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love as I am not in a position to do so. That is all.”
    “Does the lady return your affection?” demanded the duke.
    “I believe she is not indifferent to me.”
    “How old is this village charmer?”
    “She will now be eighteen years.”
    “And when did you last see Miss Walters?”
    “Two years ago.”
    “Two years! She may be wed.”
    Peter shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I have a friend in the village who writes to me from time to time. The last letter received was a month ago and Sarah was still unwed. She is very young.”
    “May I point out that two years is a long time,” said the duke, “and in that time Miss Sarah may have changed a great deal. If you put it from your mind, you will forget her.”
    “You do not believe in undying love, Your Grace?” said Lizzie with that mocking note in her voice that irritated him.
    “As a matter of fact, I do not believe in love at all,” said the duke.
    “It might ease Mr. Bond’s mind were he allowed time to travel to his village and see for himself,” pointed out Miss Trumble.
    “If I recall, Mr. Bond lives in Cambridgeshire,” said the duke. “Too long a journey. I need him here. Besides, secretaries do not marry. Mr. Bond knew that very well when he took up the appointment.”
    “Why should not secretaries marry?” asked Lizzie. “Is it because they are supposed to be married to their employers?”
    “Please
, Miss Lizzie,” begged Peter, looking at the duke’s hard face.
    “Does Miss Walters have brothers and sisters?” asked Miss Trumble.
    “She only has one brother, serving in the navy. She had two sisters, younger than she, but they died of cholera.”
    “So that is only three—daughter, mother and father,” mused Miss Trumble. “Mannerling is such a large place and so many rooms. Why, three extra guests at your house party would practically go unnoticed.”
    The duke was aware of a pair of mocking green eyes on his face waiting for him to give Miss Trumble a set-down.
    “Yes, why not,” he said, locking eyes with Lizzie. “Mr. Bond, you may send out an invitation to Squire Walters and his family.”
    “Oh, Your Grace. How can I ever thank you?”
    “By not letting your unrequited passion interfere with your work,” said the duke acidly.
    “Oh, now that is settled,” said Lizzie, clapping her hands, “would you care for a game of croquet?”
    Mr. Bond looked at the duke who said, “It is your free day. You may do as you wish.”
    “We will all play,” said Miss Trumble.
    What should have been an amiable and friendly game became a serious contest when it became clear that Lizzie and the duke were determined to beat each other.
    At last Lizzie won and danced around the lawn, waving her mallet in the air and crying, “I beat you! I beat you!”
    “Unruly child,” admonished Miss Trumble. “Let us repair indoors and have some nuncheon. The exercise will have given us an appetite.”
    The duke hesitated. He felt he had lowered himself by playing croquet with a noisy hoyden and his own secretary. And yet a feeling that they would all enjoy themselves immensely once he had gone made him say, “How kind.”
    When they were seated round the dining-table, the duke said, “Does Lady Beverley know I am here?”
    “I did not tell her,” said Miss Trumble. “Lady Beverley is not well and she should not be disturbed by any excitement.”
    Peter would normally have been shy at sitting down to a meal with his employer, but Lizzie began to chat about the latest letters she had received from her sisters and how happy they all were and Miss Trumble began to tease the duke, saying that Lizzie’s sisters’ happiness all went to prove that love was a necessary ingredient in a marriage.
    “These are unusual cases,” said the duke loftily. “For my part, I have found that an arranged marriage between suitable parties is the only recipe for success.”
    “You mean,” said Lizzie, “that some lady will marry you for your title and