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everyone in the room, from oldest to youngest, responded to that air of authority.
    "My Lord." Diana, dazzled like the others, swept into a low curtsey, completely abandoning her boredom. Olivia liked her better for the uncertainty, though doubtless that was her own lack of polish showing.
    Lord Fitzalan cleared his throat.
    "Miss Royce, do not stand on my account." The earl caught Fitzalan's eye and added, "Treat Pennhyll as if it were your home. Please." With another stiff bow, he extended his elbow to her, and Diana put her hand on his arm. He led her to the chaise, seeing her seated before he faced the room in general. Olivia could not help but recall the rumor that Tiern-Cope had a special license, and that he intended to be married and return to the Navy forthwith.
    Fitzalan managed the remaining introductions. The earl acknowledged everyone with a bow and a murmur. Not impolite, just not warm. In order of precedence, Olivia came dead last and so, eventually, only she remained to be introduced. Fitzalan remained silent long enough to give Olivia the unpleasant thought that he did not mean to present her at all. Tiern-Cope's arctic eyes landed on Fitzalan.
    "James." Inflection made the word a query, but no one doubted he'd uttered a command for introduction.
    "Ah, yes, do forgive me." Fitzalan guided Olivia's gloved hand to the earl. "Miss Olivia Willow. May I have the pleasure of presenting the Right Honorable Sebastian, earl of Tiern-Cope and master of Pennhyll Castle?"
    He must know something of the night his brother died, that she'd been there, too, and nearly died herself. Perhaps he blamed her, certainly she doubted he pitied her. He didn't strike her as a man likely to pity anyone. Whatever he thought, she ought not expect anything beyond polite reserve. She got less. Tiern-Cope took her hand without even an approximation of a smile. Rather the opposite in fact. Well. So be it.
    "Tiern-Cope, I present Miss Olivia Willow of Far Caister." That might have sounded grand if only Far Caister weren't a village not a mile from the castle walls.
    While she curtseyed she felt him taking in everything about her, from her satin slippers scuffed at the toe and much down at the heel to the lack of ribbons and lace on her gown. This meeting wasn't anything like what she'd imagined, nor was the man, for that matter. Without doubt, any interest he showed was due to that awful day, and still the intensity of his regard made her wish for finer jewelry than her coral beads or for gloves better able to withstand such scrutiny. Most especially, she wished for a grander place to call home than Far Caister. The vanity of her regret struck her as so absurd that when she raised her eyes, she was smiling. Not at him, of course, that was accidental, but he might be excused if he thought so. She met a pair of cold, blue eyes. "My Lord."
    "You have red hair." The remark most definitely accused.
    "Red, indeed," she said. For heaven's sake, did he think she had red hair just to irritate him? "Hopelessly red, my Lord. And violently unfashionable." She grinned and made sure her eyes emptied of emotion. "The bane of my existence, I'll be the first to tell you." She cocked one eyebrow, still smiling. "I am content with my hair, for I know I shall never be mistaken for anyone else." A titter guaranteed he'd take her for just another gormless female. She despised herself for it.
    "You and I have much to discuss." He watched her with something between a glare and a glower. That, too, was unfair of her, she decided. For all she knew, this was his usual expression of good cheer.
    "Sir," she said. Of course he wanted to know about that night, only there was precious little she could tell him. In her head, she saw him pacing the deck of a ship, a cat-o'-nine tails clenched in a fist while sailors cowered at his feet. The image, perversely, since it seemed so apt, made her smile again.
    Silence reared up, a vast, icy wall. Oh, Miss Cage was right, the man