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mouth. The chit at least made an attempt at discretion, she thought. Her gaze went to the other couple in the room and she was struck by their stiff attitude. At once she concluded that her elder niece was awkward in social situations, and she sighed. If that were true, it was going to prove difficult to establish the young woman.
    Michele was unable to take her eyes off Lord Randol. “I thought you dead,” she said faintly.
    Lord Randol gave a harsh laugh. His eyes were hard and mocking. “Did you, indeed? I am sorry to disappoint you, mademoiselle.”
    The color was returning to Michele’s face. She put out her hand in an unconscious gesture. “Anthony—”
    Whatever she meant to say died before the blaze of contempt in his eyes. “I have no desire to hear anything you might have to say, mademoiselle,” he said cuttingly. Abruptly he left her, without the courtesy of a bow, to greet Lady Basinberry. “My dear Lady Basinberry, this is an unlooked-for pleasure. I have not seen you in some time. I trust that you are as well as always.”
    Lady Basinberry gave her hand to him. “Indeed, I go on quite well. I have put away black gloves, as you see, and I am returned to London for the Season. I am sponsoring my niece Lydia and her cousin. Mademoiselle du Bois. You have met my elder niece, my lord?”
    “Indeed,” said Lord Randol. His voice held the slightest edge to it. He summoned up a smile of incredible charm. “The Season will prove a challenge, surely.”
    Lady Basinberry laughed. “But one that I am well-prepared to meet, my lord. One does not launch three daughters creditably without learning a trick or two.”
    Left standing alone, Michele stared at his lordship’s broad back. The tears burned in her throat. She was horribly hurt and humiliated by his cruel snub. Even so, her gaze hungrily traveled over his athletic figure, set off to perfection by his superbly cut dark green coat and the close-fitting pantaloons that were smoothed into high boots of soft glossy leather. Except for the wicked scar on his face and the coldness of his manner, he appeared to be the same gentleman to whom she had once promised her heart.
    But when she saw the awkward way in which Lord Randol raised Lady Basinberry’s hand in greeting, Michele realized that he was marked by more than the facial scar. There was a stiffness in his movement that had nothing to do with lack of grace and Michele realized that he had suffered horrible wounds. She had seen enough of the damage that flying shrapnel could do to a man’s flesh to be able to vividly imagine what had happened to the right side of Lord Randol’s body. It made her sick to her stomach, and all at once she again seemed to smell the dirt and blood and to hear the pathetic cries of the wounded begging for aid and for water.
    Michele gave a quick shake of her head. Those were memories only, memories that many carried. Her experiences of tending the wounded on the streets of Brussels were not unique. Many of the ladies had done so. And like many others, she had hoped and yet feared to find the one beloved face among all those others. She had never found him. She had subsequently been told by a mutual acquaintance that he had died of ghastly wounds in a military hospital tent before he could be gotten back to Brussels from the battleground.
    Michele’s thoughts whirled in deepest agitation. She put one cold hand against her cheek, thinking confusedly that Lord Randol had not died. He had survived his wounds. He was here in London. And he despised her. She had seen it plainly in his arctic gray eyes. She wanted to burst into tears on the spot, but knew that she could not, and it was that thought that finally steadied her.
    Michele raised her chin as she gathered her pride like a tattered cloak of protection about herself. It was ingrained in her that only the ill-bred indulged in public scenes. Despite the shock that numbed her, she must behave as though nothing was amiss. But