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quite wonderful life
awaited her in London.
    Another tear splashed onto the blue velvet
coverlet.
     
    “ Papa.” Caroline curtsied to the Duke
of Longville, who was standing before the fireplace in the
bookroom, the very same fireplace that had crackled so merrily
during her highly irregular conversation with a perfect stranger.
An anxious glance at her father’s face could find no indication
that the duke had heard of last night’s indiscretion. On a wave of
relief, Caroline sank into the same black leather wingchair she had
occupied the night before.
    “ You have broken your fast?” the duke
inquired politely.
    “ Yes, papa. I breakfasted in my room.”
A cowardly maneuver, but as the dreaded moment approached,
Caroline’s gift for polite conversation had deserted her. Hiding
had seemed the lesser of two evils.
    Her father seated himself in the chair across
from her. The comparison with her companion of the night before was
inevitable. Oddly enough, the younger man was not the easy winner.
The Duke of Longville, at only two and forty, was still a
stunningly attractive man, his wealth and power adding an
additional confidence to the set of his shoulders, an unconsciously
arrogant tilt of his head. It would be a number of years, if ever,
before even the insouciant panache of the man called Tony could
compete with Marcus Carlington, Duke of Longville.
    How odd, Caroline thought, as her
father clutched the arms of the chair, shifted uneasily on the soft
leather upholstery. Almost . . . almost she could suspect he was as
disquieted as herself. As unsure of what to say and how to say it.
How did one talk, father to
daughter, after eight years of nothing more than a letter at
Christmas, duly channeled through her parents’ respective
solicitors? Years when the duke had not known where his wife and
child had gone, a secrecy insisted upon by Amy, Duchess of
Longville, and reluctantly agreed to by her husband.
    “ Caroline,” the duke declared, a spark
flickering in the depths of his amber eyes, “how is it you have
arrived on my doorstep accompanied by a young person who looks and
speaks not more than a cut above a tavern wench?”
    Ah! Mama had
warned her of this gentleman’s ploy. In a spurious effort to avoid
an emotional issue, the duke was attacking on a minor and totally
irrelevant front. “Nell Brindley reminds you of a tavern wench,”
Caroline responded briskly, “because that is exactly what she is.
Her parents own the one and only tavern in Little Stoughton, and
Nell was the only female in town brave enough to accompany me to
London.”
    And what of Miss Tompkins?” the duke inquired
most awfully. “Surely I still pay her salary?”
    Not yet, oh, please, not
yet . She wasn’t ready. Caroline clenched her teeth,
fighting panic. “Miss Tompkins was unwell, papa,” she lied. “It
would have been cruel to ask her to make the journey.”
    The duke nodded, evidently accepting her
explanation. “Little Stoughton,” he murmured. “Is that not in the
Lake District?”
    “ Near Windermere, papa. A very fine
place. Believe me, we have not been deprived.” Another nod, then
the duke fell into a scowl. Obviously, he was not comfortable with
his thoughts.
    “ Caroline,” he announced stiffly, “I
did not invite you to the wedding because I thought you would not
come. And, to be frank, your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, felt
it would be painful for you.” Not to mention painful for his
prospective bride who was well aware that her step-daughter could
not possibly like her. “I am abjectly sorry if you feel I have
slighted you,” the duke rushed on. “You did receive my invitation
to live with us, to make your come-out in society as a girl your
age should?”
    Her father’s fears were so far from the
problem at hand that Caroline had difficulty making sense of his
words. “Ah . . . yes, papa. Most generous,” she murmured, “but I am
quite certain you and Lady Eugenia do not care to have