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late afternoon sun peeping in at her tall windows. He dropped the red roses on the floor at her feet and knelt down beside her. ‘Dearest and loveliest — my sweet love, what is the matter? You’ve been weeping.’
    ‘No, indeed — it’s nothing, my lord: I was not expecting you; see, my dress is disordered. My servants are off duty for one reason or another; the child should not have admitted you…’ But she made no attempt to run away and repair the damage, only drooped on the sofa still, and seemed not even to observe that his arms were around her. ‘I am a little unhappy, my lord, but — it’s nothing.’
    ‘It’s everything,’ he said. ‘To me it’s everything — to see you for one moment sad, is an agony to me, to see these lovely eyes veiled with tears, to catch a sigh on this mouth that was made — was made only for kisses…’ And he blanched and trembled and caught her in his arms and looked down on the beautiful upturned face and whispered at last: ‘For my kisses!’
    A prettyish little whipper-snapper kind of a fellow — but those arms were like bonds of steel about her, his mouth was hard on hers, his white teeth crushed her lips with a true man’s rough passion. A flame rose in her in response such as she had never known or thought to know, the dream of white roses was a far away memory, the heavy scent of the crimson blossoms at their feet was all about her. And he murmured a question into her ear and half swooning, she dragged herself free from him and, spent with desire unfulfilled, stumbled to the door…
    She went up to her bedroom, alone: the bedroom that had long ago been prepared for this day, the satin and sandalwood, the frilled muslin draperies, all the delicious paraphernalia of the fashionable poule de luxe. The family had retreated before her and now huddled in a group in the doorway, almost scared by the blank, bemused look on her face, by the slowness, by the silence… She stood by the high four-poster bed with its cupids, one at each corner, trailing ribbons of cerulean blue, and her shaking hands clung to the carved wooden spiral. Mrs Brown blurted out at last: ‘For God’s sake, child, speak! What has happened?’
    She seemed to start awake — opened the grey eyes wide, clapped her hand to her mouth and spewed into it a sudden great hoot of laughter, still incredulous, utterly astounded. ‘What on earth do you think?’ she said. ‘The very worst! He’s asked me to marry him.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    T HE PAGE BROUGHT A silver tray with wine and glasses. ‘And a message, my lord. Milady is with her maid and begs a few — a few moments of your lordship’s patience—’ stammered Jake, a little short on rehearsal; and added in a rush, ‘—while she composes herself.’ He stood staring at his lordship with great round eyes. (The news had evidently already spread through the household. In that case, surely she must mean to accept him?) My lord, in his feverish uncertainty, caught at the first means of distraction and entered into conversation. ‘Do you like sugar cakes?’
    ‘Well — yes,’ said Jake. (‘When they’re fresh,’ he did not add, ‘but we know now that you never touch them and these are two weeks old.’)
    ‘Well, then, put a few in your pocket. I can’t bear sugar cakes myself,’ confided the Earl, ‘and yet don’t care to offend Mrs Brown who so solicitously provides them for me.’ He leaned in elegant ease, his hands languidly playing with a snuff-box of tortoiseshell and silver; but the child, alert and eager, saw that every muscle was tense, ears cocked for returning footsteps, bright dark eyes watching for the opening of the door. ‘Don’t go. Eat your sugar cakes and talk to me.’ He cast about visibly for some subject of common interest. ‘Have you been long in your position here?’
    ‘Not long, my lord,’ said Jake indifferently, diving into a pocket and beginning unwillingly to nibble at a stale sugar cake.
    ‘What next? A