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of her eye she saw his hands tighten behind his back. He said abruptly, "Do you still wish me to call on your father?"
    Roddy felt her cheeks turn rosy. Somehow, what had been shamelessly easy in the clothes of a stable lad became excessively brazen in a respectable drawing room. But the more she had thought about her plan the more plausible it had seemed: he needed her money, and she wanted a family and a home of her own. A marriage of convenience, to the only man with whom she could possibly hope to live. She twisted the handkerchief slowly into a ball and nodded her head.
    He let out a harsh breath, whether in relief or dismay she could not tell. She felt his eyes on her, and looked up. "For the life of me," he murmured, "I cannot understand why."
    At that, she glanced involuntarily across the room toward Geoffrey and his wife.
    "Ah," the earl murmured. She turned back to find him watching her. A faint smile twisted his lips. "I see."
    "Roddy, my dear—" Her mother's voice rose above the others, recalling her daughter to the time. A half hour was more than enough for a morning call. Roddy rose, and managed a nod toward the earl, which pleased several dowagers who interpreted its self-conscious brevity as coldness. The earl bade her good day without apparent emotion, and in a flutter of farewells she found herself back out in the fresh chill of the autumn afternoon.
     
    He came to call on her father two days later. The pretext was the broodmare sale, but Roddy had her heart in her throat as she stationed herself on a low bench, hidden by a hedge outside the open window of her father's study, to listen. If she had been able to summon the concentration in her excitement, she might have witnessed the conversation through her father's eyes and ears, but that took more discipline than her pounding pulse would afford. It was eavesdropping, plain and simple, but it seemed a minor trespass in a case that concerned her so dearly.
    The conversation was at first painfully polite, but as her father warmed to the topic of horses, he became increasingly jovial and confiding. That was part of his technique, a way to assess and soften up the opposition. Old horse-trader that he was, he did not understand that there was another deal in the offing, and so did not question his success at bargaining down a judge of horseflesh who was clearly as knowledgeable as himself. The dance of wits was long and complex, and when it ended with a handshake on the purchase of the mares at a price exactly short of a steal, Roddy's father chuckled expansively.
    "A drink on it, m'lord?" he invited, in a mood of supreme tolerance. "I've a fine cognac at hand."
    Iveragh agreed, and they subsided into the familiar male small talk that Roddy had heard a thousand times before. Nothing remotely related to herself was mentioned, and she had the unhappy thought that Iveragh might be planning to take his time and approach the subject on some later visit. Unfortunately, it was clear to Roddy that her father's friendliness was only a temporary result of the horse trade. He had no intention of meeting privately with the Devil Earl again in his lifetime.
    A short silence fell, of the kind which heralded the end of the discussion. Roddy had almost despaired of her plans when Iveragh spoke unexpectedly.
    "Mr. Delamore," he said in a calm voice, "I'd like to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."
    "Sir?" Her father was flabbergasted out of his mood of self-satisfied tranquility. "My
daughter
?"
    She could almost see the earl's dry smile. "Your daughter. Roderica. I should like to court her."
    "But—" Mr. Delamore could find no more words.
    "I'm sure this seems precipitate."
    "Precipitate—" It was a dumb echo.
    "Perhaps you should sit down a moment, Mr. Delamore."
    Roddy put her hand over her mouth to press back a giggle. What abominable aplomb! It overset her father almost as much as the unexpected topic of conversation.
    For a full minute, silence