The house was freezing. She wandered through its rooms, but it was so cold she could not bear it. She had her lady's maid fetch her a quilt and carry it out to the grass beyond the back verandah, where she sat on it, in the sun, head tipped back to catch its rays. One of the advantages of being married, she thought, was she no longer had to listen to her mother babble about freckles. Unless Stephen took it into his head that he needed a wife with skin like milk. In which case, he would order her inside. Damned disagreeable man, she thought, frowning and closing her eyes as she laid back on the quilt. Why was he so delightful with his niece? And yet so hard and unwelcoming with her?

            Stephen, hand ensconced in Rose's, wandered up from the back wilderness. His niece, he had discovered, was inclined to walk rather faster than her legs could quite handle. After several skipping stumbles, Stephen had decided it would be easier to hold her hand so he could pull her back into balance easily. Rose was singing the song he had recently taught her. London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down... His sister was going to kill him, he thought, smiling at the prospect.

            And then, just like that, he caught sight of Abby. She was reclining on a quilt on the lawn, her eyes closed and her head tipped back toward the sun, and she looked so beautiful that he suddenly could not breathe. He stopped walking and tried harshly to suck in air and tried not to think of how desperately he wanted to walk over to where she was laying and kiss the creamy expanse of her breast that showed above the neckline of her dress.

            "Why have we stopped?" asked Rose.

            He could not just go up to her and kiss her. She was angry with him, as she had proven the night before. Something about how he hadn't called on her, damnation. Why did women have to be so sensitive?

            "Hold a moment," he said to Rose, turning back for something he had noticed out of the corner of his eye. "Ah," he said to himself, pleased, as he reached out and plucked the rose off its stem. Though he was careful, he still managed to prick himself on one of the thorns, and pressed his bleeding finger to his mouth momentarily before turning to Rose. The flower he'd picked was yellow, which seemed to him to perfectly suit his vivid wife. "I want you to bring this flower to that lady over there. Can you do that for me?"

            Rose looked toward Abby, looked back at her uncle and nodded.

            "And I have a little speech for you to say to her. Do you think you can remember it?"

            Rose nodded again, and Stephen taught her the speech and then handed her the flower. "Be very careful of the thorns," he warned her, and then sent her to Abby.

            "Aunt Chesham," said the little voice, startling Abby.

            Abby opened her eyes and looked at Rose, who was standing next to her quilt with a yellow rose in her hands. Abby straightened. "Who told you to call me that?"

            "Uncle Stephen. Uncle Stephen says he's very, very sorry he did not come to visit you last week," she recited. "Or the week before that," she added, as an afterthought. Then she turned and triumphantly ran back to where her uncle was waiting for her. Abby told herself not to smile. He was trying to be charming because of how she had behaved last night. She should not reward him. He said something to Rose, and she came running back. "I forgot," she said, thrusting the flower at her. "He said this is with his copliments."

            "His copliments? Really? How thrilling." She smiled at Rose, looked down at the flower in her hands. "It is too bad it is a rose, or I would put it in your hair for you."

            "It's a rose like me," said Rose, delighted.

            "Yes, it is. You know, you mustn't call me Aunt Chesham."

            "What must I call you?"

            "Aunt Abby."

            "Run along to the nursery, Rosie," Stephen said, and Abby looked up at him in surprise, not realizing he had walked over to them. "I'm sure your nanny is missing you."

            She beamed up at him, sent him a gap-toothed smile, and then dashed off.

            "She gets to call you Abby right away?" he said.

            "She and I are already great friends," Abby replied.

            "I see." He paused. "Abby, I-"

            "You're very, very sorry you did not come to visit me last week. Or the week before that."

            Stephen regarded her for a second, then dropped to the quilt beside her, leaning back onto his elbows and looking for a moment at the sky.

            She looked at the sky as well. "It looks remarkably like a dragon, don't you think?"

            "What?"

            "That cloud there." She pointed, squinting against the sun.

            "You think the cloud looks like a dragon?"

            "Remarkably. Don't you think so?"

            He was silent for a moment. "I think it looks like a train."

            "The one beside it looks like this weeping willow that used to grow by one of the rivers at home. I mean, home in America."

            "Do you know what else I'm sorry for?"

            She looked at him. He was looking at her steadily, his gray eyes deadly seriously.

            "What?" she asked, a trifle breathlessly.

            "Yesterday. I did not tell you how beautiful you looked. And now I cannot go back. It is painful to me that, on the one day of my life when I am going to be a groom, I did not tell my wife how she was the most beautiful bride I could ever imagine."

            "You don't mean that," she said.

            "I do. I am glad you were angry at me, because had you smiled at me I believe I would have lost my balance."

            She continued to look at him for a second. "It is really too bad," she said, sadly. "You are very charming, when you try to be."

            A flicker of frustration crossed over his face. "I am not trying to be charming."

            "Of course you are." She looked back at the clouds, casually. "If I had not locked you out last night, I would never have gotten this treatment. A yellow rose." She lifted it in a brief flourish. "A compliment to my beauty. I have finally figured out how to get your attention."

            "You always have my attention," he frowned, annoyed with how detached she seemed.

            "Yes, I noticed that I had all of your attention over the past fortnight."

            "I thought of nothing but you this past fortnight," he bit out. "That is why I did not come and see you. I could not have handled the sight of you."

            "We know nothing about each other. Nothing. And you cannot be bothered to see me, and get to know me, because you would rather have me...you know."

            "If you let me have you, I believe that I will cease to be so distracted and be able to focus more on what a delightful conversationalist you are. And you, as you well know, would enjoy it. I would promise to make sure of it."

            She gave him a baleful look. "I do not believe I was wise to put the marriage before the courtship this way. This is something, after all, to be said for all that chaperoning."

            "There is nothing to be said for all that chaperoning. One cannot get to know a woman adequately with people constantly eavesdropping and spying upon one."

            "What do you know about getting to know women adequately? You do not go out in society."

            "No, I do not-"

            "So it does not seem to me that you care overmuch about getting to know women adequately. Which is a shame, as it appears you would pay court beautifully, if you took it into your head to do so."

            Stephen snorted, irritated that he was having this conversation with her. He should just roll her over and kiss her and stop all this talking. "Men do not pay court in order to get to know women adequately. Men pay court in order to get them into bed."

            "And you have already had me in bed," she remarked, scathingly, tearing a petal off the rose a trifle violently, "so you see no need to pay court."

            "You should be pleased, that your husband desires you this fiercely. You should be pleased that it has not occurred to me to seek my pleasure elsewhere."

            She paled. "That is quite unfair, my lord."

            Because he felt it was true that had been unfair, and he felt badly at how pale she had turned, he lost his temper. "Do not call me ‘my lord,'" he snapped.

            Yes, she understood why he did not want to be called my lord. Surely it grated on him, how consistently he was referred to as nothing but his title. She ached for him suddenly, in the wake of what his proclamation revealed about him. And she simultaneously ached for herself as well. It was possible she could like this man. Was it possible she could love this man? She did not know, because it seemed she knew so little about him, and he seemed so disinterested in getting to know her.

            She looked down at the rose in her lap, his really quite charming gift. "I wanted to be courted," she confessed, feeling foolish. "I wanted to fall in love. It was my promise to myself. I would not marry a man I did not love. And now I find myself married to a man-" She laughed suddenly. "I do not even know our last name."

            "How old are you?" he asked, after a moment of silence.

            She laughed again, without amusement. "And we do not even know each other's ages."

            "I am eight-and-twenty."

            "I am twenty."

            "Yes, you are very young, and it is the dream of a very young girl. A beautiful dream. But it is rather like the faeries and gnomes I tell Rose of."

            "What is?"

            "This marriage for love. Have you ever even witnessed love in the ton?"

            "Derrick and Lucy love each other."

            "Who?" he asked, blankly.

            "Lord and Lady Newcombe."

            "Oh," he said, stupidly. "Well, I wouldn't know about that. You call him Derrick?"

            "Of course I call him Derrick. Just as he calls me Abby."

            "Well, that is startlingly inappropriate."

            "What would you have him call me?" she asked, amused.

            "Lady Chesham. That is what you are to him. Men you are not married to should not be calling you Abby."

            Abby was looking at him suddenly, her eyes seeming very blue in the brightness of the sunlight. And there was an expression in them that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He shifted a bit. "I mean it," he said. "You shall call him Lord Newcombe. He shall call you Lady Chesham. Do you understand me?"

            "Are you jealous, my lord?" she asked.

            "And you shall not call me ‘my lord.' You shall not call Newcombe ‘Derrick' and yet call me ‘my lord,'" he muttered. "And no, I am not jealous. I am teaching you manners. Propriety. You have no sense of decorum."

            She smiled at him brilliantly, taking his breath away. What the hell had he been saying? "I choose to believe you are jealous. Without cause. Because Derrick loves Lucy very much." She startled him by leaning forward and kissing his cheek, which he had not expected at all. "And I find it difficult to believe that you are so skeptical of love, my lord. When you clearly love Rose very much."

            Stephen lifted his hand, settled it on the back of her neck. Her hair was spilling out from under the straw hat she was wearing. It brushed the back of his hand. He stroked his fingers lightly down the nape of her neck. "Our last name is Merritt," he murmured. "M-E-R-R-I-T-T."

            She looked directly into those beautiful gray eyes of his. They were lighter in the daylight, almost silver. The combination with his gilded hair was dazzling. "That name suits you. Stephen Merritt."

            Stephen dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers. "Do not lock me out tonight, Mrs. Merritt," he breathed. "Promise me you will not."

            "Stephen, I did not wish to lock you out last night. I was teaching you a lesson." She was struggling for her breath, for her coherence.

            "If you let me in tonight, I will pay you constant court, my lady. I will shower you with flowers." He brushed his lips over hers again. "I will smother you with compliments." He gave her another light, fleeting kiss. She made a sound like a whimper and shifted toward him. "Would you like me to really kiss you?"

            "Stephen-"

            "Chesham!"

            "Damnation," Stephen muttered, drawing a hairsbreadth away to look beyond Abby. His sister Pamela was standing on the back verandah, beckoning to him. "Can they not see I am in the middle of something?"

            "Lady Meredith has come to congratulate you!" Pamela called to him.

            Abby drew away from him, eyebrows drawn together. "Who is Lady Meredith?"

            Stephen glanced at her, called back, impatiently, to Pamela, "Tell her I am busy."

            "I do hope," continued Abby, frowning, "that she is seventy years old."       

            "Chesham!"

            Stephen recognized immediately Lady Meredith Cleary's deliberately honeyed tones. Abby looked over her shoulder, at the blonde that had appeared on the verandah beside Pamela. Then Abby looked back at Stephen, frowning. "She is not your mistress, is she?"

            "I do not have a mistress," he assured her, as Lady Meredith and Pamela waked over to them.

            "I heard the news," said Lady Meredith, "and I had to stop by." She looked critically at Abby. "You must be the new Lady Chesham."

            "Yes." Abby smiled brightly. "Very new."

            "How long have you been sitting out here?" asked Lady Meredith, gaily. "You are quite sunburnt."

            "She looks much better, actually," commented Pamela. "She was pale this morning."

            "I'm going to go inside, I think," said Abby, clambering to her feet.

            Stephen winced a bit, at the expression of horror on Pamela and Lady Meredith's faces as his wife scrambled so inelegantly. He really would have to have a talk with her about how to behave properly. Right after he figured out how to get her to unlock her bedroom door for him.

            "I hope not on my account?" beamed Lady Meredith.

            "Oh, of course not. I have been outside far too long for my delicate sensibilities. I'm frightened I may faint." Tossing one last frown in his direction, she stamped toward the house with a great deal more energy than a woman on the verge of fainting normally displayed.

            "My, my." Lady Meredith looked at Chesham. "Not only is she American, but she is not particularly beautiful. I thought you would do better." She smiled at him.

            "She has money," said Pamela.

            "Ah. Of course. I should have guessed."

            "It does not matter that she has money." Stephen picked himself up from the quilt on the lawn. "And she is beautiful. She is really quite striking."

            Lady Meredith laughed gaily. "La, Chesham. You will not make me believe that you are in love with her, so you may drop the act. You married her far too quickly. And it is a shame, as you were promised to me."

            "I was not promised to you."

            "Well, of course you were. Since you were very little."

            "That was something you and Pamela created. I was never promised to you."

            "It does not matter, Meredith," said Pamela. "There is still time for you. The marriage has not been consummated."

            Stephen looked at his sister sharply. "What do you mean?"

            "There was no blood on the sheets, Chesham. Unless your wife was ruined by another man before you got her into your bed?" Pamela arched an eyebrow at him.

            Stephen decided to choose the most palatable lie he could think of. He did not want people to think that someone else had gotten to the Countess of Chesham first. Nor did he want anyone to think that his wife had locked him out on their wedding night. "Or it is possible that she was already ruined, but by me, not another man."

            "Well, that hadn't occurred to me," Pamela confessed. "Considering that you have never displayed any penchant toward seducing innocents. Then again, you did meet her in a brothel."

            Stephen hoped he did not look as astonished as he felt. He was furious with his father, for revealing this information. Or could it have been Norton or Shay? Not likely. "Who told you that?"

            "She did."

            Stephen blinked. "Abby told you that?"

            "Yes. Is it true?"

            Stephen narrowed his eyes. What was wrong with Abby? The last thing he wanted the ton to be talking about was how Lady Chesham was the sort of woman who frequented brothels. Damnation.

            Lady Meredith laughed with delight. "La, this story grows more interesting by the moment!" she exclaimed.

            Why was she always saying la like that? He loved the fact that Abby had never once said la in the course of their acquaintance. Of course, she was busy airing all of their dirty laundry in public, but at least she did not say la. And, sometimes, she even consented to calling him Stephen.

            "Yes, I must admit that was a twist I did not anticipate," added Pamela. "She does not seem daring enough."

            "Daring," remarked Stephen, dryly, "is not something my wife possesses in short measure."

            "You should not have felt compelled to marry her, Chesham," Lady Meredith informed him, frankly. "Women who venture into brothels deserve whatever they get."

            "You should not even know what happens in brothels," said Stephen.

            "Perhaps I shall have to hurry and get married so that you may teach me what happens in brothels," she parried, with a wide smile.

            "Why would I teach you? That is a job for your husband."

            Lady Meredith sighed, undeterred. "I admit it is a shame that you felt yourself compelled to marry her-"

            "I was not compelled to marry her," he snapped, forgetting for the moment that indeed he had been. "I think she will make me an exceptional countess."

            "Yes, she is rich," said Lady Meredith, scathingly.

            "And don't forget striking," drawled Pamela. "Oh, and daring, too, was it, Chesham?"

            "Yes, daring." He glared at the two women in front of her. "She is daring, and clever, and has a head on her shoulders and a will of iron. All extremely desirable traits for her to pass on to our sons."

            "Not extremely desirable for a wife, however," retorted Pamela. "She has no sense of propriety at all. She should never have said she met you in a brothel. And your pretty phrase ‘will of iron' is nothing more than an indication that she is a stubborn, headstrong harridan who will drive you to distraction. And, to top it off, she is not as clever as you seem to think. Her head is filled with fluff about faeries."

            Fluff about faeries, he thought. Faeries, and marrying for love, and yes, she was stubborn and improper and needed to learn how to keep her mouth closed and her door open, but he would rather have married a dozen impossible Abbys than one Pamela or Lady Meredith, he decided. "You are quite right," he said, with a mocking smile. "How fortunate for me." He bowed. "Excuse me, ladies."

            "But we were going to have tea, Chesham," protested Pamela.

            "Enjoy it." Abby had left the rose when she had departed. He bent down to sweep it up, then headed into the house.

            He did not feel like searching the house for her. There were too many people in the house that he wished to avoid. He dreaded a conversation with his mother or his father, or either of his extremely dull brothers-in-law, the only sort of man who could be tempted to marry poor, unpretty women.

            "Hassleford," he said, catching sight of the butler as he emerged from the drawing room. "Where is Lady Chesham?"

            "I believe her ladyship-" Hassleford coughed delicately -"stomped upstairs, m'lord."

            It was insubordinate of him to editorialize the comment that way, thought Stephen. But Hassleford was not his servant, and there was no more affection between them than between Stephen and any other member of his family. Were he to take Hassleford to task for the comment, he was well aware no one would stand behind him. He supposed he should be grateful that Hassleford had bothered to wait up for them the night before.

            "Thank you," he said, shortly, mounting the steps. He checked her room and, with a self-deprecating smile, his room, but she was in neither place. Confident he would not run into any members of his family on the second floor, he began opening various doors.

            He stumbled upon her in the most unlikely place: the nursery. With his two extremely young nephews jockeying for space on her lap. She was sitting on the floor, displaying yet more of her lack of propriety, but she looked so lovely there on the floor, cuddling two babies, with Rose next to her struggling to read from a primer. For a moment he was transfixed, could do nothing but stand in the doorway and stare at his wife. He had always intended to be a thoroughly affectionate father, to spoil his children as much as possible, because it was his belief that children needed that. Certainly, he thought, he had needed that. He had not expected to find a woman who would follow the belief, who would be willing to forego parties in the evening if the children were ill or simply in need of a parent. It was unexpected to think that Abby might actually like children. He had never seen his sisters cradle their children the way Abby was unless they were posing for a formal portrait of familial adoration.

            "I was only resting for a moment, m'lord," said the nanny, quickly, catching sight of him and struggling to her feet.

            Abby looked up at him.

            "Nonsense," he said to the nanny, without taking his eyes off of Abby. "You need not apologize." He walked into the room, stood before Abby and looked down at her. She had to tip her head far back to continue to meet his eyes, and the straw hat tumbled off her to the floor. She looked so very unlike the Countess of Chesham. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. He smiled. "It appears you have your hands full, madam wife."

            "I did not realize you have two nephews as well," she said, a bit breathlessly.

            "They don't go out," contributed Rose, wisely, turning the page. "They are too young."

            "Rose speaks the truth. Hullo, Linus." He reached for the nearest of his nephews, the younger, who was just over a year old now, he realized. "Here," he said, performing a brief juggling feat to hand her the rose and keep firm hold of Linus. "You forgot this. In your haste to flee me and my bit of muslin."

            She arched an eyebrow at him. "Why aren't you with your bit of muslin now?"

            "Because I much prefer to spend time in the nursery with you." He tore his eyes off of Abby, looked at the nanny. "May we have the room?"

            "Of course, m'lord. Lady Rose, run along-"

            "No, the children can stay," he said. "Why don't you have one of the maids fetch you a cup of tea?"

            The nanny looked rapturous at the idea. "Yes, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord." She almost fell over herself bobbing and curtseying out the door.

            Stephen watched her, then looked back at Abby. "I think you look absolutely gorgeous with all of these children ringed around you. But perhaps we could take seats, like respectable people."

            "But we are sitting," said Rose.

            Stephen looked at her. "I meant seats on chairs and sofas, like ladies and gentlemen. Not seats on the floor."

            "Your uncle Stephen," Abby said to Rose, "thinks far too much about decorum."

            "And your aunt Abby," Stephen rejoined, "thinks far too little about it."

            Abby adjusted the fit of Seymour on her lap, watching the little boy carefully. "I warned you you were not marrying a lady. You said it was my loveliest feature."

            "Did I?"

            "Yes," she told him, challengingly.

            Stephen sighed, sat awkwardly on the floor beside her. "Perhaps we should have a discussion about which of your unladylike tendencies I enjoy and which I do not."

            "I cannot imagine a more enjoyable conversation."

            "Why did you tell everyone we met in a brothel?"

            "What's a brothel?" asked Rose.

            "It is a place where gnomes live," Stephen told her, absently.

            "Did you go to the place where gnomes live, Aunt Abby?" Rose stood up and leaned over into Abby's lap, to grab her attention.

            "I did, yes."

            "And what were the gnomes like?"

            "Well," Abby considered. "Some of them were extremely handsome, and very nice. And then they turned out afterward to care overmuch about what people think about them."

            "What?" said Rose, in confusion. Then she caught herself. "I mean, yes. Of course."

            "Do not correct yourself," Stephen told her. "There is nothing wrong with saying ‘what' every once in a while. Like when your aunt Abby makes convoluted, metaphorical speeches. Do you really think I want it known that the Countess of Chesham frequents brothels?"

            "I do not frequent brothels."

            "That is what people will say. You frequented brothels trying to catch yourself a member of the ton."

            "Well, I made myself a spectacular catch, didn't I?" she retorted, thrusting Seymour at him and scrambling to her feet with her typical lack of elegance.

            "What are you doing?" he demanded, fumbling with both children in his arms. He could not possibly find a way to stand up now.

            "I am going to find your bit of muslin. To tell her she may have you."

            "Do not encourage her. I am, despite your contrary opinion, a husband you are envied. You should not invite the attentions of other women."

            Abby, halfway to the door, turned back to him. "Do not threaten me with infidelity, my lord."

            "Why shouldn't I? Men who frequent brothels are not normally known as men who enjoy living as monks."

            "What's a monk?" asked Rose.

            "You do not frequent brothels," she said.

            "What makes you think so?"

            "If you frequented brothels, you would have known immediately that I was not a-" Abby faltered suddenly. "Gnome," she finished, lamely.

            "Did Uncle Stephen think you were a gnome?" asked Rose with interest.

            The child was understanding entirely too much of this conversation, thought Stephen. "I absolutely did not."

            "He did," said Abby, viciously. "He thought I was a gnome, and even after discovering I was not, he persisted in treating me like a gnome."

            "I have never treated you like a gnome," said Stephen, in exasperation, wishing the nanny would come back now. He set Seymour, the older of the babies, just past two, on the floor, and lifted himself to his feet. "Did you do it to punish me?"

            "Do what?"

            "Tell everyone where we met."

            "No. I did it to defend you, believe it or not. Your family thinks you quite mad to have married me. I cannot say I blame them. At the moment, I do not know why anyone would marry me. I am, alternately, extremely pale and sunburnt. I have absolutely no sense of propriety. I am American. I was called silly this morning at breakfast. Thank God I have money."

            She was breathing heavily, with the force of her emotion, her eyes bright with indignation. He looked at her for a moment, uncertain how to respond. "Well, regardless of your motive, let us attempt to keep the sordid details of our personal lives to ourselves."

            "As you wish, my lord," she clipped out at him.

            He narrowed his eyes. "This is my way of saying that I do not want it to be known that you locked your door against me last night."

            "I will strive to obey you in all things, my lord. Indeed, would you like to consummate the marriage now? Merely say the word."

            "Stop," he said, harshly.

            "I thought that was what you wanted. Or is it not allowed by light of day?"

            Stephen was suddenly immensely confused. It was what he wanted, above all else. Abby in his bed. The consummation of his marriage. But he did not want her with this resentment in her eyes. He did not want her in his bed unless she wanted to be there. Bloody hell. When had this gotten so damned complicated? "I will not take you by force," he said.

            "I will not resist, my lord."

            "No, but you would not participate, either. Not unless I seduced you. Which I could do. Which I should do. But-" What more did he want from her? He did not know. Except that it was more than this, more than this cold, transactional offer to give him the rights of his marriage bed, more than her proper and polite proclamations of obedience, more than her voice calling him my lord.

            There was a tension between them, stretched taut. He could sense it, and it made it difficult to breathe. And it was a tension of uncertainty. Whatever was wrong with this marriage of strangers that they were trapped in, he was uncertain how to fix it, and the uncertainty made him feel flailingly helpless, and made him feel as if he had failed his wife.

            Did he not want her any longer? A sudden panic flared up inside of her, and she fought to keep it calm. She did not want to appear too terribly desperate. But she was alarmed that the appearance of the mysterious Lady Meredith had apparently tamped down on his desire for her. She was alarmed at the calm, bland threats of seeking pleasures elsewhere. She had never wanted a marriage where husband and wife went separate ways. And yet she could not see how to turn this particular marriage away from that path. It was heartbreaking to her that she, of all people, would find herself in this situation.

            She looked at Linus, still in her husband's arms. There would have to be an heir, she thought. Whatever else Stephen might feel for her, he would take to her bed long enough to conceive an heir. And then, at least, she would have the baby. The baby would be all hers. The baby would have to absorb all the love inside of her, because none of it would go to her cold and distant husband.

            She had not meant, by locking him out, to drive him away. She had meant to inspire him to declarations of love for her. She feared she had misstepped badly.

            "I presume the family is assembling for tea?" She was pleased with how steady and even her voice was. "I presume that is why you came to fetch me?"

            What was she babbling about? Tea? When he was busy trying to figure out the future of their marriage? "No," he said. "I mean, yes, they are having tea, I think-"

            "You need not warn me. Or hide me away in shame. I will behave myself. I will not mention brothels." She turned from him, toward the door.

            "Abby-"

            "I am sure the nanny will not keep you long. I will make your excuses for you." She opened the door.

            "Abby."

            She sailed out of the room and paused at the top of the staircase to collect herself. She felt dangerously miserable. And she did not want Lady Meredith to notice. Abby had some enlightened idea that she should be on good terms with her husband's mistress.