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interior, and he remembered a certain side door used by servants for moving unseen and unheard between the private and public rooms. Lord Tremont headed toward it. Grabbing a candle from a bracketed wall sconce, he ducked inside the passageway and started up a steep flight of bare wooden stairs. Robert followed, keenly aware of the gazes boring into his back and the footfalls trailing his heels.
    They came out into an open hallway. A swift look below to the tiled foyer showed it to be empty of all but two family footmen. Seemingly satisfied that they remained unobserved, Lord Tremont continued toward the arched door at the opposite end of the hall. Coming upon it, he reached inside his padded doublet and produced a cluster of keys. The click of the lock and the creak of the opening door struck Robert as deafening amidst the hush. Holding the door, Lord Tremont stood back for him to enter. Brushing past his lordship, Robert rushed Phoebe inside.
    Apart from the new tooled leather paper-hangings, Lord Tremont’s study was as Robert remembered it, the same floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the substantial Chippendale desk with its green baize blotter, the aroma of cigars marking it as the sole masculine sanctum in a house otherwise filled with fragile porcelains, dainty furnishings and prim pastels. He’d seen the inside of this room only once before, six years earlier, when he’d first sought Phoebe’s hand. The man-to-man interview had gone far better than Robert had dared hope. Setting aside his reservations concerning Robert’s lower birth and lack of fortune, his lordship had granted them his blessing, much to his wife’s chagrin.  
    Hopeful of ending this evening with a likewise-happy result, Robert crossed the Turkish carpet to the velvet-covered sofa. Stooping, he settled Phoebe onto the cushions and slid his arm free from beneath her. As if sensing his withdrawal, she shivered. Subsiding onto his knees beside her, he battled a piercing sense of loss. Though he’d held her but briefly, his unburdened arms felt abysmally empty.  
    Leaning over, he cupped the sweet curve of her cheek, inwardly cursing the wretched calluses that kept him from fully feeling the satiny texture of her skin. “Phoebe, love, awake,” he coaxed, willing her eyelids to lift.
    Once she revived what might her feelings be? The few words she’d spoken before her faint had been those of a woman deep in shock. With her wits returned, might she feel less than tender toward him? Lest he forget, she’d been poised to promise herself to another.
    “Step aside, you scalawag.” Pushing past, Lady Tremont produced a small vial from her gown’s hidden pocket. She pulled out the stopper and Robert rocked back upon his ankles. The reek was reminiscent of rotted egg and ammonia—smelling salts.  
    She passed the bottle beneath Phoebe’s nose. Coughing, Phoebe came awake, her eyes shooting open. “Have done, Mama, I p-pray you.” Batting the bottle away, she pushed herself up on one elbow. Her watery gaze alighted on Robert, widening if not in delight then certainly in surprise. “So I wasn’t dreaming.”
    Heartened, he braced his hands upon the sofa side and leaned closer. “No, love, you were not.”
    Lady Tremont whirled on him, her stiff skirts clipping him on the chin. “How dare you address my daughter as though she were your doxy! She is the nearest thing to a married woman. Now leave us and see you do not darken our door ever again.”
    Rising to his full height, Robert glared down at her. “I’m not going anywhere, not until Phoebe and I have spoken—in private.” Seeking support, he looked to Lord Tremont but Phoebe’s father had taken refuge behind his desk and was making an intense study of the jade paperweight in his palm.
    Her ladyship sniffed. “If you are suggesting we leave our daughter sans chaperone and quite alone with you, it is out of the question.”
    “No, Mama, it is not.” All heads, including Robert’s,