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after luncheon, my lord,” the secretary replied.
    Raymore put the letter down on the desk in irritation and frowned at Sheldon. “What does she want?”
    “She did not say, my lord.”
    “Send word that she may attend me in the library at once,” the earl directed and strode from the room. The infernal chit! He had known she would be trouble.
    Rosalind assumed a confidence she did not quite feel as she waited for a footman to open the library doors for her. Her guardian was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk at the far side of the room, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, making a halo of his blond hair. She felt that he had deliberately placed himself there so that she would be forced to undergo the ordeal of limping across the room toward him while he watched her steadily. His elbows were on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Alistair with a stony expression!
    “Have a seat, Miss Dacey,” he said, motioning to a straight chair at the other side of his desk.
    Rosalind sat down, her back straight. He did not initiate any conversation. He sat and stared at her.
    “My lord, will you please allow me to return home?” she blurted, and watched his eyebrows rise haughtily. She had not intended to broach the subject quite so bluntly.
    “Home, Miss Dacey?” he queried, ice dripping from each word. "You are at home, ma’am. This is your home as long as I choose to make it so.”
    Rosalind blushed and bit her lip. “I mean to Raymore Manor, my lord,” she said. “Indeed, I appreciate your kindness in inviting us here. For Sylvia it is a dream come true to be in London during the Season. But you did not know when you invited us here that I am disabled. I cannot mix with society, my lord. My presence would merely be an embarrassment to you and to myself. I am sure you must agree.”
    “Must I?” he asked quietly.
    Rosalind paused, uncertain of his reaction. His eyes gave no clue. “Will you allow me to return?” she asked. 
    “No, I will not,” he replied.
    Rosalind swallowed. “Why not?”
    His eyebrows rose. “Because I choose not to allow it, Miss Dacey,” he said. “This is reason enough.”
    Her jaw clenched. “You have given no reason at all,” she snapped unwisely. “Kindly make yourself clearer, my lord.” His palms lowered to the desk and he rose to his feet without hurry. He did not remove his gaze from Rosalind’s face. “I shall make myself clear, ma’am,” he said very softly, coming around the desk to stand towering over her, “crystal-clear, I trust. I am your guardian. Until you marry, you are my responsibility. I shall choose what is best for you and you will not question my decisions. Perhaps my uncle allowed you to question him and dictate your own terms. You will not find me so amenable. I tell you now that you will remain in London until the end of the Season or until I have found you a husband. At the end of the Season I shall tell you where you will be going. You do not need to concern yourself with the matter. You will not be consulted. Do I make myself understood, ma’am?”
    Rosalind had sat crimson-faced through most of this icily delivered monologue. Now she looked at him with an expression of incredulity. She laughed scornfully. “You speak like a character from a gothic romance,” she said. “I am two and twenty, my lord, a grown woman. Do you believe you can browbeat me as if I were a child? You have it within your power, I suppose, to keep me here against my will. I am reminded that the place I call home is in reality your home now. But this idea of totally ruling my life as if I were a mindless imbecile! I would remind you, sir, that we moved out of the Dark Ages a significant time ago.”
    His jaw clenched. “By God, ma’am, you will learn who is master here,” he said. “If you must speak with a shrewish tongue, you may do so, but not with me as an audience. And you will remain in this house at my pleasure and do as I bid you. You