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exultant.
    “How very generous of you,” she said, for she tended toward sauciness and had never entirely curtailed that quality. “To pronounce me fit to look upon, I mean.”
    Dane’s golden eyebrows drew together in a frown. He stood but did not move toward Gloriana, who still huddled, shivering, in her tub. “You are also somewhat impudent,” he said, with an air of distraction, as though cataloging the characteristics of a temperamental horse. “No doubt, Gareth has allowed you to do whatever you pleased while I was away—my brother has ever been indulgent, with women, with children, with servants.” He paused, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. “I only hope it is not too late to render yousuitable for the proper purposes of God and man,” he finished.
    Then, turning on one heel, Dane St. Gregory, fifth baron of Kenbrook and first husband of Gloriana St. Gregory, strode into the bedchamber. Moments later, the outer door slammed.
    “I hate him,” Gloriana marveled. She sank beneath the water but, with no hope of drowning, finally rose above it again. Methodically, trembling with the chill of an English afternoon fading to evening, she washed her hair, scrubbed the rest of her body, and climbed out of her bath. After a cursory toweling with a bit of rough cloth reserved for the purpose, she took her chemise, a sturdy garment made of undyed muslin, from the bush where she’d left it and wrenched it on over her head.
    She was seated on the bench, where Dane had been, combing the tangles out of her hair and cursing under her breath with every tug, when Edward came out of her room and into the courtyard. He carried a clean kirtle of the palest blue, which he tossed to her, and then leaned with one foot braced against the end of the bench while she put on the gown.
    “Come, Gloriana,” he said, taking out a small knife and undertaking to clean his fingernails with its point, “you’ll do better to dry your hair by the fire. You could be taken by a fever if you catch a chill.”
    Gloriana did not move. She was not fragile like other people; sickness had passed her over more times than she could count. Still, for all her physical strength, she wasn’t impervious to emotion, and she teetered on the brink of tears.
    “Glory?” Edward persisted.
    “I’m all right,” she said, somewhat snappishly, combing with a vengeance now and refusing to meethis gaze. She would not let him see her weep, though he had ever been her friend; her pride was bruised and she was too vulnerable.
    Edward came and crouched before her, looking up into her face, robbing her of the last vestige of privacy. “Why do you lie?” he asked. At the same time, he reached out and took her hand, the one that had wielded the comb, and held it still. “Have the servants been carrying tales? By God, I’ll have them flogged, every one, if they’ve uttered a word to cause you hurt.”
    A sense of dread came over Gloriana, like a wintry shadow thrown across her spirit. “What is there to carry tales about?” she asked, in a small voice, bracing herself for the answer. She had known all was not right, of course, by her husband’s greeting, but there was clearly more to the matter.
    Much more.
    “Tell me, Edward,” she whispered when he hesitated.
    He closed his eyes for a moment, then raised himself up far enough to take a seat beside her on the bench. He held both her hands in his, stroking the knuckles with his thumbs. “I suppose it will be kinder, if you hear the news from me,” he said. The pain in his face was genuine. “It’s not as if such things don’t happen, as if other men don’t—”
    Gloriana squeezed his fingers hard.
    “Dane’s brought his mistress home from the Continent,” Edward said, forcing the words out in a reluctant rush.
    Gloriana felt the color drain from her face; rage followed shock, and she rose to her feet, only to be pulled back down by Edward. It was true that other men kept mistresses, and even sired