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even prepared for her casting up her accounts again, with an empty milk pail packed in the hamper. Then he’d wondered if she would try to bargain with him, rather than lose her chance at being his countess. Lud knew Aurora held all the right cards for negotiation, for he’d consummate the marriage in the carriage, in a flash, in a fever, if she crawled into his lap. Pigs would take wing and fly first. Why, the only way she could sit any farther away from him was riding up with the driver. She was most likely glad of the chance to be rid of him, to have a London Season, to meet the man of her dreams—the young man of her dreams.
    Satisfied that he was doing the right thing and that Aurora was content, Windham pulled his hat over his eyes and went to sleep.
    *
    He didn’t want her. He didn’t even want to discuss the London journals with her.
    He’d never wanted her, of course. He’d never wanted any wife, or he would have had one long ago. Aunt Thisbe thought his first countess had died four or five years previously, surely enough time to find a suitable bride if he had any desire to step into parson’s mousetrap again. Now he obviously couldn’t wait to leap out of it, the way he had the driver springing the horses.
    Aurora couldn’t blame him. Quite simply, she was not worthy to be Windham’s wife. Why, her lack of sophistication had already driven him to drink, and she’d proven herself anything but demure, dignified, or docile, qualities an earl must require of a bride. She’d made him angry, to boot, by booting him from her bed. No, she could not blame him for wishing to be rid of her. Neither could she let him see her tears. Windham was too nice a man to burden with guilty feelings. He’d pity her. Heavens, he might even pity her enough to reconsider, and then he’d be miserable for the rest of his days. No, Aurora could not do that to such a fine gentleman. She kept her eyes firmly on the magazine in her lap. So what if it was a journal on sheep shearing? If she wasn’t going to be a countess, the saints knew she needed another career.
    How could he think that she should be presented to London’s beau monde, and by a duchess, no less? She’d be nothing but a Phoxinus phoxinus , a minnow in a pool of glittering goldfish. No, she did not belong among London’s upper elevations. But the scandal in Bath would be devastating to her aunt and uncle if she had the funds to return there, which she did not. She had no other relations she could beg for sanctuary, no friend to invite her for a long visit—like a lifetime.
    Perhaps the duchess could help her find a position. Yes, that’s what she would do, Aurora decided. She’d throw herself on the mercy of this unknown woman, who’d much rather find her a job, Aurora was certain, than find her part of the family.
    Windham would not like her going out to work, Aurora knew. It would neither suit his notions of what was right nor satisfy his sense of responsibility for her welfare. But if he dissolved the marriage, she reasoned, he had no say in her disposal. The blasted man could not have it both ways. And she was glad to be getting out of such an uncomfortable marriage anyway, Aurora told herself, biting on her handkerchief lest she start sobbing. She’d be much better off, gainfully employed, than wed to a man who snored!
    *
    London was filthy. The very air was dark and dirty. No wonder so many Londoners came to Bath for their health. The sickly on the street corners, though, could never afford the spa, and the wealthy in their gold-trimmed carriages, their furs and lace, seemed hale enough to Aurora. And there were so many carriages! All were traveling at top speed, it seemed, as if the Quality had to hurry lest they miss a moment of frivolity. It was a marvel that the coaches were not constantly crashing into one another. From the shouts and curses, perhaps they were. Her head was spinning from the sights, sounds, and smells—and Windham’s smiles at