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men by showing myself to be intellectual, and better educated than they were. I know that I gained the reputation, in a short while, of being a dowdy bluestocking—a born spinster. My mother despaired of me. Her friends commiserated with her, sometimes in tones loud enough for me to hear.
    I do not know how long matters might have gone on the way they were if Sir Edgar hadn’t suddenly decided that I must be married off. I had hardly spoken to him since that first day, but I’m sure my mother must have complained to him how recalcitrant I was, and how embarrassed I had made her feel on several occasions. Edgar Cardon had never liked my father, and I’m sure that my presence in his house was a living reminder to him of Guy Dangerfield.
    Several months had passed since I had arrived in England, and the dull routine of my days had almost become a habit, when Tom Wilkinson came calling on me one afternoon.
    We were already into autumn, and the servants had begun lighting fires every afternoon. I was in the library, desultorily searching through the shelves for a book I had not yet read, as he was announced.
    â€œMr. Wilkinson, to see Lady Rowena.”
    I turned around in some annoyance when Briggs announced him, and then quickly withdrew. I did not like Tom Wilkinson, especially since he was the most persistent of my so-called suitors. “A stout Yorkshire lad,” Sir Edgar had stated bluffly when he introduced us, and indeed Tom was not only stout but short and squat as well—a dark-featured, bumptious young man who was always boasting of his fortune, his father’s mills, and the grand house he had built for his future family.
    Of all the young men I had met, Tom Wilkinson was so conceited and so full of himself that he ignored—or pretended to ignore—the fact that I had no time, and hardly any conversation to offer him. He implied, in fact, that my quiet demeanor and dowdy way of dressing actually appealed to him. I was obviously not the kind of woman who might give him cause for jealousy, and my reserve and coldness of manner seemed to attract him, instead of putting him off.
    On the last occasion we had met I’dhardly said two words to him, and had thought, thankfully, that I’d seen the last of him—and now here he was, intruding into my privacy, with that annoying, everlasting grin still on his face.
    â€œNo need to look at me so haughty-like, Lady Rowena. I’ve your stepfather’s permission to call on you this afternoon. ‘You’ll find her in the library,’ he said. ‘Just get Briggs to announce you.’ And so here I am!”
    He looked at me, grinning and licking his thick lips. “Come, lass—no need to pretend you’re not glad to see me, eh? They told me you’ve a habit of hiding yourself in here, but that’s a waste! You’re a lady, and I know that, but I’m here with the consent of your stepfather—aye, and your mother too. There’s no more need to act so priggish and standoffish with me. I’ve come to offer for you—and I hope you aren’t going to be missish and act surprised, for I’m sure you’ve known what I’ve had in mind. I may be a blunt Yorkshireman, but I’m proud of it, and I’ve made up my mind! You’re not going to act coy, now, are you? I think you’re a sensible lass, with no fuss or frills about you—and that’s why I chose you.”
    All the time he was talking he kept stalking me around the room, forcing me to retreat, and quite ignoring my angry protests. “Come, now,” he said coaxingly, his pop-eyes looking paler than ever in the diffused light, “I ain’t going to hurt you, you know! Haven’t I just proposed marriage? All I’m asking is a kiss to seal the bargain. Now, you ain’t too shy for that, are you?”
    â€œMr. Wilkinson—Tom—I do wish you’d stop making a ridiculous fool of