"She is not very beautiful, is she?" Lady Constance Larrabee tipped her head and looked across at the ballroom at the new Countess of Chesham. "Certainly nothing compared to him," she added, as an afterthought.

            "No," agreed Lady Meredith, darkly. "But she has a great deal of money."

            "Yes, she is flashing that about tonight, isn't she?" Lady Chesham was decked out extravagantly, in silks and diamonds, and it was in very bad taste, Lady Constance thought.

            Abby, however, was oblivious to everything. She did not notice the disapproving stares or the rustles of the whispers. She was having a fabulous time. She had chosen a beautiful golden gown that she thought made her look as becoming as she could have hoped, and she had draped herself in the diamonds that her father had given her when she had turned sixteen. Stephen said she looked magnificent, with a glow of proud approval that made her even happier. And it was true that he was no great waltzer, but he was merely out of practice, as she told him.

            "Out of practice," he gasped. "Is this what you do? Dance all night every night like this? I must beg a break, my lady. You have me quite worn out."

            She smiled. "This is not a waltz. We may walk."

            "Walk? Bloody hell. We're sitting somewhere. For a long time." Stephen half-limped off the dance floor. He did not really want to admit it, but his wife had out-danced him. Badly.

            She laughed gaily. "You must go to more balls, Stephen," she told him, fondly. "Here. If you sit, I will fetch you some refreshment." She said it with mischief glinting in her eyes.

            "I am quite well enough to fetch you the refreshment, as would be proper," he assured her, handing her over to a seat. She arranged her skirts around her prettily. In the lamps, her sun-heightened color was warm, and the gold dress suited her perfectly, and the golden threads shot through her glossy brown hair glinted at him. She was one winking, alluring, priceless package. And she was all his. It was astonishing. He barely refrained from leaning over and kissing her. "I will be right back."

            "Very well. Do not forget, Stephen."

            "Forget?"

            "You are still supposed to be paying me court."

            "Ah. I will be right back. And you look divine. And yes, I promise to take you to balls. And try not to flirt with anyone while I am gone. I have no stomach for dueling."

            She smiled at him, and he, feeling quite lost, pressed a quick, furtive kiss to her forehead before turning abruptly. Abby, momentarily astounded by the sheer impropriety of the kiss, blinked after him, and then, wrapped in happiness, she sighed a little and settled on her chair and looked about her with interest. She had been so caught up in Stephen's handsomeness, and in Stephen's attention, and in Stephen's waltzing, that she had not really even noticed the rest of the ball. She was startled to realize that practically every eye in the room was furtively, and not so furtively, focused on her. Well, of course, she thought. The ball was in her honor. That was only natural.

            "He is not a bad waltzer, is he?"

            Abby looked up at Pamela and smiled, because she was in the mood to smile at everyone. "I believe he would be a divine waltzer if he practiced more."

            "Chesham has never been interested in dancing," remarked Pamela. "I cannot determine the purpose of your marriage."

            "The purpose of my marriage?" Abby echoed, blankly.

            "Yes. You claim that you met in a brothel. If that is in fact true, I have been trying to determine what you were doing in that brothel. Were you trying to trap him?"

            "No. Of course not."

            "Well, if you weren't trying to trap him, what were you doing there?"

            "It was a private matter," responded Abby, stiffly.

            "And also what I can't figure out is, if you truly didn't meet him until meeting him at the brothel, when did you fall in love with him? Or are you just in love with sex?"

            Abby blinked at her in shock, with no idea how to react.

            "It would be better," continued Pamela, "if you confess to the latter. It is simply so bourgeois to be in love with one's husband. Not only bourgeois, but plainly quite silly, because the only reason you could have fallen in love with him is because of the silly croquet set, and I've never seen a man resort to such blatant manipulation to get a woman into bed. Stephen, you know, is focused on the sex. You would do well to do the same."

            Abby could not think what to say. She could think of nothing but how furiously she hated this new family of hers.

            And then the Duke said, "Abby. May I have this dance?"

            Abby looked up at him, as startled that he was addressing her by name as that he was asking her to dance. But, because she wanted to get away from Pamela, she stood and gave him her hand. "Yes. I have left it free."

            "Splendid." The Duke led her onto the floor, assumed position with her, smiled with her as he led her into the dance. "I have been wanting to dance with my newest daughter, but Chesham has been monopolizing you all night."

            "Yes, he is being very charming. It is sweet of him, as I know how he despises dancing."

            "Yes, I confess he seldom dances. He seldom makes any effort at all to be charming. So he must be well pleased with his countess. And you do not seem to have any complaints at all about the way things turned out."

            She smiled at him. "No, none at all."

            "I am glad, my dear. He will make you a very fine husband, I am sure of it."

            "I agree. He has a magnificent title. A very solid family name."

            "Yes, you can hold your head up, Lady Chesham. For someday you will be Duchess of Camberley. And I do believe that Chesham is even-tempered. I am sure he is inclined toward being an indulgent husband."

            "Yes. Even-tempered. Indulgent. Your son is an inherently decent man."

            "Yes, I have always thought so," agreed the Duke, lightly.

            "Have you?" Abby kept her sweet smile plastered on her face. "Then why is it you and your family dislike him so?"

            The Duke stumbled a bit in his dance step.

            "Do watch out not to tread on my toes, your Grace."

Abby was not in the seat where he had left her. Pamela was sitting in it. Because the light seemed to be drawn to Abby that particular evening, Stephen found her almost immediately, on the dance floor, dancing with his father. His father was frowning at her darkly. Abby was smiling back sweetly. They were not talking. Stephen had the idea that something was occurring that he ought to intervene in-but he also decided against causing a scene by breaking up the dance. Holding Abby's glass of champagne, he sipped from his own glass.

            "Meredith tells me that your new countess has given you permission to take a mistress. It's very gracious of her, isn't it? And so adorable, that she thinks she has any power over the situation." Lady Meredith's sister, Lady Constance, laughed gaily.

            Stephen bit back his scowl and watched his father dance with his wife. He did not feel like making small talk with Lady Constance. She was as tedious to talk to as her little sister. "As she could make my home life utterly miserable, I believe she has a great deal of power over the situation," he replied.

            "La," she scoffed. "If she makes your home life utterly miserable, you merely give her a firm talking-to and then go off to visit your mistress again. That will teach her. My, you have much to learn about marriage, young Chesham. Predictable, I suppose, as you have only been married a few days. But I would be happy to..." Lady Constance paused. "Teach you."

            Stephen heard the inflection and looked at her abruptly.

            Lady Constance smiled at him silkily. "You cannot touch Meredith, you know. I, on the other hand, safely married, am perfectly available"

            "Are you?" asked Stephen, shortly. "I shall be sure to pass along that news to someone who is interested in taking a mistress."

            Lady Constance looked displeased. "You cannot possibly be willing to wait for Meredith. She does not deserve such loyalty."

            "I have no intention of taking any mistress."

            Lady Constance frowned unprettily. Then she recovered, said, smoothly, "You are on your honeymoon. Of course. I forget. This phase will pass. You will grow weary of your common countess and her common ways."

            Stephen's hands clenched a little tighter around the delicate champagne flutes he was holding. "There is nothing ‘common' about my countess."

            "She is here with her skin red from the sun. Your sister tells me she spent the entire day yesterday playing croquet. If you are not careful she will teach your niece and nephews filthy habits."

            "And, of course, don't forget that she is American-"

            "She is here absolutely draped in diamonds, it is very vulgar-"

            "You're jealous-"

            "And, of course, you met her in a brothel." Lady Constance looked him knowingly in the eye. "What, I ask, could be commoner, my lord?"

            Stephen inhaled deeply, to hold his temper down. "I will tell you what is commoner," he said. "A married woman throwing herself at the head of a newly married man in a ballrooms while said man's wife is dancing only a short distance away. Far commoner, Lady Constance, than anything I have ever seen happen in a brothel." Lady Constance's jaw fell satisfyingly open. "Excuse me, madam," he said, with a brief bow, walking off to the other side of the ballroom. While he had been talking to Lady Constance, the dance had ended. His wife was no longer with his father, being whirled about the floor. Stephen, frowning, realized his wife was nowhere in the ballroom.

            Stephen, experimentally, ducked his head through the French doors leading onto the verandah, spotted Abby instantly. All of the silver moonlight seemed concentrated and distilled onto her, where she was sitting on a little bench, looking small and young and bit wistful.

            Stephen walked onto the verandah. There were couples scattered about, talking in low voices as they flirted with each other in the protection of the darkness. He passed by them, over to where Abby was sitting, looking reflectively out off the verandah. Stephen, reflexively, followed her gaze but could see nothing of interest. She was plainly lost in her own thoughts.

            He cleared his throat, and she looked up at him, momentarily startled and then relaxing when she saw it was him. He handed her the champagne he had retrieved for her and said, without preamble, "What did he say to you?"

            "Hmm? Who?"

            "My father. It was obvious to all that you were not exchanging pleasantries while you were dancing."

            "Oh. No. We were not. But it does not matter."

            "If it does not matter, why did you flee the ballroom?"

            "I did not flee the ballroom. When the dance was completed, I noticed you were deep in conversation with a woman who I did not recognize, and I felt it was hot in the ballroom, and I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and I had no desire to make small talk with the woman you were speaking to, and so I came outside."

            "Long explanation."

            "Decisions, my lord husband, are seldom simple. They are normally complex, based on many factors."

            "Yes. I am delighted we have regressed to ‘my lord husband.' Clearly you are not at all upset with me." He walked beyond her, to sit beside her on the bench. "You have no cause to be jealous of Lady Constance."

            "I am not jealous of Lady Constance."

            Stephen looked at her profile for a second, wishing he could read her mood. As he could not, he stood and offered his hand. "Good. Come inside, then. I believe I hear a waltz, and I've managed to catch my breath."

            Abby did not take his hand. She looked up at him. The moonlight glowed in her eyes. "Why did you play croquet with me yesterday, Stephen?"

            He was relieved they had progressed back to "Stephen" but bemused by the question. "What?" he asked, quizzically.

            "Croquet. Why did you go to the trouble to set it up for me, and play with me?"

            "Because I thought you would enjoy it," he responded, still puzzled.

            "Yes," she said, dully. "You thought I would enjoy it." She looked beyond him, off into the garden.

            Stephen looked over his shoulder again, convinced she must be looking at something. But there was nothing there. "Abby," he said, turning back to her. "Let's go inside."

            "I told you you had to court me," she said, almost to herself. "And you did. You did a lovely job. You played croquet with me, and you...I'm so confused." She sighed.

            She sounded so very unhappy. He did not understand. "What did my father say to you?" he demanded. 

            "Nothing. He truly didn't." She looked at him then. "Was it all about the sex, Stephen?"

            He was so startled that he jerked his head in a strange little motion, as if she had reached out and struck him. "What?"

            It had been the only article of truth that had struck in her in what Pamela had said. She had wanted to be courted; he had wanted access to his marriage bed. She had wanted him to fall in love with her, to compose sonnets to her, to be her champion, her own true Prince Charming; he had wanted to slake his lust. All he had been trying to accomplish was to make her fall in love with him, an easy enough task really, when he was handsome and charming. She did not think that he knew that it was the whisper of vulnerability that she sometimes caught sight of in his eyes that had truly pushed her off the cliff and into the deep waters of loving him; she would spare him the condemnation of believing him to have manipulated even that, too. But she thought that Pamela was right. Her husband had wanted her physically, and he had done what he had had to do to get her. Whatever emotional attachment he had with her was slight and completely secondary and probably connected entirely to the fact that she would someday give him an heir.

            She did not know what to do. If she drove him away, denied him her bed until he learned to love her, she ran the risk of him finding a mistress and never coming back. Or simply choosing by force to reclaim her bed, which was his right. And if she continued to allow him into her bed, what would happen once the course of his lust for her ran itself out? If he did not love her, he would find a mistress immediately. And what would be the best way of making him love her? In bed, or out of bed? Oh, bother. It was all so much more difficult than she had supposed.

            "Did you play croquet with me so I would not lock you out?"

            "Not just lock me out, but let me in," he said.

            "So that is why you played with me. Why you went to all that trouble."

            "What is?"

            "To gain access to my bed."

            "Of course it is. You had threatened to continue to deny me until I had courted you. I had to court you somehow. You know by now how positively desperate I was." He grinned. "You also know now how much you were denying yourself by locking me out."

            "Yes," she agreed, half-heartedly, allowing him to pull her to standing.

            He frowned at her. "Why so glum, my sweet?" He traced his thumb familiarly over her lower lip. "You will not convince me that my father did not say something to upset you. And I assure it was patently untrue."           

            "I would never believe anything your father said about you," she told him, with a sudden flash of passion.

            He was surprised. She could tell in the gleam of the moonlight. And he hesitated. "Thank you," he said, finally.

            Yes, she thought. It was very easy for her to defend him. Because she loved him. He did not feel the same way about her.

            "I think I shall take you home," he said, cutting through her thoughtful silence.

            "But the ball is in my honor," she protested.

            Did she not see that the ball was in her honor so that everyone could stare at her and arrive at shameful conclusions about her? There was something so sweet and innocent about her that he half-feared touching her would smudge her forever, beyond repair. "Then would you like to stay?" he asked, anxiously. "Would you like to waltz? You do not seem as if you are enjoying yourself."

            "I am enjoying myself immensely, my lord husband," she assured him. "Will you waltz with me?"

            He executed a sweeping, old-fashioned, courtly bow over her hand. "At your pleasure, madam wife." He led her inside, handed their champagne flutes off to a passing waiter, and waited for the next waltz to begin. Abby, beside him, was distressingly silent, still musing about something. Her strange question about the sex-even her saying the word "sex" to him-had seemed blatantly out-of-character...but he could not imagine his father putting that idea in her head. He could not imagine his father, who was always so obsessed with decorum, talking about sex with his son's wife.

            Unless he'd decided to take her to bed himself.

            Stephen, as the idea occurred to him, narrowed his eyes at his father across the room and tried to figure it out. But, if his father had been trying to seduce Abby, surely he would not have been frowning at her so violently while they had been dancing.

            "Did you want to dance, my lord?" asked Abby, quietly, beside him.

            "What?" Stephen shook himself out of his reverie. "Yes." He led her into position, commenced to the one-two-three whirling of the waltz, concentrating on leading her through the swirling chaos of the couples on the floor. He could not waltz very quickly when he was concentrating so hard on not running into anybody, and he apologized to her. "I am sorry I am not a better waltzer. You are clearly a first-rate waltzer, and you are saddled with a husband below your talents."

            "You will improve, my lord."

            He had the idea that she was flirting with him the same way she had flirted with young bucks in ballrooms since her debut. And he disliked the feeling. She was not nearly engaged with him. She was not looking at him. He took a deep breath and forged forward. "Have I told you yet tonight that you look magnificent?"

            She smiled faintly and looked at him then. "Yes, you have told me."

            "Well, I shall tell you again. You, Lady Chesham, look magnificent."

            "Thank you." She was still feeling uncertain. But she could not deny that she enjoyed the compliment. She thought she would never be immune to a compliment on her beauty-especially when it was delivered by such an outrageously handsome man.

            But the fact was that, though he tried, he did not feel quite capable of dispelling the strange mood she had drifted into. She was silent in the carriage in the way home. He had waited until the rest of the family had returned, so that they could secure the carriage for just the two of them. But she stayed silent, and she was silent as they mounted the stairs together. They walked, by tacit agreement, into her bedchamber. The fire had been lit, and the bedclothes turned down.

            "I will take care of her ladyship," Stephen informed the lady's maid who appeared, then locked the door after her. He had been dealing without Bunbury since the wedding, giving Bunbury a well-deserved holiday. They had only her servant to dodge.

            She was tired, and she did not much feel like making love to him. At the same time, she did not want to turn him away, for fear he would lose his temper with her and she would lose him entirely. She was suffering from fits of indecision. If only he would turn to her and smile at her, his gray eyes soft, and say, Abby, I've been longing to tell you how desperately in love with you I am.

            He said no such thing, as he helped her out of her dress with a clinical efficiency that she did not appreciate. Already, she thought, their marriage was dissolving into silence, punctuated by bouts of lust. Abby suppressed her sigh, as she unclasped the diamonds from around her neck.

            "You shouldn't," he mumbled, dipping his head to sip from the delicate skin under her hairline. "I should like to make love to you while you are dressed in nothing but diamonds."

            I should like you to "make love" to me at all, she thought but did not say.

            Stephen was tugging now at her corset laces, allowing her to draw deeper breaths. His hands were moving with familiarity over her body. Only hours before, the touch of his hands had provoked desire in her. Now, she could not focus on him. She was busy worrying.

            He turned her around, so he could face her, pulling her dress and corset off of her in a fluid motion. He kissed her. She kissed him back, but still without feeling, still detached, still feeling unsatisfied.

            He drew back in confusion. "What is it? What's wrong?"

            She managed a smile. "Nothing."

            Stephen narrowed his eyes at her face, trying to figure out if he was reading her wrong. She was not exactly not responding. She had definitely kissed him back. But she seemed aloof to him. Somehow unreachable. Eyes open, he leaned in and kissed her again. She closed her eyes. She kissed him back. But she did not lean into him. She did not tangle her hands into his hair. She did not make that adorable whimpering noise in the back of her throat.

            Was she already tired of him?

            He drew back again. "Abby..."

            "What is it?"

            He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. He could not very well ask her if she still desired him. What if she said no?

            He took a step away from her, clasped his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat. "I'm tired," he heard himself saying.

            "Are you?" she said. Even in her ears, her voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.

            "Yes. It must have been...all that dancing. Do you mind very terribly if...I...retire?"

            "What do you mean?" she asked, in confusion.

            "I mean that I will see you in the morning." He kissed her forehead, walked through the door joining their chambers, and closed it behind him.

            Abby, eyes wide, stared at the closed door. And then she threw herself on the bed. He did not want to sleep with her, unless the sleep was preceded by sex. She turned her head into her pillow, and, shivering despite the fire, reached blindly for the bedclothes and pulled them up over her. Then, taking it one step further, feeling despairing enough to take dramatic action, pulled them up over her head as well.