effort of will to consummate his marriage on his wedding night. Fortunately—if there was anything fortunate about the whole situation—Transome had specified only that there be a consummation and that they inhabit the same house for the first year. He had said nothing about occupying the same bed.
    And so the Earl of Falloden resolutely shut his mind to Dorothea Lovestone—small, sweet, feminine Dorothea—and the hurt look there had been in her eyes when he had told her of his betrothal. And he spent every night of the week before his wedding—including the last—with his mistress. Alice had been the one expensive luxury he had allowed himself during the more than a year since he had inherited his title and all the nightmare debts that had come along with it.
    She smiled placidly at him as he sat up on the edge of her bed during the early dawn of his wedding day. Alice did everything placidly, including making love. He knew that she did not love him, that she was merely happy to have the security of a regular protector. Perhaps that was what he liked about her. She satisfied his needs without imposing any sort of obligations on him.
    “I’ll not be coming tonight,” he told her, looking down in distaste at his crumpled clothing, strewn about the floor.
    “No, of course not,” she said. “This is your wedding day.”
    Even the announcement of his coming nuptials had not shaken Alice’s complacency.
    “I’ll be here tomorrow night,” he said.
    “So soon?” She stretched and burrowed farther beneath the blankets. “Will your wife not mind?”
    He turned to look at her. Her dark curls were tousled, her eyes sleepy. “Will you mind?” he said. “I’ll be here