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felt bitten herself. She had prepared to meet the Dark Marquess, but what was she to do with this man? The Dark Marquess did not carry infants around!

"My brother is at his wit's end."

Diana turned dazedly to Lady Steen. She was what Diana was beginning to think of as a "red Malloren" though her hair was a soft brown just highlighted with warmer tones. Her easy smile was very like Lord Brand's, however.

"It's hard to be the eminence noire of England," the lady continued, "with a grubby infant following you everywhere you go."

A glance showed Diana that far from being at his wit's end, the eminence noire appeared completely at his ease, and was engaged in a conversation of some sort with the child about the horses. On little Arthur's side it involved a great deal of babbling and pointing, but anyone would think it was wisdom by the marquess's attention and rational responses.

She mustn't notice, she decided, many seconds too late. She mustn't look, listen, or pay any kind of attention to things like that. He was the Dark Marquess, and she would ignore him as much as possible over the next three days.

Lady Steen drew forward two girls who seemed to be trying to hide behind her skirts. "May I present my daughters, Lady Arradale. Sarah and Eleanor." The two girls shyly dropped neat curtsies. "And this," she added, stretching a hand to an on-best-behavior boy, standing by his father, "is Charles, Lord Harber." A correct bow and steady, intelligent eyes.

"I can't promise perfect order from them all," Lady Steen remarked, giving one daughter a look when she giggled, "but I hope they won't upset your household too much. We brought them because we are all continuing on from here into Scotland."

As they exchanged commonplaces about traveling, Diana found herself relaxing. Astonishing that the Mallorens included this pleasant, easy natured woman and her amiable, devoted husband.

A moment later she realized it was dangerous. It could undermine her caution. She was pleased enough to move on to the next coach's passengers.

The marquess, still uncomplainingly burdened with the chattering child, presented her to a man as dark and dramatic as himself. As Diana greeted Lord Bryght Malloren, she thought that this was what she had expected from them all.

He was possibly the handsomest man she'd ever seen. Dark and lean, with very fine eyes and a slightly cynical manner, he was designed to turn any woman to jelly on the spot. This, she was armored to resist.

His wife was the shock, being short, slight, and almost plain, with red hair and an embarrassment of freckles. To make it worse, as she welcomed them, the two shared a flashing moment of eye contact that might as well have screamed love, passion, and abiding understanding.

"Yes," murmured the marquess as they moved on. "More of the besotted. I warn you, it appears to be contagious. It's roared through my family in short order. I am immune, of course, but you must take your chances."

"I am immune, too, my lord, I assure you."

"You cannot imagine my relief, since I am the only unattached male present. We can sit together of an evening in an enclave of disinfection."

She laughed, but wondered if any of her panic rang through it. He was right. He and she were the odd couple in this company! They couldn't be thrown together by that. They couldn't. A few minutes in his company was assuring her that she hadn't imagined the effect he could have on her.

And then - dear heaven! - there were the sleeping arrangements.

Even in a house as grand as Arradale, this number of guests required all the good bedrooms. She slept in the earl's suite, but her mother had long since vacated the countess's rooms for different ones elsewhere. Someone had had to be allocated the "Countess's Chambers," and so she had decided the marquess could sleep there - not without a touch of malice. They were decorated in an extremely feminine style.

She had not thought that they were truly adjoining, nor how it might appear to others.

Lud! Was there any way to change things at this late date?

Young Arthur suddenly demanded to be put down, and he ran to join a red-haired lad who was only just steady on his feet, clinging to a maidservant's hand.

"Our son, Francis," said Lord Bryght, strolling over to give his own hand to the child, then swinging him into his arms, to a crow of delight. "We don't expect you