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He wished he could simply erase the memory of what had happened there.

He had never had any close acquaintance with Lady Stephanie Ware, though it was eight years since he’d first met her at Ravenswood, when he was twenty and still at university and she was seventeen and still in the schoolroom. He had gone then too to spend a couple of weeks of the summer with Owen. He had been warmly welcomed by the whole of the Ware family, whom he had liked immensely. All of them, that was, except Owen’s younger sister, who had avoided him and scarcely spoken to him the whole time he was there. He would have thought her simply shy had it not been for the fact that she did not seem to be shy with anyone else.

It was a couple of years later before he saw her again, at a ball in London he was attending with Estelle. Lady Stephanie had been there with her brother and sister-in-law, the Earl and Countess of Stratton, and the dowager countess, her mother. He had been delighted to see them again and had taken his sister to meet them. They had all been pleased too—except Lady Stephanie, who had greeted them both with the barest civility. He had not asked her for a dance and had not seen her again in the days following the ball. Eventually, he learned from Owen that his elder sister, Philippa, Duchess of Wilby, was increasing and not feeling at all well, what with morning sickness and all that stuff women had to go through, poor things. Wilby had abandoned his duties as a member of the House of Lords to take her back to the country, and Stephanie had gone with them to give her sister her company for what remained of her confinement.

Bertrand had seen Stephanie a few times in the years since then, but never for long enough to get to know her. He had never forgotten her, however. He had thought of her after Owen invited him to spend a couple of weeks with him at Ravenswood again. He had been thinking of her while he was staying with Estelle and Justin and hoping he would not have to cancel the plans he had made with Owen.

There was to be a village fete during his stay there, and he had remembered from a previous summer how very jolly those daylong events could be, packed as they were with varied activities and contests for all ages from the opening ceremony in the morning to the ball and late supper in the evening.

The house had already been packed with guests, both family and friends, by the time Bertrand arrived. He had been particularly delighted to find that Camille Cunningham was there with her husband, Joel, and their nine children. Camille was the elder daughter of Viola, Bertrand’s stepmother, and was therefore his stepsister though they had not grown up together. Her family was at Ravenswood because Joel, a portrait painter of growing renown, had been commissioned to paint the Dowager Countess of Stratton’s portrait but had been reluctant to abandon his family after a lengthy absence from them in London during the spring. The Earl of Stratton had promptly invited Joel to bring his family with him.

Camille had greeted Bertrand, as she always did, like a long-lost beloved brother, with hugs and warm smiles.

But he had had an additional motive for going to Ravenswood, apart from the simple pleasure of spending time with Owen, attending the fete, and being one of a large amiable party of houseguests. He had wanted to see Stephanie Ware again.

He could not quite understand why her image came to his mind whenever he thought about marriage. And he had been thinking about it lately, having grown aware not only of his advancing age and his responsibility to produce heirs of his own but of the void left in his life by the marriage of his twin. Stephanie had kept coming to his mind, though really he hardly knew her, and she had never shown the slightest interest in him. Quite the opposite, if anything.

Was that perhaps the attraction?

He remembered her as a pretty young woman, with a round, fresh-complexioned face and a lovely smile, enhanced by white, even teeth. She had healthy-looking skin and golden blond hair worn unfashionably in a thick double plait about her head. She had not been of slender build, though he had been surprised when Owen had remarked to him once that she saw herself as fat and ugly. She was neither, though she would probably never be one of the slender beauties of fashionable society. That was of no significance whatsoever to Bertrand. He had always liked her looks. She looked real to him, whatever he meant by that. He rather thought he would like her too if she would give him the chance to get to know her and allow herself to get to know him. She seemed to like everyone else, after all, and she was well liked generally.

There was the suggestion of sunshine about her—except, perhaps, in a London ballroom, where she did not excel. Though admittedly he had seen her in that setting only once.

Perhaps this year would be different, he had thought. She was older, after all, and presumably more mature. And she was still single even though she must be twenty-five by now.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival in the library of a servant come to remove the empty dishes from the table beside Bertrand and shovel more coal onto the dying fire and ask if his lordship needed anything else.

“No, nothing, thank you,” Bertrand said. “The fire will be good now until I go to bed. Good night, James.”

He had gone to Ravenswood with the express intention of becoming better acquainted with Stephanie Ware and perhaps beginning a courtship. Surely she would not reject him outright—not, at least, if he did not press his attentions too aggressively upon her. He had gone there with a certain degree of optimism.

And he had been enchanted from the beginning. She had looked much the same, but with an indefinable difference. She was indeed more mature, more self-assured, more vibrant. She was friendly with everyone and wonderful with all the children at the house, with whom she was always ready to play, even when the game was energetic and left her breathless and flushed and laughing. And sometimes even slightly disheveled.

There had been too many people at Ravenswood to allow him as much opportunity for personal conversation with her as he had hoped. She had not avoided him entirely, however, as she had on previous occasions. He had been rather happy by the day of the fete, though he was aware that his visit was drawing to a close and he was running out of time to make his intentions clear.

On the morning of the fete, everyone from miles around converged upon the village green for the opening ceremony outside the church and all the activities that followed: shopping at the numerous booths with their tempting offerings about the perimeter of the green; the children’s races; refreshments at the inn; a display of maypole dancing on the green by a group of dancers who practiced diligently every week of the year. Their display was followed by lessons for anyone who wished to try their skill with the ribbons to the accompaniment of the lively music of two fiddles.

Many people had so wished and had had to be divided into groups.

Bertrand had found himself in the one that included Stephanie. She had been bright-eyed and flushed and laughing—and light on her feet. She had saved him once from bringing disaster upon the whole group—and jeers from some of the spectators surrounding the maypole—when he would have taken himself and his brightly colored ribbon under rather than over her arm. She had laughed with him and looked both genuinely amused and exuberant.

She had sung with the choir inside the church after that and had even had a solo part. She had a sweet, pure soprano voice. When everyone, participants and audience alike, had dispersed after the concert to hurry back to Ravenswood for the afternoon events, Bertrand had hung behind to ask if he might accompany her up to the house. She had raised no objection, and they had conversed amiably as they walked, until he judged the moment to be right and asked if she would reserve a dance for him during the evening, specifically a waltz.

He had expected her to agree. There seemed, after all, no reason why she would refuse. But when she had answered him, that was exactly what she had done. She had said no.

He had covered his surprise by suggesting that if she did not have a waltz free, perhaps she would reserve a different dance for him. But she had interrupted him even before he had finished.

“No,” she had said curtly. “I do not wish to dance with you, Viscount Watley. I wish you would leave me alone. I wish you would not assume that you can have whatever you want whenever you want it. I do not wish to dance with you, this evening or ever.”

He was pretty sure those were her exact words. They had lashed about him at the time and seared themselves upon his brain.

He had been horribly embarrassed. He seemed to recall apologizing to her and assuring her he would never bother her again. He definitely remembered wishing he could just disappear, leave Ravenswood without further ado, never to set eyes upon it or her ever again. Or even Owen.

None of it had been possible, of course. There were proprieties and courtesies to be observed. Somehow he had got through the rest of the day and the days after that until it was time to leave.

It was only after he left, relieved and licking his wounds in the privacy of his carriage, that he had felt the injustice of her words. He was not as arrogant as she had suggested, surely. Was he? Did he ever assume he could have whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it? He supposed there might be a grain of truth there. People always seemed only too delighted to cater to his every whim, and he could not swear that he had never taken advantage of that fact. But not to the point of actual arrogance, surely? Nonetheless, his confidence in himself had been severely eroded. And all because one woman had refused to dance with him at a country ball. It seemed ludicrous when put that way.

He had not been in love with her, after all.