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twelve years earlier, quietly, the same way she had lived. Reverend Morgan had suggested that his fourteen-year-old daughter stay with other Methodist families when he went on a preaching circuit. Clare had flatly refused to leave the cottage, the only time she had ever defied her father. Eventually the reverend had acceded to her wishes, with the proviso that members of the society keep an eye on her when he was away.
     
    Clare had started her first small, informal class when she was only sixteen, teaching adult women to read and write. Four years later, Emily, the young second Countess of Aberdare, had set up an endowment to establish a charity school. Dozens of villagers had worked together to fix up an abandoned tithe barn. Though teachers were usually male, Clare’s experience had made her the logical choice for the new school, and she had taught there ever since. Over the years, half the people in Penreith had been her students at one time or another. The twenty pounds a year she earned would never make her rich, but it sufficed.
     
    It had taken Nicholas Davies to pry Clare away from her home and her well-ordered life. As she looked into her small back garden, not yet planted for the year, she shivered, unable to suppress the feeling that she was seeing everything for the last time. Not literally, perhaps, but in her bones she was sure that one phase of her life was ending. Whatever happened at Aberdare would change her forever. Though she doubted that the changes would be for the better, she was committed to this course and would not turn back from it.
     
    Finally, in a despairing quest for peace, she knelt and prayed, but there was no answer to her prayers. There never was.
     
    Tomorrow, as always, she must face her fate alone.
     
    3
     
      Nicholas awoke with a pounding headache, which he richly deserved. He lay still, eyes unopened, and took stock of his situation. Apparently his valet, Barnes, had put him to bed in a nightshirt. Nicholas much preferred sleeping in his skin, but he supposed that he was in no position to complain.                            
     
    He moved his head a fraction, then stopped, since it seemed in danger of falling off. He had been a damned fool and was paying the price for it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t drunk enough brandy to obliterate his memory of what had happened the previous afternoon. As he thought of the pugnacious little wench who had stamped in and taken up his ridiculous challenge, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Knowing the consequences to his head, he did neither.
     
    He had trouble believing some of the things he had said, but his memories were too clear to permit denial. Lucky that Clare Morgan hadn’t come armed; she might have decided that it was her Methodist duty to rid the world of a parasitical nobleman. He almost smiled at the thought. He had rather enjoyed their encounter, though he devoutly hoped that after mature consideration she would decide to stay home and let their bargain lapse. A female like her could seriously unbalance a man.
     
    The door swung open and soft footsteps approached. Probably Barnes, coming to see if he was awake. Preferring to be left alone, Nicholas kept his eyes shut and the footsteps retreated.
     
    But not for long. Five seconds later, icy water sluiced over Nicholas’s head. “Bloody hell!” he roared, coming up swinging. He’d kill Barnes, he’d bloody kill him.
     
    It wasn’t his valet. Nicholas opened his bleary eyes to find Clare Morgan, who stood a safe distance away with an empty china pitcher in her hand.
     
    At first he wondered if he was having an unusually vivid nightmare, but he could never have imagined the expression of sweet superciliousness on Clare’s small face, nor the cold water that saturated his nightshirt. He snarled, “What the devil did you do that for?”
     
    “Tomorrow morning has turned into tomorrow afternoon, and I’ve been waiting for three hours