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friends in his face?"
    Roddy's heart gave an old and familiar twist at the mention of Geoffrey's name. For half her life, it seemed, Roddy had been waiting. To grow up, to become a woman instead of the child she knew he thought her. But to Geoffrey, Roddy had never been more than a lovable waif with disturbing gray eyes, just as the small property he owned in Yorkshire was only a pleasant place for a holiday. Lord Cashel's heart was in Ireland, always, with the great estate that his family had held for centuries.
    He adored his new Irish bride, too. It was a storybook kind of love, because Geoffrey was a storybook prince, perfect and kind and brave. Roddy knew that. She knew him to his toes. A man of principle, a man of ideals. He had his weakness—he liked a prettily-turned ankle almost as much as he admired a well-turned phrase—but he never suffered from the graver faults that plagued Roddy and the rest of mankind. Like jealousy. Like selfish spite. Roddy ached with it. No one would ever love her as Geoffrey loved Mary... unconditionally, no matter what Roddy's strange talent might be. It was too much to ask; Great-aunt Jane's marriage had been proof enough of that. Jane's husband, too, had adored his wife, until he discovered the witch-gift of the Delamores.
    "Friend," Mrs. Delamore snorted, lifting herself to her greatest height, which came well below her husband's broad shoulders. "The man's not fit to kiss a viper, far less call Lord Cashel his friend."
    Roddy's father took a sturdy swig of his brandy. "Dearest, you must understand. Geoffrey's been close to Iveragh since they were boys. I simply don't see how we can exclude him from the dinner party without giving offense."
    "Nonsense." Her mother tapped her palm with her fan and eyed her husband suspiciously. "There must be horses in it."
    Roddy wanted to smile. Sometimes it was as if her mother, too, had the gift, so well could she penetrate her husband's follies. Along with Geoffrey's note to her father informing him of Cashel's yearly arrival in the neighborhood had come a curt letter from his houseguest Lord Iveragh, stating bluntly that he recalled Mr. Delamore's interest in Iveragh's string of Thoroughbred broodmares, which were currently up for sale upon the closing of his racing stable. Lord Iveragh was at Mr. Delamore's convenience, if he wished to discuss the matter.
    Her father cleared his throat. "I'm sure there'll be no talk of horses at table," he said smoothly, and then added, with an ill-advised spurt of honesty, "At all events, not when the ladies are present."
    Mrs. Delamore made a face. "I thought as much."
    "Well, my dear," he said mildly, "if you see fit to rescind an invitation which I've already proffered, I'm sure I'll stand behind you."
    "Already proffered—Frederick, you didn't!"
    "I'm afraid I did. I saw Geoffrey this morning, and Iveragh, too, on my usual rounds. I must say, he didn't seem such a dreadful fellow to me. Quite the gentleman, really."
    Once again, Roddy kept her amusement to herself. Her father was as contemptuous of Iveragh as her mother, but when he saw a chance for some profitable horsetrading, the opportunity overcame all scruples.
    Mrs. Delamore bowed her blond head, touching the bridge of her nose with her fan in an attitude of suffering. "For Geoffrey's sake," she mused unhappily, "I suppose I must endure it. But I dread the talk."
    "Well, he's Cashel's guest, after all," her husband said in a deliberately jovial tone. "I hardly think the county can cut
you
for his lamentable presence in the neighborhood."
    "Perhaps not." Mrs. Delamore sighed, and looked up at her daughter. "But I won't have Roddy present. You may go down to your cousin at Thirsk."
    Roddy came alive at this threat to her plans. "I won't! I'm not a child, if you please. And I've already made Lord Iveragh's acquaintance." A wave of dismay emanated from her father at this announcement, but Roddy ignored it. " 'Twas at the races, a month ago. I liked him