He had tried to make allowances for her youth, though, to allow her to meet other eligible gentlemen before she saw him again. Hence his decision not to arrive too soon in London when she was finally eighteen and about to make her come-out. She must be allowed some little time, he had decided, to discover if her heart was indeed as set upon him as she believed it to be.

  There was no longer any question of his eligibility, thank God. The circumstances of his life had changed and helped him to change. His father had died six months after the Bath incident, and Julian had been able to set to work on the difficult task of bringing the Cornwall property and estate back to something resembling the splendor and prosperity they had enjoyed before the Duke of Stanbrook, Julian’s grandfather, had willed them to his younger son. Lord Charles Crabbe, Julian’s father, had lived a life of expense and dissipation and had neglected his inheritance, except to draw every penny from the rents he squeezed out of tenants whose genuine complaints had gone unheeded for years.

  Julian had worked hard to reverse the long neglect, and this year he expected to make a decent profit from his farms and holdings, even if not a fortune. Next year would bring higher returns, and the year after more again. He would see to that.

  He was not without fortune even now, however. His maternal grandmother, who had died just one month after his father, had left half her considerable fortune to his mother and half to him.

  He had something solid, then, with which to convince Mr. Dean that he was a worthy suitor—accomplishments that came from both steady hard work and inherited wealth. And, of course, there were his expectations, for his uncle, the present Duke of Stanbrook, had shown no inclination to remarry since the death of Aunt Miriam, and no inclination therefore to secure the succession in his direct line. Julian had the probability, then, of a future dukedom to dangle before Mr. Dean.

  But now everything had changed. He had waited too long, and she was to be affianced to Viscount Darleigh.

  “You have turned quite white,” Barbara said from her place beside him at the breakfast table. She set a hand over his. “It is bad news. I know. She told me in her note.”

  They were alone there, his aunt and uncle having withdrawn from the room to go about their own business.

  “She will say no,” Barbara assured him. “She will refuse to marry him, and then she will return to London, where you will be waiting for her.”

  “No.” He refolded the pink note into its eight folds. “I have heard of Middlebury Park, Barbara. It is one of the great showpieces of England. Its owner is a viscount and I have no doubt he is vastly wealthy. And he is actively in search of a bride. Philippa has been invited there with her family specifically for his inspection. He is not going to reject her under the circumstances, is he? He has committed himself, and the Deans have committed themselves by going there.”

  “But he is blind,” Barbara said.

  Julian picked up and unfolded the note again.

  “I cannot say no if he offers,” Philippa had written. “I cannot, Julian. Mama has impressed upon me that it is my duty to do this for Papa’s sake. And the duty is one of love. I might resist if he were a tyrant, or if Mama were. But they are not. And my sisters are excited at the prospect of my marrying a viscount and being able to sponsor dazzling come-outs for them when it is their turn. Oh, Julian! My only hope is that he will not offer for me, and I shall do all in my power to see to it that he does not. I do not know how that is to be accomplished, though, or even if it can be accomplished. I can only try.”

  Julian refolded the letter with deliberate care and got to his feet.

  “What are you going to do?” Barbara asked. “Will you go back home?”

  Something was niggling at the back of Julian’s mind. He held up a staying hand and frowned in thought. Darleigh. A blind man. Was it possible?

  “My uncle,” he said, “the Duke of Stanbrook, that is, opened his home during the wars to officers while they recuperated from the wounds they had sustained in battle. He had lost my cousin in the wars, you know, and then Aunt Miriam. I suppose it was his way of keeping busy and … healing himself.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I remember your telling us, Julian.”

  “Some of them stayed for several years,” he said. “One of them was blind and very young. I wish I could recall his name. Was it Darleigh? By God, it was. I remember at one time my father making a joke about Darling Darleigh. It was him, Barbara. He did not have the title when he went to Penderris Hall. He acquired it later. That was when my father made that joke.”

  “And now he is going to marry Philippa,” she said. “Oh, Julian, I am so sorry.”

  He looked at her, the frown still on his face.

  “Middlebury Park,” he said. “It is not even so very far from here. And I met him once, you know, when I went to Penderris with my father.”

  “What are you thinking, Julian?” she asked after a lengthy silence.

  “I am thinking,” he said, “that I have an acquaintance not far from Middlebury Park, whom I have been meaning forever to visit. I am thinking that it would be common civility to call at Middlebury while I am in the vicinity to pay my respects to Lord Darleigh, my uncle’s friend.”

  “You have an acquaintance nearby?” she asked, her eyes widening—and then narrowing again. “Oh, of course you do not. But what can you hope to accomplish by going there, Julian?”

  To plant Darleigh a facer? A blind man? Great credit that would gain him. To plant Dean a facer? Better still. That would clear his reputation for all eternity. To throw Philippa over his horse before him and gallop off for the border and Gretna Green? A marvelously mature plan.

  But go he must. He could not remain passively here or go back home to Cornwall while all his hopes and dreams—his very being—were being shattered where he had no control whatsoever over them.

  “I have no idea,” he told his cousin quite truthfully.

  2

  Middlebury Park was indeed an imposing mansion, its gray stone central block flanked by long wings with tall round towers at each corner. There were formal gardens in front of it, a lake and island off to one side below undulating lawns dotted with ancient trees.

  It was all enough to strike terror into the most intrepid of hearts.

  “Oh, Philippa,” her mother said, her voice hushed with awe as the carriage made its way up the straight driveway toward the house. “You are to be mistress of this place.”

  “The offer has not been formally made yet,” her father said more cautiously. He turned his head to smile fondly at his eldest daughter and reached across the seat to squeeze her cold hand. “But there can surely be little doubt that it will.”

  Philippa’s two sisters and their governess were coming behind in a second carriage. Philippa felt an overwhelming longing to be with them again, back in the schoolroom, where life was dull but safe. She wondered fleetingly how she would be feeling at this moment if she had never met Julian. Would she be filled with excited anticipation, even if Viscount Darleigh was blind? But it was a question impossible to answer, for she had met Julian, and so her heart was in her shoes and heavy with dread.

  The front doors had opened and spilled out ladies by the time the carriages drew to a halt on the terrace. Philippa recognized Mrs. Pearl in their midst, Grandmama’s friend, the viscount’s grandmother. Soon they were engulfed in greetings and introductions, while the girls and their governess were whisked off indoors.

  Mrs. Pearl introduced them to Mrs. Hunt, her daughter and the viscount’s mother, and to his three sisters, whose names Philippa forgot the instant she heard them. Philippa had a bright smile on her face, and they all looked back at her with identical smiles and frank curiosity. Mrs. Pearl called upon her daughter to agree that she had not exaggerated Miss Dean’s prettiness, and Mrs. Hunt declared that indeed she had not.

  And then they were taken up to the drawing room, a magnificent apartment overlooking the parterre gardens, where they were introduced to the sisters’ husbands, and there were more smiles and handshakes and curtsies and bows.

  And then everyone stood back, for there was another gentleman standing farther into the room, close to the windows. Viscount Darleigh. Philippa was painfully conscious of everyone’s attention focusing upon their first meeting.

  She curtsied and murmured his name.

  He bowed and murmured hers.

  He was of slightly above average height, slender and elegant. He had fair, wavy hair and a handsome, good-humored face. His eyes, large and very blue, were—sad irony—his best feature.

  Philippa felt her heart sink lower than it already was—if that were possible. She had hoped for an ugly, boorish, ill-bred, unkempt, bad-tempered man, even though Mrs. Pearl had described him quite otherwise. She would have felt pity for such a man, she supposed, for she could not imagine an affliction much worse than blindness. But at least then her mama and papa would have recognized his unsuitability as a husband for her and would have found a way of rescuing her. They loved her, after all. They wanted a happy marriage for her as well as an eligible one.

  He was not boorish. He proceeded to converse with her parents, asking them about their journey, hoping it had not been tedious. He apologized for bringing them away from London at a time when they—and Miss Dean—must have been enjoying the social entertainments of the Season. He hoped their stay at Middlebury Park and the company of friends would atone for what they would miss in town.

  Viscount Darleigh was charming as well as handsome, and he had the uncanny ability to look in the direction of the person who was speaking almost as if he could see that person. He moved about with the aid of a cane but with surprising confidence. It was clear that he had learned how to cope with his blindness at least within the confines of his own home.

  If circumstances had been different, Philippa admitted through the rest of the day, she might well have been happy to fall in love with Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh.

  But her heart was already taken.

  She noticed a few interesting things about him, perhaps because she was observing him so closely, desperately hoping to find a way out of having to marry him.

  He did not like being treated as a blind man. The solicitude with which his mother and sisters treated him annoyed him. She was not quite sure how she knew it, for he was careful to smile at them and thank them each time they did something for him. But she did know it, just as she knew that he was irritated by the way their voices changed when they spoke to him. They spoke gently, as one would speak to a child or an invalid. They tended to use the same phrases rather frequently—I understand and I do not mind—to assure him that tending to him was no trouble at all. But Philippa could see his lips slightly thinning each time. It was bothersome to him, if not to them.

  And the suspicion grew upon her as that first day and then the next went by that the idea of finding him a bride, of bringing her here for his approval, had not been his. He had five close female relatives—mother, grandmother, and sisters—all of whom clearly adored him and would give their lives for him if such a sacrifice were ever called for. They were smothering him. And now they wanted a wife for him so that she would smother him with love and care too.

  Poor gentleman!

  How could she escape becoming that wife?

  How could she get back to London before Julian arrived there and left again? Had her letter reached him in time, before he left home? What if it had not? What would he think if he arrived in London and she was not there? They had waited two years. And happiness had been so nearly within their grasp at last. But nearly was not close enough. There is many a slip twixt cup and lip. She wished her grandmother had not always been so ready with those old adages.

  The trouble was that the stay at Middlebury Park really was pleasant. It was pleasant to be treated as an adult at last, to be included in conversations, to have her comments and opinions both solicited and listened to.

  But all too often she was pushed into Viscount Darleigh’s sole company, even if they were in a room with others, as they almost always were. Mama was always punctilious about her being properly chaperoned. But everyone, Mama included, contrived ways of allowing them to conduct an almost private conversation.

  She was tongue-tied and breathless with him, as she was not with everyone else, and unable to think of anything but the most banal things to say to him. She found herself simply agreeing with whatever he said. Was her problem that he was blind? Or that she did not want to encourage his addresses? Or that she would surely have liked him if she did not also have to marry him? But the great discomfort she felt in his presence eventually gave her an idea. A rather dishonorable idea that nevertheless developed into a definite plan.

  Of course, she could have dispensed with a plan altogether and simply told him the truth. She was almost sure he would be relieved, that he did not wish to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him. But was being almost sure enough?

  What if she was wrong?

  And so she made her plan.

  She started to agree with him on purpose and upon everything. She began to speak breathlessly and to use a tone of quiet attentiveness, as his mother and sisters did. Whenever possible, she lent him a helping hand when she knew he did not need one.

  She felt dreadful.

  But she had not been wrong in her understanding of him, she soon realized. His gentle, smiling courtesy was largely a shield behind which he hid the frustrations, even perhaps the anger, of a man who could not meet his world quite on a par with other men. She wondered that everyone else had not noticed.

  She could have tried to be his friend. A friend was what he needed in this house. But she dared not. She dared not risk being misunderstood and forced into marriage with him. Not that she was sure she would not be anyway.

  Oh, if it came to the point, she would have to tell him. He needed more than a friend in a wife, and how could she be even that when her heart belonged to another man?

  Matters came to a head on the afternoon of the third day, when they were sent out to the parterre gardens, the two of them, while Philippa’s maid stood unobtrusively on the terrace beyond for appearance’s sake. She would be willing to bet that there was more than one pair of eyes surreptitiously watching them from the drawing room above. She did not look up to see.

  They were seated, though there was a crisp breeze blowing. They were surrounded by tulips and irises in freshly turned soil. It was tragic that he could not see such beauty. They had conversed politely on a number of topics, or at least he had said a few things and she had agreed with him. She was feeling mortally depressed, for his family had been exceedingly kind to her and her parents, and even to her sisters, who had been invited to tea in the drawing room yesterday. Her mother was over the moon with happiness for her, as she had told her last night when she came to her bedchamber. She was delighted with Viscount Darleigh’s appearance and manners and address, as she had every reason to be. And she spoke of her daughter’s betrothal to him as a foregone conclusion. All she wondered was how many days would pass before he declared himself. Surely no more than two or three.

  There had been a brief lull in the conversation.

  Philippa clasped her hands very tightly in her lap. She could feel her heart thumping in her bosom. Should she simply do it? Tell him the truth, that was? Tell him that she liked him but could never marry him? But how could she? He had not even asked her yet. What if he had no intention of doing so? She would want a hole to open up in the garden and plummet her down to China.

  “I am firmly of the opinion,” Lord Darleigh said in his pleasant, courteous voice, “that the scientific world has been in a wicked conspiracy against the masses for the past number of centuries, Miss Dean, in order to convince us that the earth is round. It is, of course, quite undeniably flat. Even a fool could see that. If one were to walk to the edge of it, one would fall off and never be heard of again. What is your opinion?”

  She turned her head sharply to gaze at his profile. Oh, he knew her game and he was trying to flush her out into the open. Surely. He could not possibly be serious. Surely she could relax now, laugh merrily, and ask him if he was as desperate to get out of this situation devised by their parents as she was.

  But it was so much more difficult to be spontaneous with a stranger than it would seem. For there was the smallest possibility that he was serious. And if she laughed at him …

  Well, she simply could not risk it.

  “I am quite sure you have the right of it, my lord,” she said.

  And she willed him to laugh and ask her if she was as desperate as he to be free of this farce.

  Instead, he smiled politely and asked her if the wind was too chilly for her.

  She was a bit angry, a bit bewildered. He was playing games as surely as she was. Did he expect her to speak the truth first? It was very unfair of him. It showed a lack of gallantry.

  But perhaps he believed she really was a peagoose.

  She set her fingertips on his sleeve and spoke in her sweetest, most breathless voice. She really was quite angry.

  “I did not at all mind coming here, you know, Lord Darleigh,” she said. “Even though I have been looking forward forever to my first Season in London and do not remember ever being happier than I was on the night of my come-out ball. But I know enough about life to understand that I was taken there not just for enjoyment. Mama and Papa have explained what a wonderful opportunity this invitation is for me, as well as for my sisters and brothers. I did not mind coming, truly. Indeed, I came willingly. I understand, you see, and I will not mind one little bit.”

  And if that did not flush him out into the open, she did not know what would.

  “You will think I am forward,” she added for good measure, “though I am not usually so outspoken. I just thought you needed to know that I do not mind. For perhaps you fear I do.”

  Perhaps, she thought, she was merely digging a deeper and deeper hole for herself. For perhaps she had read all the signs wrong. And if so, then she had surely just committed herself to the very future she was most intent upon avoiding.