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certain, willing herself to be
mistaken, and her hands quivering that she might be. She wished she
did not feel young and eager again. Age ought to bring more than
wrinkles. Yet, she knew the truth. Knew it in ways that had nothing
to do with the rational mind.
    Her skin vibrated with the awareness of him.
His voice had always done that to her—that languid, velvet voice
still brushed across her like thick silk. It was him. The years
could not change her knowledge of him.
    Oh, she ought to hate him for doing this to
her, she decided. She had once spent hours picturing their meeting
again—at some social function, in a park perhaps—but in all her
fantasies she had been self-possessed, a woman of the world and no
longer such a raw girl who stumbled over her words and choked on
her emotions. And he had been—well, he had not been this dark,
disturbing figure.
    Since she had no real idea what to do, she
did what she had learned to do over the long years to mask her
inadequacies; she resorted to sarcasm. "Paxten Marsett—how very
like you to appear where you are least wanted and of no use
whatsoever."
    For a moment, he did not reply, and then a
low, warm laugh filled the coach. "And how very like you to cross
my path when you are in deeper waters than you can navigate, my
Lady Scandal."
    Her hands clenched on the muslin of her
dress. "Do not call me that!"
    "What, did I say scandal instead of
Sandal? Old habit, I fear. But the name fits you so much
better."
    A light voice interrupted. "And just why do
you think my aunt scandalous when you are the one threatening
us?"
    Diana's words startled Alexandria. She had
focused her attention so totally on Paxten that she had forgotten
everything else. As she almost had once before. She glanced at her
niece and turned back to blister Paxten with a reproof for the use
of that sobriquet he had once given her, and which he had lured her
into earning.
    However, he got his words out before she
could utter hers, that charm of his now turned on Diana. "Aunt is
it? How do you do? Since your aunt has already given you my name
that must do for an introduction. And you are...?"
    Voice prim, Diana answered without
hesitation, "I doubt I should give you my name—it does not sound as
if Aunt Alexandria cares overmuch for you."
    Proud of the girl, Alexandria smiled. She
wished she had had one tenth of Diana's pert arrogance ten years
ago. As the carriage rocked, she glanced back toward Paxten.
    His voice so soft it almost did not carry
over the muffled sounds of the horse's steady trot, he said, "Oh,
she once cared for me—or so I thought."
    Throat tight, Alexandria stared at
him. Was he mocking her? Making light of what she had indeed once
felt for him? Her anger flared and she lashed out. "Really, Paxten,
I thought you at least beyond hiding behind a woman's skirts. What
did you do with poor Marie-Jeanne?"
    "Your little maid? Well, she is a touch less
poor—she had the last of my coins for her cloak and skirt."
    "And, of course, she gave her garments to
you quite willingly?" Alexandria said, hoping the doubt in her tone
scalded him.
    "Oh, my touch has much improved for getting
a woman out of her clothes."
    Alexandria's hands clenched again. "So has
your knack for leaving a lady in distress, it seems. Just where did
you leave her?" She sat straighter. "You did not harm her, did
you?"
    Irritation hardened his tone. "What do you
take me for?"
    "I take you for a rogue who would carry off
a girl's clothes!"
    "Well, I am that—but it was her clothes or
my life, and I'm rather more attached to the latter than she was to
the former."
    As if unable to hold back the question,
Diana asked, "Your life? Are you the wounded man those solders are
hunting?"
    Alexandria sat up, tension now coiled in
her. "Wounded? And you have the effrontery to accuse me of being in
deeper waters than I can navigate. Where are you injured?"
    That languid tone of his took on a clipped
sharpness. "Have a mind to your own cares, my