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the starry-eyed girl who longed so fiercely to be sought after, courted, and married. She was old enough to have seen unhappy marriages, contracted with amorous or avaricious speed and repented until death parted them. Living on her brother’s charity was a far sight better than being wed to a man who wanted only her money. Marriage might last a lifetime, but money did not.
    “I promise I shall be the very picture of grace and charm,” she said at last. “I shan’t humiliate you, Miss Cuthbert.”
    “Do not be ridic—” The boat hit a swell and the prow rose unexpectedly before dropping with a tremendous splash. Margaret caught her breath with excitement at the sudden feeling of lightness inside her, Miss Cuthbert went white and folded herself over the rail, and behind them both Francis laughed.
    “An apt preparation for the day’s events, Miss Cuthbert,” he shouted. “I feel quite the same way!”
    They reached the landing soon after, and Margaret put her arm around Miss Cuthbert as the poor woman staggered up the stairs to the broad terrace. Once on dry land again she recovered quickly and resumed her air of command, rather unfortunately in Margaret’s opinion. But then, she supposed Miss Cuthbert would force herself off her deathbed to present a good front at Lord Feithe’s famous garden party. In spite of herself she was curious, and even a tiny bit hopeful.
    It turned out to be much the same as every other society gathering she had attended, though, with the sole saving grace of being set outside in a lovely park on a beautiful day. Francis, the lout, took one look at the beaming, breathless throng of ladies awaiting his arrival and decamped to the house, no doubt intending to hide away in the smokiest corner until it was time to go. Miss Cuthbert, on the other hand, refused to leave her side, hovering at her elbow and murmuring information about each gentleman’s prospects and family until Margaret had enough. She stared down her companion, announced she was going for a solitary stroll, and slipped out of the garden by dodging into a row of hemlocks.
    Outside the confines of the formal garden, it was quiet. Some of the breeze from the river swept up the lawns, and she breathed deeply of it. Up river from London, the air was fresh and crisp, free of the stench of tanneries, slaughterhouses, and sewers. It reminded her of her childhood home, far from London but blessedly devoid of fortune hunters as well.
    She strolled along a gravel path, glad for a peaceful walk. Heiresses and sisters of dukes weren’t allowed nearly as much freedom to go out alone as ordinary spinsters were. She wished Clarissa Stacpoole was in attendance, but so far she hadn’t seen her. Clarissa might be impertinent and gossipy, but it was a great deal more interesting to talk to her than to Miss Cuthbert or any of the would-be suitors who trailed after her. Margaret thought of her long-standing friends from Holborn, and felt caught, lonely and isolated, in the chasm between her old life and her new.
    Lost in thought, she didn’t see the man on the path until she almost walked into him. She stopped short. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
    “Not at all, Miss de Lacey.” He bowed as his voice resonated in her blood. She remembered that voice. It was the poor earl she had verbally thrashed the other night, just for asking her to dance.
    Stiffly she dropped a curtsey. “I did not mean to intrude, my lord. Pray excuse me.”
    “On the contrary,” he said as she started to go back the way she’d come. “I was hoping to meet you again.” She darted a wary glance at him. He was watching her with darkly amused eyes and a slight smile curving his mouth. The breeze caught the black bow at his nape and fluttered the ends over his broad shoulders. Today he wore lighter colors, a moss green coat of fine wool over an ivory waistcoat and breeches, but it didn’t make him appear any less pirate-like. Perhaps even the contrary. There was