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yourself at home. If you should desire anything, you have only to ring for it.” Like a sad little wraith she slipped from the room.
    The study was almost dark, lit only by the fitful glow of the fire in the hearth. Sir Charles sat hunched behind his desk, leaning on his elbows, his nose mashed against the steeple formed by his stubby fingertips. Lost in thought, he gazed sightlessly at the pewter standish in front of him. Ginevra once again waited in the center of the room, determined not to incite her father’s anger. Head bowed low, folded hands working nervously at her waist, she had unconsciously assumed the position a petitioning tenant might use when begging a favor, a favor he expected to be denied. Sir Charles glanced up and recognized the stance, and it irritated him. He gestured to a chair. “Sit down, child, I’m not going to beat you.” Silently Ginevra took the seat offered, her eyes large and resentful. He sighed impatiently. “All right, I admit I was harsh with you earlier. Now, stop gawking at me in that doleful manner.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Silence hung between them. Sir Charles asked tersely, “Ginevra, have I been a good father?”
    “I have always thought so, Papa.”
    “Do you believe I would deliberately plot your unhappiness?”
    “No, Papa.” She studied her fingers entwined demurely in her lap.
    Suddenly Sir Charles banged his fist on the desk. The inkwell bounced. “Then, confound it, girl,” he cried, “why are you defying me now?”
    Ginevra’s wan face colored. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, leaning forward to add with a flash of spirit, “but I do not wish to marry Lord Chadwick.” She subsided into the chair again and gazed at her father.
    Sir Charles regarded her wearily. He had been under a great deal of strain lately, and it made him uneasy to watch the chit so quiet and solemn, peeking up through her lashes like a wounded fawn. Dammit all, he was not some kind of felon! He had gone to considerable difficulty, risking a humiliating rebuff, to arrange an excellent, even a brilliant match for her, one that far exceeded the usual expectations of the daughter of an unremarkable country baronet. And now, instead of showing him the proper gratitude, Ginevra stared at him with those eyes like sovereigns and waited for him to justify his actions. He had always been too soft with her, that was it. Distraught over his wife’s untimely death, he had tried to console himself with the diversions readily available in London to any man with a little money, and he ignored the girl who reminded him so painfully of his lost love. He had allowed her too much freedom, let her read unsuitable books. The possible consequences of his neglect seemed unimportant when her future was already settled with young Tom Glover, but now his laxity as a parent was returning to plague him. The girl had to marry well—and quickly!—and she calmly declared that she did not want to. God! What would he do if she remained mulish, if her recalcitrant behavior offended Lord Chadwick? Dowerwood or no, the Bryants still stood to gain far more from any union than did the marquess’s family ... Sir Charles stiffened with determination. He was going to post the banns and be done with it Ginevra would marry Chadwick even if he, her father, was reduced to ranting like a hack actor playing old Capulet in a Drury Lane production: “Fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next, to go to church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.”
    He essayed a different tactic. “My child,” he intoned, “the world is not an easy place for a lone woman, and if anything should happen to me, you would be quite alone. You have no brother or uncle to care for you, and indeed, upon my death my title and Bryant House will pass away from our family to a distant cousin I have never met, whose generosity toward you might be questionable. Dowerwood is not part of the entail, but even if I gave it to you, you are not equipped to