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studying her face. “No,” she said. “No, my lord, I was thinking of something… well, something else.”
    “And not me? Ah, well… there is Lady Trevelyn…” Annie bowed. “And there is Mrs. Wayling, a friend of my mother.” Annie bowed again.
    “I somehow did not think of you as having a mother,” she said, as a chilly little breeze sprang up and a passing cloud cast its shadow over the waters of the Serpentine.
    “You mean you thought I sprang fully armed in a natty gent’s suit from my father’s head, or something like that?”
    “No. I mean, one does not think of older people having mothers.”
    “Ouch!”
    “I mean, not that you are old, just mature,” pleaded Annie.
    “Well-seasoned like the English oak?”
    “Not quite, my lord. I meant… Oh, it’s too hard to explain. Is your mother in town?”
    “No, she and my father are in the country.”
    “Yes, of course. Your father is the Duke of Dunster. Marigold and I looked you up in Debrett.”
    “How thorough of you. Now, tell me how it came about that you were escaping from your room in that dramatic manner?”
    “I told you. It was the servants. They locked me in by mistake.”
    “So you did… tell me, I mean.”
    “You don’t believe me?”
    “What on earth gave you that idea, Lady Annie? I believe everything you say.”
    Annie bit her lip. They were rolling toward the gates of Hyde Park again. She felt that she somehow
had
to get him to say something intimate. Something she could throw in Marigold’s face.
    The day was clouding up, and she shivered slightly in the rising dusty wind.
    They stopped in the press of traffic at Hyde Park Comer, and he reached behind her, pulled up a mohair carriage rug, and gently wrapped it about her shoulders. His face was suddenly very close to her own, so she could see the lazy smile on his mouth and the thick eyelashes veiling his eyes.
    “Now you should feel warmer.” His voice held a caressing note.
    “Thank you,” whispered Annie, feeling gauche and schoolgirlish. Marigold would have said something flirtatious and made the most of the moment. But, all at once, the traffic moved and he took up the reins again.
    “Shall you be at the Worthingtons’ ball tonight?” he asked.
    “I don’t think so,” said Annie. “My aunt said nothing about what we were to do this evening.”
    “Oh, I think you’ll find you’re invited,” he said easily. “Everyone’s going to be there.”
    Annie remembered all the gilt-edged invitation cards stuck in the corner of the looking glass in the drawing room. She had not studied them, knowing the names would mean nothing to her. She had another ball gown that should have arrived that morning. It was the same leaf green as her blouse and would turn Marigold’s eyes the same color with envy.
    “The Worthingtons are very grand,” he was saying. “Not only are we to have a ball but a fireworks display as well.”
    “I hope we’re invited,” said Annie anxiously. “I’ve never seen a fireworks display.”
    “What! Not even on Guy Fawkes Night?”
    “We don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes in Scotland.”
    “No November fifth! What a heathen country. Ah, here we are.” He called to his groom, who ran round and held the horses while the marquess escorted Annie to the door.
    “Thank you for a very pleasant drive, my lord,” said Annie shyly.
    “My pleasure.” He bent and kissed her gloved hand, smiling into her eyes in a way that left her feeling strangely breathless. Then he turned and climbed back into his carriage, cracked his whip, and moved off as Miss Winter’s butler opened the door.
    Annie trailed into the drawing room, unpinning her hat as she did so and feeling strangely flat.
    Aunt Agatha came sailing in, looking flustered. “My dear Annie, I have just had a telephone call from your papa, and such news! It appears that Crammarth’s second cousin, the disgraceful one that went to America, has died—he was older than your papa, so one