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manage it. Consequently, it is my most pressing duty as your father to arrange a good marriage for you, so that you will always be safe, under the loving protection and guidance of a husband.”
    Ginevra mumbled, “Yes, I know that.” And it’s not fair, she added silently.
    “Then surely you realize that a match with Chadwick would be advantageous far beyond my wildest aspirations for you.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Why, think, child, you would even outrank your old Papa.”
    Ginevra shrugged. “I don’t care.”
    “What!” Sir Charles exploded. “Not care about being a marchioness? In God’s name, why not? You ought to be on your knees with prayers of gratitude! You were eager enough to unite with the Glovers before.”
    “It was different before,” Ginevra cried, wounded by his callousness. “I was going to marry Tom.”
    Her father stared at her, shaking his head in exasperation. “Oh, Ginevra,” he clucked, “don’t tell me you fancied you had a tendre for the lad? How could you? You hadn’t seen him in six years. He probably changed beyond all recognition.”
    Ginevra pleaded helplessly, “But he was my friend, Papa. Surely that wouldn’t have changed.” She toyed with the stiff fabric of her skirt, fast becoming very wrinkled under her nervous fingers. She was distressed by the justice of her father’s words. All the doubts she had felt in the past returned to haunt her. Of course her fiancé would have changed. She had known an amiable boy of twelve, but the Tom Glover who died while on a drunken spree was eighteen, older than his own father had been when he was born, and perhaps already as much a rake and libertine as the older man ever was ... Something died inside Ginevra. The union with Tom would have been as loveless as most such arrangements were. Despite her puerile protestations of lifelong friendship, she would have been marrying a stranger.
    When Ginevra looked up, her father could see the resignation in her tawny eyes. She had taken his words to heart at last. Oddly, her capitulation gave him some relief, but no joy: there was little pleasure in crushing dreams. He felt a pang at the weariness evident in her voice when she said humbly, “Forgive me for being so obstinate, Papa. You are right, of course, marriage with any of the Chadwick family would be a great honor. I am indeed fortunate that his lordship is agreeable.” She hesitated, perking up slightly. “But... but couldn’t you relent and let me marry Bysshe Glover instead? He’s the heir now, as lofty a match as Tom was. I know he is still at Harrow, but he is not so much younger than I that our marriage would be impossible, especially if we wait. In three years I’ll only be twenty-one, not truly a hopeless spinster as you seem to fear. Perhaps Bysshe and I could even spend some time together beforehand, to get to know each other. It would mean so much to—”
    Sir Charles interrupted flatly, “No, Ginevra. You must marry Lord Chadwick himself, and as soon as possible. If you don’t...” His voice died away; and he colored with embarrassment.
    Ginevra observed her father curiously. He looked unwell, she thought; almost old. Something was troubling him gravely. She repeated, “If I don’t, what?”
    Sir Charles wanted to bluster indignantly that the girl had no right to question him—but he did not. With a twinge of guilt he acknowledged to himself that his own bungling had placed her in a damned awkward position. She would marry Lord Chadwick, he would see to that The man was rich, titled, extremely eligible, a prize catch. And yet ... and yet, only in the dark recesses of his soul dared Sir Charles admit that the marquess was not the sort of man he truly wanted to wed his daughter. Ginevra was a sweet and loving child, and for all his grace of manner, Chadwick displayed a cynicism, a deeply ingrained bitterness, that augured ill for anyone who cared for him.
    Ginevra asked again, “Papa, what will happen if