"Are you suggesting I look tired?" Lina demanded, looking to take offense.

"No, Lady Whitmore. I'm suggesting that you rode all night over rough roads and unless you're superhuman you'd doubtless like an opportunity to relax. If you'd rather go for a brisk hike in the woods and then organize a house party, I wouldn't think of arguing."

Charlotte could practically hear Lina growling beneath her breath. It was fascinating to observe. She didn't ever remember a gentleman speaking to Lina with such a deliberately aggravating tone. Most men fell all over themselves in an effort to ingratiate themselves with her. And she couldn't remember Lina reacting so strongly to provocation.

"My cousin is feeling unwell after the trip," Lina said in her stiffest voice. "She's suffering from travel sickness, and I want to make certain she's comfortable. And then I will come downstairs and sit with Monty until he wakes up, since you had a long, difficult ride. I imagine you need your beauty rest. Unless you have any objections."

Mr. Pagett stiffened, but Charlotte finally decided that even the interesting contretemps between the vicar and her cousin wasn't enough to distract her from her current state of misery. She allowed herself a small whimper, feeling truly pathetic, and Lina rushed to her side, studiously ignoring her newfound nemesis.

When they got to her rooms Meggie stripped her and wrapped her up in a fine lawn nightdress, tucking her up in bed with a warm brick at her feet and a cool damp cloth for her head. She lay back, trying to keep from sniffling miserably. She was just so bloody pitiful. She felt queasy, she had no energy, all she wanted to do was sleep. And if that weren't enough, she had the lowering feeling that her heart was broken.

It wasn't fair.

She had no reason to fancy herself in love with a selfish sybarite who cared for nothing and no one but his own pleasure. But once the idea had managed to creep into her thoughts there was no way she could banish it. If she had any kind of sense at all, that last meeting with him, in the closed confines of his town carriage, should have given her a complete disgust of him.

It only made her long for him more.

She moaned, softly enough that Meggie and Lina couldn't hear her. If she just managed to keep her distance she could probably manage to get over him. After all, she'd been recovering, albeit at a ridiculously slow rate. If only she hadn't seen him at Ranelagh, danced with him, let him lead her to the supposed safety of a hackney.

Duplicitous bastard. She liked heaping epithets on his head, the more the merrier. He was sneaky, dishonest, amoral, selfish, mean...there weren't enough bad words to describe him. The more she saw of him the more she disliked him. Or if that wasn't precisely true, at least she was more and more determined to keep her distance from him. If she simply stayed in the country she would never have to see him again. Viscount Rohan was notoriously unmoved by the countryside, avoiding it at all costs. If she could just convince Lina to remove to her Dorset estate then sooner or later Rohan would go abroad, and maybe he'd fall off a mountain or marry a Chinese princess or be eaten by a tiger. She didn't care which fate befell him, as long as it happened soon.

Lina and Meggie were whispering about her. Their voices were low, and clearly they were self-assured enough to think she'd never hear them. They'd forgotten her childhood. She'd spent many of her formative years growing up alone in the old house in Yorkshire, her parents paying no attention to her, the servants whispering their shock over the poor, abandoned child. She knew the concerned tone of the whispers, even if she couldn't make out the actual words.

It didn't matler. All she needed was sleep, and she'd feel wonderful. All she needed...

Lina found Simon Pagett on the terrace overlooking the winding canal that led to the ruins of the old abbey. It was a beautiful late-spring morning, the scent of damp earth in the air, the promise of new life...

She didn't want to be thinking about new life. She and Meggie were probably jumping to conclusions. After all, Charlotte had assured her that the blasted viscount had been careful, and from what she knew of Adrian Rohan, she could well believe it. Society would know if he had bastards littering the countryside, and from what she'd seen of the old marquess, she could well believe Adrian wouldn't dare risk impregnating a girl of decent breeding. Not that the marquess wasn't utterly charming. If he wasn't clearly so besotted with his wife she might have been tempted to see whether an older man might be the answer to her problem. Not that it was a problem, per se. Nothing like the mess Charlotte would find herself in if the tisanes didn't work and Rohan hadn't been careful enough.

There were more drastic ways to deal with things if they'd progressed to that point, but Charlotte wouldn't want it and Lina wouldn't let her. They could go abroad together, providing the bloody French didn't decide to start another war. Or simply retire to the country.

“You're looking perturbed. Lady Whitmore," Pagett said. "Is there something troubling you?"

She looked at him. With the sunlight shining full on his face she could see his ruined glory quite clearly. He must have been devastating when he'd been a hellion, she thought. Even now, with the lines of weariness and an abandoned dissipation writ on his lean face he was still quite...appealing to some-She had a great deal of sense. "My dearest friend is dying. Of course I'm perturbed."

If she'd hoped to put the vicar in his place she failed. "You've had a while to come to terms with that," he said, though his voice gentled. "I had the impression that there was something new and disturbing."

"If there is I would hardly be likely to share my concerns with you, now, would I, Mr. Pagett?"

"I don't know why you wouldn't. I'm a vicar— it's part of my job to hear people's concerns. I’m accounted to be a very good listener.”

"I'm not part of your parish, and my concerns are my own." He was standing too close to her, and she ought to move away, but for some reason she was more tempted to move closer. As a result, she stood her ground.

He looked down at her. He was somewhat above middle height, though not nearly as tall as Adrian Rohan, but she was small and he seemed to tower over her. "I could tell you that a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but I doubt you'd believe me."

"'I don't believe you'd even quote such a hoary old line at me. Next you'll be telling me that confessing ray sins to you would get me into heaven sooner."

"No," he said, looking oddly troubled. "I don't think I want to hear your sins."

"That's right, you're getting quite elderly. I doubt you have enough time left to hear everything I've done," she said brightly.

For a moment he frowned, and she knew she'd pricked his vanity. And then he laughed. "You're very good at being annoying. Lady Whitmore. I've already told you I'm thirty-five—I expect to live many decades longer, and I doubt your sins can encompass that much."

"You'd be surprised." She tried to sound merry, carefree. Instead her voice came out with a hollow

He said nothing, watching her with a contemplative expression on his handsome face. And it was a handsome face, she thought ruefully. His premature lines only made him more interesting looking—he was probably far too pretty when he was younger. It was a good thing they hadn't met then...

A sudden horrifying thought hit her. To her knowledge she had never entered the bed of anyone without having a considerable amount to drink, enough to shut out the clamor of fear and darkness, and it was possible she didn't always remember them. And he must have been very pretty.

"I didn't meet you before, did I?" she asked in a sharp voice. "When was your blinding encounter on the road to Damascas?”

He laughed, having read her mind. "No, Lady Whitmore, I can safely assure you that I never bedded you in my wild years. You would have been far too young. And if I'd run into you later I promise you, you wouldn't have forgotten."

She flushed, at a disadvantage, but she rallied. "I've forgotten any number of them," she said airily. In fact, a lie. She'd only forgotten one, and been aghast that she had, until the shamefaced young man admitted that he hadn't been able to consummate the evening. "In fact, if I tried to count them all I should fail sadly." Another lie. While she would have loved to have a lengthy list of her amatory triumphs, she still had a strong regard for her own health, and finding men who were both careful and game was difficult.

"Of course you should," he said in a soothing voice, clearly doubting her. Which would have made her determined to find the next man she could and bed him, but for some reason she'd lost interest in it. She was having a great deal more fun arguing with Simon Pagett.

"I must compliment you on your new taste in clothing. Lady Whitmore. The subdued colors bring out your beauty far more than the garish ones you chose before."

"I have no interest in your sartorial advice, Vicar," she said, ignoring the rush of pleasure. "You gave me no warning—my maid packed whatever was clean."

"Of course," he said in an infuriatingly calm voice, and she was determined to go upstairs and see if ham-handed Meggie was capable of immediately cutting down the necklines of her demure dresses. She glared up at him.

And then she found she had to laugh. "You really are the most annoying man in the world, aren't you?"

He smiled at her then, and the world seemed to shatter and split. "So I've been told."

She stared at him for a moment, unable to come up with a single word, as something inside her began to melt.

She panicked, though she wasn't quite sure why. "I wonder, though..." she said in the drawling voice she used to such good effect.

He looked at her warily. "Wonder what?"

"Are all men the same? Even those who've found God?" she mused.

He was very still. Like a fox, she thought, afraid a bitch had caught his scent.

"How do you mean? I can assure you I sleep better at nights. I'm happier."