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rumors of her legions of lovers—had been all the crack in his father's time, Sylvester recalled, but he knew for a fact that the woman had been a Rathbone, although her family had very publicly disowned her.
    And now she was coming to St. Aubyn Castle.
    "Augusta Rathbone is an old school friend of mine," Lady Sarah said dismissively. "She has promised to spend a few weeks with me this summer, and will be accompanied by her granddaughter, Viviana, by all accounts a charming young person. Do pass your father his tea-cup, Perry," she added sharply, forestalling any further questions on the subject of their mysterious guest.
    "I am sure we shall all enjoy the addition of a charming young lady to our party, my lady," piped a bright voice from a low chair on the other side of his aunt.
    For the first time since his arrival, Sylvester looked at the frumpish, rosy-faced woman who had uttered these prophetic words. Mrs. Easton radiated banality from the tip of the crimped curls clustering atop her small head to the profusion of ribbons, bows, and furbelows that adorned her excessively bright afternoon gown of dubious vintage.
    Nobody paid the slightest attention to this odd, diminutive creature except Mrs. Standish, who threw her aunt a small smile. Mrs. Easton appeared not the least put out by the lack of reaction to her innocuous comment, merely reaching for another currant tart with plump, eager fingers.
    The earl looked away. The lady's remark struck him as eerily ironic, and he could not help smiling to himself. How many of this odd party gathered on his ancestral lawn would actually derive any enjoyment from the addition of Viviana Rathbone to their number? he wondered. He could think of only one. Himself.
    ***
    Long after tea was over and Lord St. Aubyn had escorted his aunt back to the house, and after Mrs. Easton had excused herself to retire to her room for a rest before dressing for dinner, Athena sat on beneath the old oaks, her mind in a turmoil. She had resisted Perry's entreaties to join him in a game of croquet, and now listened with only half an ear to his shouts of encouragement and Penelope's squeals of delight as she maneuvered the wooden ball through the hoops.
    Something about the earl's sudden appearance at the tea party that afternoon did not ring quite right. He had stared at her rather brazenly, she thought, and she had been disconcerted by the glint of amusement she had detected in his eyes. Those eyes had disconcerted her, too. She had thought them black, or at least a dark brown, that morning they had met in the library. But in the summer sunlight they had been blue—a deep, startling, midnight blue that hovered on the edge of black.
    And he had been amused, she was sure of it. Or could she have imagined that flicker of laughter in those blue depths? The question that intrigued and, she had to admit, alarmed her was why he had abruptly changed from the fiercely outraged parent of two days ago to the almost benevolent pose he had adopted at the tea-table.
    Athena was sure the earl's cordiality had been assumed. She could think of no other explanation, and the notion that he had abandoned his plan to bribe her disturbed her even more. At least when faced with the earl's open attack, she knew where she stood. His false cordiality—for what else could it be? she asked herself for the tenth time—made her increasingly uneasy. What perverse strategy was he planning to drive her back to London? she wondered.
    "A penny for your thoughts, love."
    Athena glanced wryly at her betrothed, who threw himself into a chair beside her. Peregrine was such an innocent. He had been visibly pleased at his father's appearance, and Athena doubted that he had given a thought to the earl's sudden change of mood. His second remark proved her wrong.
    "I do believe that Father is reconciled to our marriage, Athena. Did I not tell you he would come around when he got to know you better?" he said with such enthusiasm that Athena