One Night for Love

Until she had turned her head to meet yet another gentleman who had applied to Elizabeth for an introduction—and had found herself looking at Neville.

She had been in a daze since. She was not even sure she remembered quite what had happened. He had bowed; she had curtsied. He had called her Miss Doyle—had he? He had never called her that before. And it had been a formal bow. He had not been smiling. She had remembered—she believed she had—to call him 'my lord.'

They had both behaved as if they had not met before. And yet…

Mr. Farnhope said something to her, and she smiled at him and replied without giving her answer thought.

And yet there had been that night at the pool and in the cottage—that night she had relived over and over again during the past month. The memories had become more and more painful as time passed. It was all very well to steel oneself to doing what one knew must be done, she had found. One somehow assumed that the pain would pass, that time would heal. Time did not heal—not some wounds, at least.

She had dreamed the dream—the nightmare—a number of times during the past month.

She danced with Mr. Farnhope and knew that the eyes of the ton were on her even more intently than they had been at the start of the ball. She danced and smiled and all the while felt raw pain. Why had he come? He could not have expected to find her at tonight's ball, of course. But why had he come to London? To acquire a special license, perhaps? For Lauren this time?

She did not wish to know. It was none of her business.

And then she remembered that she was to dance the next set with him. For the first time all evening she felt the sort of panic she had felt often at Newbury Abbey and the urge to run away. But there was no park beyond the doors of Lady Ashton's mansion into which to run and no forest and no beach. Besides, running away would serve no purpose except to make it impossible to come back. A lady did not run away. Neither, for that matter, did Lily Doyle. Not any longer.

He was standing with Elizabeth, she saw as the quadrille came to an end. Mr. Farnhope led her in their direction. Neville was looking extremely elegant and handsome all in black and cream and white. He was looking at her with an unsmiling, almost haughty expression. Perhaps he too was feeling the embarrassment of knowing them to be the focus of attention, though everyone was far too well bred to stare openly. He looked unfamiliar. It was hard to believe that he was the man who had once married her—Major Lord Newbury. And the same man who had made love to her in the cottage by the waterfall.

He bowed to her again and she curtsied again.

'I hope the Countess of Kilbourne is well, my lord?' she asked him.

'I thank you, yes,' he said.

'And Lauren and Gwendoline too?'

'Both well, thank you.'

She smiled and wished fervently that Elizabeth would step into the breach—she remained silent.

'I trust you are enjoying yourself… Miss Doyle?' he asked.

'Oh, exceedingly well, thank you, my lord.' Lily remembered her smile and her fan and made use of both.

'And I trust you have been seeing something of London?'

'Not a great deal yet, my lord,' she said. 'I have been very busy.'

If Elizabeth only had a knife, Lily thought without a glimmering of amusement, she would surely be able to slice the air between them. Would no one come to the rescue? And then someone did.

'Lady Elizabeth? Would you do me the honor of presenting me—again?' It was a pleasant man's voice, and Lily turned with a grateful smile toward its owner. But she recognized him. He had been at Newbury Abbey for a few days after her arrival. He was a friend of Baron Galton, Lauren's grandfather.

'Mr. Dorsey?' Elizabeth said. She turned to Lily. 'Lily, do you remember Mr. Dorsey? Miss Doyle, sir.'

'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,' Lily said, curtsying and hoping fervently that he would stay awhile and make conversation, though she was fully aware that at any moment the next sets would be forming.

'Charmed, Miss Doyle,' he said. 'And charming too if I may be allowed to say so. Would you honor me with your hand for the next set?'

'It is promised to his lordship,' Lily said.

'Ah, of course.' He smiled at Neville. 'How do you do, Kilbourne. Then perhaps the next?'

'The next is promised to me, Dorsey.'

Lily turned in some surprise to see that the Duke of Portfrey had come up behind her. His words had been clipped and none too politely spoken.

'And every set after that is also promised,' his grace went on to say, quite erroneously. He had not even reserved the next set but one with her.

'Lyndon—' Elizabeth began.

'Good evening, Dorsey,' the duke said in quite decisively dismissive accents.

Mr. Dorsey smiled, bowed to them all, and strolled away without another word.

'Lyndon,' Elizabeth said, 'whatever possessed you to be so ill-mannered?'

'Ill-mannered, ma'am?' he said coldly. 'To keep rogues away from young innocents? I am amazed that you would deem it unexceptionable to present to Miss Doyle any scoundrel who asks for the favor.'

Elizabeth was tight-lipped and pale. 'And I am amazed, your grace,' she said, 'that you would presume to