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beautiful, and the marquess felt his breath catch in his throat.
    “Colin,” she said. “And who else calls you by that name?”
    The invited familiarity did not seem to impress her as much as Lord Ashdown intended.
    “Ah,” said the marquess. “My sisters, I suppose.”
    “But not the ladies of the London ton , I’m sure.”
    He felt, somehow, that she was accusing him, although he was not sure of what. Certainly the women of his class did not call him Colin, ’twas Lord Ashdown, or your lordship, and lady this-and-that—
    “I suppose not,” he said.
    “Very well . . . Colin,” said Mrs. Marwick. “There is a storm coming in. I won’t bother you for more than a moment, but I must check the window latch.”
    She passed by the foot of the bed, and Lord Ashdown caught a faint scent of rose and vanilla. His attention was even more engaged, however, by the sight of her figure, a glorious hourglass shape in flowered muslin.
    I have been in Northumberland far too long, thought the marquess, if my first idea is to take a village widow to my bed. He was immediately ashamed of this thought, and turned his head away, paying as little attention to her movements as he could. But the vanilla and rose lingered, and he could not avoid hearing the soft sweep of the muslin, and imagine the feel of—
    Gods. What was wrong with him? There were any number of beautiful women in London, but he’d never felt such a powerful attraction before, not to any of the supposed diamonds of the ton .
    Mrs. Marwick returned to the doorway, and paused there.
    “More tea, your Colin-ship?” she said, eyebrows arched, and with a slight upward quirk of her lips.
    He had to laugh.
      * * * *
    But Mrs. Marwick’s forays into the guest room were infrequent. Lord Ashdown had begun to think that Fiona was avoiding him, which was not his usual experience with young females, or indeed females of any age. At first he attributed it to womanly reticence; after all, she had probably seen more of him than was seemly during the first days after his fall. Then he began to think she must dislike him, although he could not imagine why, other than he was an unwanted lodger, which—for the moment—he could do nothing about.
    Perhaps she simply felt overworked. Colin had arranged for food to be delivered to the cottage, as much of it as he thought he could get away with, and he would have arranged for entire meals had the doctor not warned him off.
    “She would be insulted,” Dee had said. “Besides, Fiona is an excellent cook. I can promise that you won’t be as satisfied with what else the village has to offer.”
    Of her cooking skills Lord Ashdown could now, quite happily, attest. The vegetable stew alone had brought him to a new appreciation of the lowly carrot. And in no elegant London home had he tasted such an excellent Welsh rabbit, although admittedly some fine homes would have considered such a meal beneath serving. More fools them.
     And as for the cook herself—
    The marquess considered again the cool green eyes in her lovely face, the thick auburn hair that was ever escaping from its pins and falling in curls around a face of startling, almost other-worldly beauty.
    She must have every man in the village at her heels, and Colin wondered about Dr. Fischer in particular. The two seemed to share a considerable rapport, and to speak very freely to one another, although their manner reminded him more of a brother and sister than a romantic pair.
    The marquess had slipped into reverie, his eyes closed. Now he heard voices outside and turned to the window. It was Mrs. Marwick and a gentleman Colin did not recognize, but to whom he took an immediate dislike. Not much older than Lord Ashdown’s twenty-eight years, the man was dressed in a style that the marquess recognized all too well, and which he had named, in his own mind, London foppery. Skin-tight trousers, padded shoulders, and a cravat tied seven ways from Sunday—yes, thought Colin. The