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was dark brown with hints of gold and russet. His eyebrows were
darker, drawing attention to remarkable pale grey eyes, which could appear
almost silver when caught by the light, or dark and stormy when passions moved
him. They were beautiful, she decided. And they made her shiver a little with
their intensity. A masterful nose and firm lips, now set in a straight, uncompromising
line. No, not handsome, but a striking face that would be impossible to
overlook or forget. And made more memorable by a thin scar, which ran along his
brow from his temple to clip the edge of one fine eyebrow. An old scar, thin
and silver against his tanned skin. Honoria found that she could not take her
eyes from him. And yet she was forced to acknowledge that he would be a
dangerous man to cross. His face was imprinted with harsh lines of temper and a
determination to have his own way, and it seemed to Honoria, given his
confident arrogance, that he would enjoy much success.
    She sighed a little. What
would it have been like if she had been wed to Francis Brampton—Lord Mansell,
as she must now learn to think of him—instead of Lord Edward? Handsome the new
Lord Man- sell might not be, but she had been well aware of the number of eyes
that had followed him at Court. Followed him with feminine interest and
speculation in spite of his recent betrothal. She herself had not been
immune... But where had that thought come from? She pulled her scattered wits
together. She had no idea what had prompted such a daydream—and it would not do
to think further along those lines. To show emotion was to put yourself in the
power of those who witnessed it. She must keep her feelings close at all costs.
    Mansell continued to
approach, unaware of the disturbing thoughts that ran through the lady's mind.
No, he decided, he hardly remembered her from their first meeting. Only a
vague impression of a young woman within Denham's family. How should it have
been otherwise when he had been caught up in the glory of new love, held
captive by Katherine's vivid face and vibrant colouring. God—how he had loved
her! And been consumed by the miracle that she should love him. It seemed like
yesterday—and yet a lifetime ago. No! He would not have been aware of the woman
who stood before him, shrouded in black and an indefinable air of desolation.
Attractive enough, he supposed. Well born, rich—but nothing to compare with the
girl who had shared his childhood and had bestowed on him her love and her
heart so willingly. He could almost hear Katherine's laughter. He closed his
mind against the sharp lance of pain, forcing his thoughts back to the
immediate problem. At that moment he sincerely doubted if Edward's widow ever
laughed!
    The widow raised her eyes
to his as he halted before her. 'I trust that the arrangements were to your
liking, my lord?'
    'Excellent—in the
circumstances.' His smile of thanks warmed his features. 'I understand from
Foxton that I have you to thank for the arrangements—and the spread of food. I
have to admit that I had not given it much thought.'
    'How should you? Men rarely
do. You merely expect it to be done.'
    Mansell raised his brows,
the smile fading, at the quick response. Had she intended such needle-sharp
judgement? He could detect no malice in the lady's face. Nothing except for a
soul-crushing weariness that she could not disguise. He chose to control his
instinctive reaction and bit down on a curt reply.
    'I could have no complaint,
and nor could our guests, my lady. Unless it was the length of time it took the
Reverend Gower to bury my late unlamented cousin.'
    As on the previous evening,
it crossed his mind that perhaps that was not the most tactful of comments to
make to Edward's widow, but she accepted the criticism of her lord with her
usual lack of response. No touch of humour. No smile. Merely a frigid
acceptance.
    'I believe that your family
connection with Lord Edward is somewhat distant, my lord?'
    'Indeed.' Mansell