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himself to imagine that sweet lust many times, knowing all the while that his feelings for Eliza were so much more than the animal heat triggered by the thought of her naked body.
    â€˜But what?’ Was that a suppressed chuckle in his father’s voice? ‘You must tell me. Why haven’t you rogered the wench?’
    â€˜I could never…hurt an innocent maid.’ Harry’s voice carried the ring of truth.
    â€˜Hurt? I’ll wager she hungers for it, boy. Peasant wenches are like that. Like cows taunting the bull. I’ve seen them a hundred times — at the inn, in the fields, dancing at the fair, stealing behind the hay rick on a warm evening at harvest time.’ He looked into his son’s eyes, saw that he was not convinced. ‘If you don’t, some village lad will do it soon enough, I’ll warrant.’
    â€˜If a young maid should…get with child, father, it would be the ruin of her. I could never — ’
    â€˜I see,’ the viscount said. ‘So it’s love, is it?’
    Harry must not tell his father of the heady sensations that surged through him whenever he saw Eliza, or imagined her ravishing body. But he must confront his own feelings before he answered; must be honest with himself as well as with his father.
    My world is empty without her. All through the long nights alone in my bed, I dream of her. I do love her.
    â€˜I respect Eliza, father.’ He paused. ‘I could never wish her harm.’
    â€˜Very well, my son. I will try to understand.’ The viscount sighed, leaned back in his chair. ‘You are a man now. Come to a man’s estate, as the saying goes. But now I say that word, it reminds me that I have sad tidings for you.’
    He watched as his son digested the import of those words. Then he stood, eased his aching limbs from his armchair, reached for the brandy decanter and the two glasses that stood on a table beside his desk. He poured a generous nip into one glass, a finger into the other. Then he drained the larger nip, refilled his glass, and slid the other towards his son.
    â€˜You will recall that some few years back, I sold our herd of Jersey cattle to our neighbour Ernest Thurber, and replaced them with sheep?’
    â€˜Yes sir. You said at the time you planned to grow wool for the new spinning mills being built all over the country.’
    â€˜Indeed I did. My advisors reckoned the prices fetched by fine wool would give us a handsome return. With the coming of the spinning mills, the world developed an enormous hunger for woollen cloth. Now the mills of Britain are paying a fortune for wool. I planned to garner a little of that fortune for you and your sister.’ He took another sip of brandy. ‘Now to the sad tidings. You’ve heard of Botany Bay?’
    â€˜Yes, father. Is it not the place to which convicts are transported?’ He had learned of the discovery of the great empty southern land of Terra Australis Incognita in Mr Harcourt’s schoolroom. Botany Bay was the faraway land’s main port. Soon after its discovery, the British government had chosen to use it as a cesspit, a place to dispose of the blighted souls spilling from Britain’s overfull prisons.
    â€˜Indeed.’ the viscount sighed. ‘Lately, flocks of fine-woolled merino sheep were sent to Botany Bay from Spain. It seems they thrive in that climate, and the enterprising landowners, aided by plentiful supplies of convicts, have expanded their flocks to meet the booming market for their fine wool. Which means that the inferior stuff we scrape from the backs of our poor sheep sells for a price which does not even cover the cost of shearing and shipping. You may not have realised that I sold my herd of Jersey cows for a song, then borrowed a fortune to pay for the sheep. At the time, it seemed every other landowner in Britain had elected to follow the same plan. So the price for sheep rocketed and the price