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an oblivion that was all too temporary. "I'm all right, truly. Go back to sleep, Mel. Sorry I woke you."
    The Irish linen and Portuguese silk coverlet rustled as she lay back against the pillows. He lay down beside her, resisting the impulse to retreat to the far edge of the bed. The sliver of black between the curtains told that dawn was a long way off. He listened to the even sound of his wife's breathing and tried to sort through the question of why he had been dreaming about the woman who was about to become his stepmother.

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Chapter Four

     
    Mélanie stared at the jumble of gilt-edged vellum on the writing desk before her. Invitations requesting the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Fraser's presence at balls, routs, receptions, dinners, musicales, breakfasts, and fetes champêtres. Written in the flowing, governess-trained hand of ladies she had never met, half of whom were connected to one branch of Charles's family or the other, the other half of whom had no doubt rolled hoops round Hyde Park with Charles's mother or played dolls with Gisèle or Mozart duets with Charles himself.
    Charles had said that as far as he was concerned she could pick the ones she wanted to attend or decline the lot of them. But she knew it wasn't that simple. Charles was in Parliament now, and entertaining and being entertained were an important part of a political career. The part that was supposed to be managed by the politician's wife.
    She glanced at the hearthrug where Colin was building a block tower. Jessica, propped against a cushion, watched him with a rapt gaze.
    She and the children were in what was optimistically called the library, a glorified name for a back downstairs parlor lined with bookcases and now also filled with crates of the books they hadn't been able to fit on the shelves. As lady of the house she should choose a decorous room on the first floor where she could do her correspondence, but she found the musty smell of the books and the chaotic jumble a great comfort, familiar from years of living in cramped quarters.
    Jessica snatched up a bright red block and tried to stuff it in her mouth. Fortunately it was too big for her to swallow. Colin reached for the block. Jessica screamed. Half the blocks fell over.
    "Mummy!" Colin said.
    "I know it's frustrating, darling. Let her have that one and move the tower away a bit. She can't crawl yet."
    Colin began to shift the blocks away from his now smiling sister. "When's Daddy coming back? He said he'd read us a story."
    "And I'm sure he won't forget. He'll be home before dinner. He had to see his father."
    Mélanie glanced at the mantel clock. Charles's interview with Kenneth Fraser was in half an hour's time. Charles had left the house after swallowing a hasty cup of coffee this morning and stayed out the whole day. Neither of them had got much rest the night before. Charles had tossed and turned and kicked at the coverlet and muttered unintelligible phrases and finally broken out in a cold sweat of terror. He'd jerked away from her proffered comfort as though she'd struck him. For the remainder of the night, he'd lain stock-still, trying to control his breathing so he wouldn't disturb her. She knew, because she'd been doing precisely the same thing.
    She forced her attention back to the invitations. The rules of social intercourse had been freer on the war-torn Continent. The British
ton
was uncharted territory, and she was woefully ignorant of the rules of engagement.
    A rap sounded at the door, and Michael stepped into the room. "Miss Talbot has called, madam." His shoulders were punctiliously straight, but his dark gaze was warm with sympathy. "Are you at home?"
    Mélanie cast a swift glance round the room. Her first instinct was to have Miss Talbot shown into the drawing room, but on reflection she would far rather greet Charles's old friend—or whatever else she was—on her own territory. She had five minutes to twitch her sarcenet skirt straight, rub at the