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admitted, but she was only a governess, with no style, no taste, and no real beauty. Sally supposed that some might find the wench somewhat taking, but not in comparison with herself! What did Philip see in her? Sally could find no satisfactory answers. But she was certain of one thing: the irritating little nobody was interfering with her plans to capture Philip. Something would have to be done to get rid of her. And soon. She had not played her hand well tonight, and time was fleeting. She must think of a plan.…
    Philip could not bring himself to lie down. He paced about his room, vaguely troubled. He knew he would not find sleep until he confronted squarely his feelings of disquiet and guilt. He paused at the window and stared out at the lawn below. The moonlight had turned the frosty grass to a silvered sea. Tomorrow would be a perfect day for Gervaise and the others to ride. Does Miss Pennington ride, he wondered? Miss Pennington. There it was. He was drawn to her as he had not been to a woman in years. Good heavens, he was jealous of his own son!
    Disgusted with himself, he stalked across the room and got into bed. How amazing, he thought for the hundredth time, that twenty-two-year-old Jamie should have found in that quiet and unobtrusive girl the same gentle and clear-eyed loveliness that he had seen! But thoughts like this simply would not do. His feelings for his future daughter-in-law must be kept sternly in check and must never be permitted to exceed those of fatherly affection. He put her firmly from his mind, and, forcing himself to concentrate on his next day’s writing, he at last drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Seven
    The sun had not yet made an appearance when the men gathered round the breakfast board, already attired in riding clothes. Their host, Lord Gyllford, was the only one not so attired.
    â€œNever thought to call you a spoilsport,” Gervaise grumbled when Philip had repeated for the third time his intention to remain behind.
    Philip laughed. “You may call me anything you please,” he said to his friend, “but I have business that will not wait.”
    Gervaise grunted. “Your book is the business, I suppose, and, if you ask me, it can wait for years.”
    â€œThank you for the compliment,” Philip said drily, “but the business has to do with the comfort of my guests.”
    Reggie, standing at the window, remarked amicably, “Too bad, Lord Gyllford. It lookth to be a good day for shooting.”
    They all turned to the window to see a faint light lining the horizon to the east. “We’d better get started, then,” said Jamie, downing his last gulp of Jamaica coffee and rising from the table.
    Philip walked with them to the stables to make sure they were all suitably mounted and waved goodbye as they rode off noisily. On his return to the house, he was surprised to see young Marianne peeping into the breakfast room. Her hair was already combed and brushed into an entrancing cascade of brown ringlets, and her yellow morning dress was too becoming to have been donned for a solitary breakfast. “Good heavens, Marianne,” he greeted her, “what are you doing up and about at this ungodly hour? None of the ladies will be up for hours yet.”
    â€œI was hoping to have breakfast with … that is, I wanted to see the gentlemen in their riding clothes,” she finished lamely.
    â€œYou’ve just missed them, I’m afraid. Or rather they’ve missed you. They would have enjoyed seeing your pretty face at breakfast. You’re looking quite fetching this morning.”
    The shy blue eyes flickered briefly to meet his, and a small smile brightened her face. “Oh, do you really think so?” she murmured. Philip understood that the question was purely rhetorical—merely a group of meaningless sounds she uttered to cover embarrassment or inadequacy with words. Some friend of hers must have suggested it as a useful