burned with outraged fury at the treatment Sally Jacques had meted out to Lord Henry. Sally and Polly had once been friends, before Miss Jacques’s jealousy at Lord Henry’s partiality for Polly had driven a wedge between them. Sally had contrived that her carriage had broken down in the vicinity of Lord Henry’s home at Ruthford and had imposed on his hospitality overnight so that she had compromised them both. In vain had Lord Henry argued that Miss Jacques’s companion and his own servants had provided ample chaperonage and that nothing untoward had occurred. Public opinion, carefully encouraged by Miss Jacques and her chaperon with their hints at false proposals and attempted seduction, was firmly of the belief that he should have made her an offer. His refusal to do so proved him to be no gentleman. It was not long before the true facts of the case had been turned inside out and Henry Marchnight was denounced as a scoundrel and seducer.
A few days before, when Polly had heard the harmful gossip repeated by two salacious matrons, she had burst out that it was all malicious lies. Immediately their watchful gaze had turned thoughtfully on her. Her mother had pulled Polly to one side.
“Be quiet, you silly girl!” Lady Seagrave had hissed in Polly’s ear. “You will have them thinking that Lord Henry has debauched you too!”
“Lord Henry has not debauched anyone!” Polly had muttered furiously, but she kept her voice discreetly low for all her vehemence. “He is an honourable man!”
For a moment Lady Seagrave had looked almost sorry for her daughter. “Lord Henry may be as honourable as you please, but no one will believe it now! And that is because they do not want to believe it, for the tale is so much more interesting than the truth. So you will be a good girl and have no more to do with him!”
For a moment Polly had looked mutinous. Lord Henry had always behaved as a perfect gentleman towards her. She was more than half in love with him. But she had already had her father explain, very clearly and kindly, just why he could not entertain Lord Henry’s suit. And Polly was only eighteen, and accustomed to obeying her parents unquestioningly in everything…
And now Lady Seagrave had caught her arm, turning her away so that Lord Henry’s curiously compelling grey gaze could no longer disturb her so.
“You must not acknowledge him,” she murmured, whilst keeping a spurious social smile fixed on her face for the benefit of those about them who were watching with a keen interest.
Polly knew her mother was only acting with the best of intentions. A young lady’s good name was so fragile and scandal so contaminating. She had seen how a reputation could become so tarnished that a girl would become quite unmarriageable. But she was torn by her burgeoning feelings for Lord Henry. She had never been in love before and he had wooed her throughout the Season, so gently, so carefully. His attentions had never overstepped the mark and when he smiled at her with all the warmth and tenderness that spoke more clearly than any words, Polly felt deliciously safe and cherished.
She reluctantly allowed her mother to shepherd her away, but could not resist a quick glance over her shoulder. Lord Henry was still watching her. Polly gave a pleasurable little shiver of excitement, but at the same time a frisson of nerves prompted her to hope that he would not make a scene or press his attentions on her. That would be deliciously romantic but rather difficult to handle. Polly was not at all sure that she could cope with impassioned protestations of love.
It was much later in the evening when Lord Henry finally managed to get Polly on her own. Throughout the ball, she had been aware of his presence, the deceptively casual way in which he was watching her all the time. But she was never left alone. Lady Seagrave, a very dragon of propriety where her only daughter was concerned, seemed to follow her everywhere until Polly told her with asperity that she was quite capable of visiting the ladies’ withdrawing room alone.
It was on her way back that Lord Henry seized his chance, materialising in the deserted corridor and drawing her into an empty room before Polly even had time to catch her breath. It was vastly exciting, but also rather frightening. There was something driven about Lord Henry that evening, Polly thought, something so resolute that it made her quail and find him almost a stranger. She was not accustomed to strong emotion. The Seagrave household was run with apparent harmony and the Earl would never have countenanced any vulgar display of feeling.
Polly knew very little about love; she loved her parents with a dutiful respect, and knew, far more scandalously, that her brothers had both at one time or another had in keeping certain ladies on whom they lavished their affections. That, Polly had once overheard her mother darkly telling another matron, had very little to do with love at all. And here was Lord Henry Marchnight, burning with another type of romantic passion. His intensity frightened her.
“Lord Henry!” Polly’s voice trembled a little. “You know my father has forbidden me to speak with you—”
He took both her hands in his, his intent grey gaze fixed on her face. “I know it! But I had to see you! You know that he has refused my suit, but we cannot let that make us part! Come away with me, my love! If you will trust yourself to me—”
But Polly had taken a hasty step back, freeing her hands from his grasp. She had paled visibly, her cheeks as white as the pristine foulard at her throat. “Run away with you? But—”
“You must know that I love you! Say you’ll marry me!”
For a moment Polly wavered. He was taking her by storm, so ardent, so impassioned that she was tempted. But her feelings were barely awakened and everything in her upbringing conspired against him. His very ardour alienated her. He knew, a moment before she recoiled, that she was going to refuse him.
“Oh, no, indeed I could not! My father…the scandal…only think—” Polly’s eyes were huge with the horror of it. She broke off at the expression on Lord Henry’s face, suddenly aware that she might have been a little precipitate. Those grey eyes, so warm and tender before, were now so stony and withdrawn that Polly bit her lip. It was like looking into the face of a complete stranger.
The tears came into her eyes. She had a sudden conviction that she had just carelessly thrown away something infinitely precious, without truly understanding exactly what it was. She put out a tentative hand, but Lord Henry was already turning away.
“Polly!” The awesome tones were those of Lady Seagrave, who stood in the shadows, furious fire kindling in her dark eyes. “Come here at once! I knew I could not trust you on your own! And as for you, sir—”
She turned on Lord Henry, but he was already leaving. He sketched an immaculately elegant bow, first to the Countess and then to Polly.
“You need have no fears for your daughter at my hands, ma’am,” he said, his tone one of frigid courtesy. “I give you my word that I shall never approach her again.” And he was gone, leaving Polly with the comfort of her familiar world and a totally unfamiliar feeling of desolation in her heart.
Chapter One
1817
Sir Godfrey Orbison did not understand women. Never having entered the bond of matrimony and being devoid of close female relatives to guide him, he was ill-equipped to deal with a goddaughter he considered to be both foolish and ungrateful.
“You refused him because you did not love him?” Sir Godfrey’s black brows beetled together and he glared fiercely at Lady Polly Seagrave, his tone incredulous. “What is that to the purpose, pray? A fine situation if one had to love one’s intended spouse! The material point
