She rose quickly from her seat when Thornberry announced him, intending to go into the drawing room to receive their old family friend. Her grandmother and Mrs Stillwater had been close in years past, and she had always been more than kind to Angelique.

“Bring him in, Thornberry,” said Heyworth, stopping Angelique in her tracks. “Set another place and let him join us here.”

She scowled at Heyworth, looking squarely at him for the first time since he’d entered the breakfast room. She had not trusted herself to do so before.

And with good reason. He was outfitted as any gentleman might be, in a green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, a black cutaway frock coat, and dun-coloured trews. And yet he filled them out as no other gentleman could do. His raw masculinity was beyond tempting, but Angelique wanted nothing to do with a man who could lie so convincingly to her.

Her father had made a far too frequent practice of it with her mother. Women, drink and cards … Viscount Derington had done it all, and lied to Suzette through his teeth about his women and his gaming losses. His behaviour and the pain it caused her mother had taught her well. Angelique had no intention of losing her heart to a scoundrel like her father. When Rathby had told her the truth about Heyworth, she’d picked up her skirts and fled as quickly as possible to Florence, where she had friends.

“Good morning, good morning!” said Squire Stillwater as he entered the breakfast room.

He was barely as tall as Angelique, had the ruddiest complexion and brightest smile of anyone she’d ever known. The sight of him there, in Primrose Cottage, brought back memories of earlier days, and Angelique felt a deep twinge of grief for the loss of her father. She hadn’t shed a tear for him, and yet now she was on the verge.

She took a sip of tea to clear the sudden burning in her throat.

“Oh dear,” said the Squire. “I fear I have interrupted your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” said Heyworth, as though he owned Primrose Cottage. Angelique was temporarily glad of his proprietary manner, for it changed the cheerless direction of her thoughts. “Please join us.”

“Alas, but no. I cannot. We heard word of the Miss Drummonds’ arrival, and Mrs Stillwater bade me to ride over first thing … well, nearly first thing—” he chuckled “—to invite you to sup with us this evening at Tapton Manor. We had no idea Your Grace was here as well. You’ve come down for the race?”

“Aye,” Heyworth replied. Angelique looked at him sharply. Hadn’t he come to Berkshire … well, for her?

“The festivities are in full swing. Perhaps you’ll go into town and enjoy the fair — a real medieval exhibition with … Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear.” Stillwater seemed to take note of Angelique’s mourning attire all at once. He and his wife had travelled to London for the funeral, of course, but they were not compelled in any way to observe a mourning period for Viscount Derington. “Please accept my sincere apologies … I should never have mentioned—”

“Thank you, Squire. Though we cannot attend any of the activities in town, my aunt and I would be pleased to join you this evening. ’Twill be an intimate gathering?”

“Oh yes, of course. Our granddaughter, Caroline, and her husband have come down, and we’ll have a few neighbours as well.” He turned towards Heyworth. “And of course, Your Grace, if you would care to join us.”

Heyworth gave a slight bow of acquiescence. “I would be honoured to escort Miss Drummond and her aunt.”

“Esc—?” Angelique closed her mouth tightly and bit her tongue. She needed no escort, especially not an arrogant nobleman who quite obviously believed that women ought to worship at the sight of him. As she had done last night, much to her chagrin.

She knew better now.

It was truly unfortunate that Angelique was unable to come into town and enjoy the lively fair with its jesters and jugglers, its roving musicians and craftsmen’s booths. Heyworth remembered that she enjoyed such entertainments. They’d attended plays in Drury Lane and concerts in Vauxhall Gardens. They’d played cricket in the park in May of that fateful spring when Heyworth had courted her, and ridden together along the pretty bridle paths near Primrose Cottage.

But with her father so recently in his grave, she could not indulge in such frivolity. Heyworth knew it was not going to be easy for her, not that she’d been close to her sire in recent years. Derington had been an inept father, and an even worse husband, if the rumours were to be believed. He’d run through his own inheritance and, as far as Heyworth could ascertain, the Viscount had left only a small annuity to support Angelique and her aunt.

There’d been no dowry two years before, when Heyworth had offered for her, but that had been no obstacle to his intentions. She might have been destitute for all he cared. He had wanted Angelique and Angelique alone.

That had not changed. If anything, he wanted her more today than he had two years before.

It was a particularly warm day even here in the country, and Heyworth was glad to have escaped the heat and stench of London. He felt confident of his mission in Berkshire, convincing Angelique of his sincere intentions and winning her as his wife. There was nothing that mattered more to him.

A large number of London’s fashionable set had arrived for tomorrow’s race, and Heyworth knew he wouldn’t have been able to hire a room even if he wanted one. He stabled his horse and took in the sights of Maidstone while he walked through the crowded lanes. He had one purpose in mind, but was interrupted by a sour greeting from his one-time nemesis. Rathby.

Heyworth had forgotten Rathby owned a country estate nearby. The bastard had been on friendly terms with Derington and his family, which was the reason he’d had the opportunity to tell his lies to Angelique. And why she had believed him.

“Heyworth, what are you doing here?” There was no mistaking the hostility in Rathby’s voice.

“I’ve come down for the race, of course,” Heyworth replied as smoothly as he could. He had no intention of mentioning Angelique’s presence at Primrose Cottage, although it was only a matter of time before Rathby discovered it for himself. “Have you bribed anyone this time round, Rathby?”

The other man coloured deeply. “You have your nerve, Heyworth. Naught was ever proved.”

“No, but you forget — I saw you with my own eyes. Paying off a jockey. My guess is that you’re far more careful not to be seen these days.”

The Earl sputtered, and Heyworth brushed past him before the man could refute the charge, his mind whirling with possibilities. Rathby’s presence could very well work to Heyworth’s advantage, if he played him just right.

Solidifying a plan in his mind, the Duke entered a little shop of novelties. Several other shoppers were looking at the wares displayed on the shelves while the proprietor looked on. Heyworth browsed the offerings, bent on finding just the right gift for Angelique.

He spied it almost immediately.

“Would you mind,” he said to the shop owner, pointing to a lovely music box on a high shelf.

“Of course, My Lord,” said the man, who moved a ladder into place and climbed up to retrieve the box that featured a pair of dancing dolls on its top — a blonde lady, and the gentleman as dark as Heyworth. “They dance while it plays a right pretty tune, sir.”

He handed it to Heyworth, who gave the key on the bottom several twists. When he set it on the counter, the dancers moved around a clever little track on top while the box played a tinkling version of the Mozart waltz that had been his first dance with Angelique.

“How much?”

Heyworth paid the man and watched him wrap it, then he went back to the stable for his horse. He had a short visit to make at Squire Stillwater’s manor before returning to Primrose Cottage. And a favour to ask.

“Tell my aunt I’ve gone to the lake to read,” Angelique called to her maid as she stuffed a book into a small satchel alongside a spare shift, a thin blanket and a towel. Fortunately, Minerva was napping. She would be horrified to know Angelique’s true intentions.

Well, it was nearly as hot in Berkshire as it was in London, and Angelique had become accustomed to swimming on sultry days while in Italy. So even if Minerva wouldn’t approve, Angelique had no qualms about taking a short dip in the private lake nearby. She hoped the cool water would help clear her head.

She wanted to dispel all memories of Heyworth’s touch. She would never marry the man, and such intimacies were absolutely unacceptable. She couldn’t succumb to him again. The bond between them was merely physical attraction. There was no substance to his intentions — no honesty beyond the pleasure of the moment. Angelique refused to become the same kind of wretched victim her mother had been, waiting for the man she loved to favour her with his presence. Always wondering if her husband’s assertion of love was sincere and true, or yet another falsehood from an inveterate womanizer.

The lake was small, and its location a secluded little glade, the perfect haven in which to spend a warm, sunny afternoon with her dismal thoughts. It was quite different from the lake near her little villa in Florence. There was hardly any beach at all, with an unkempt lawn and trees growing right up to the water’s edge.

It was where her father had taught her to swim when she was a child, when he had found it amusing to pretend to be a father.

It was peaceful and quiet at the lake, but Angelique found it painful to think of her father, of the weeks he’d been ill before she’d come home. She hadn’t believed his first letter, and it wasn’t until the third that she’d realized he was in earnest. He was dying.