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She was a woman now, with a woman’s body, and despite her lack of color, her thinness, he thought she had never been more beautiful.
    Aloud Raeburn said, “You look like hell.”
    Jessica endured his infuriating appraisal with iron control, knowing she dared not let him see that he flustered her. She could never best the earl in a clash of tempers, and if he realized that his presence made her nervous and apprehensive, he might begin to wonder why.
    When she remained silent, he probed again. “I’d venture to guess you’ve dropped at least a stone since last I saw you….”
    Aware that her unusual silence might be as damning as a display of temperament, Jessica nodded with exaggerated courtesy and responded tartly, “And you look bigger than ever—too big to be quite natural. Are you sure your mother didn’t mate with a Minotaur or something?”
    Raeburn’s mouth thinned. “Charming as ever, I see,” he muttered tightly. His gray eyes scanned the dim parlor again, noting the drab furnishings, the threadbare rug, the pathetically small fire in the grate. He could feel the chill through the thickness of his caped driving coat. Mentally he contrasted the cottage with the elegance of Renard Chase, where logs blazed continually in every room, making even the slick marble floors seem warm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jessica shiver, hugging her thin arms and rubbing her bare toes together, and he snapped harshly, “Why on earth don’t you quit hopping around and put on your—” He blanched, stricken. “Good Lord, Jess,” he choked, “don’t tell me you don’t have any—”
    “Of course I have shoes,” Jessica replied impatiently. “They’re warming on the hearth in the kitchen.”
    Raeburn relaxed visibly. “I’m grateful to hear that there’s a fire someplace in this house. I was beginning to think….”
    He smiled, the comers of his wide mouth spreading until they almost touched his blond side-whiskers, and Jessica, watching him warily, was reminded that when Graham Foxe chose to do so, he could radiate a charm that was well-nigh irresistible. She had seen him use it on the most stickling of dowagers during those miserable weeks in London when he had tried to get the ton to accept her clandestine marriage to Andrew. In retrospect she admitted honestly that he might have succeeded in his quest had she herself not been so incredibly defensive about her position that she managed to alienate almost everyone, including her husband. But Jessica had been very young and sensitive to snubs even when none were intended, and her nature was such that when she felt herself attacked, she attacked in return. After Raeburn managed somehow to cajole one of the, patronesses of Almack’s into issuing a pair of vouchers for the errant couple, Jessica had capped her abortive introduction to society by tossing a cup of sticky-sweet orgeat into the sneering face of Lady Daphne Templeton, the Duke of Crowell’s daughter. She had lost her temper completely when that haughty young woman asked, with a significant glance toward Jessica’s waistline, whether she planned to have her children christened by a blacksmith, since she had seen fit to be married by one….
    Raeburn suggested lightly, “If it’s warmer in the kitchen, Jess, why don’t we go in there? You and I have a great many things to discuss.”
    Jessica stiffened with alarm, and her green eyes shot sidelong toward Willa, who was standing apart, pretending not to listen to the conversation. Both women were thinking of the cradle where little Charlotte lay sleeping serenely, as ignorant of her volatile uncle’s existence as he, thankfully, was of hers. Thus far, Raeburn had conducted this reunion with far more restraint than Jessica had anticipated, but if he should discover that she had kept his brother’s only child from him….
    Bobbing a deferential curtsy, Willa gushed with an obsequiousness that, Jessica suspected, must have choked her,