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trying to brush multicolored petals from his hair. After a still, smiling moment, he embraced his brother without restraint. Shockingly, at least to Diana, the marquess embraced him back, even lowering his head a moment to rest against the other.

A large part of this happy outcome had been Lord Rothgar's work, but she had thought it came from pride, duty, and a love of efficiency. She saw now that she'd been wrong. Nor was it all fueled by guilt. He loved. Though generally he sheathed it in steel and velvet like the dangerous blade it was, he loved his brothers and sisters to a remarkable degree.

Swallowing, she moved on quickly, offering her flowers, eyes a little blurred. What did it matter? It was nothing to do with her.

She kept the last handful of flowers and threw them at Rosa as the happy couple rode off. She stamped on the thought that she was waving goodbye to her closest friend, to someone who had been as close as a sister, as a twin even -

"Is marriage such undiluted tragedy, Lady Arradale?"

Diana started, and found the marquess by her side. "Not at all, my lord."

"Ah, tears of happiness, I gather."

He didn't think that for a moment. "I am not crying," she stated, and indeed, she was not, though they clogged her throat.

"Tears are not always visible."

Diana faced him, eyes deliberately wide, and dry. "You wax metaphysical, my lord."

"Perhaps everything of importance is metaphysical, my lady."

"Faith, but if everything of importance is beyond our senses, we are like feathers on the wind."

"Have you never felt exactly like that?"

She caught her breath, for it did describe her state today. "Have you?"

It burst out of raw curiosity. Though she might have glimpsed some of his vulnerabilities, she'd never imagined the marquess blown on the wind. Not even on a hurricane.

"The coaches await," he said, taking her basket and turning her toward the road with the slightest touch on her arm. "I do my best to tether to rock, my lady, though even rocks prove untrustworthy at times. You will miss your cousin, I think."

As an instinctive defensive move, she retorted, "You will miss your brother."

A sharp look told her she'd scored. "Your last brother," she continued with sudden realization. "All your family save you are now married, are they not, my lord?"

If there had been a hit, he'd recovered. "A Herculean task, but accomplished, yes."

"So what will you do with your matchmaking instincts now?"

"Turn all my tender care to my country, dear lady."

"Matchmaking Britannia with whom?"

"Why, with peace, of course. Does a long period of peace not seem desirable to you?" He passed the basket to a servant, but picked something out of it. She saw that one scarlet poppy had caught there. Poppy, which could aid peaceful sleep, or become a perilous addiction.

"Peace is excellent," she said.

"You don't regret the lost opportunity to seize all of France's holdings?"

"Do you?"

"I thought the cost too great."

With the slightest of smiles he tucked the stem down her bodice, down behind her bust so it tickled between her breasts. In the end, only the vibrant blossom rested against the frill of white lace there.

And she let him.

She looked up into his dark, disturbing eyes, seeing that they were not dark brown, but a steely dark gray. "What do you want with me, my lord?"

He murmured something in Greek.

She said: "Aristotle."

Those heavy-lidded eyes widened, and with considerable satisfaction, she knew she had startled him. "Easier to study others than ourselves," she translated. "More comfortable to judge their actions than our own."

After a moment, he said, "Of course. Having only a daughter, and one who would inherit, your father gave you a man's education."

"And a devilish bore it was at times. Though," she added mischievously, "it has occasional reward."

A true smile touched his lips. "Indeed. You are very good for me, Lady Arradale. A constant reminder not to underestimate women."

They moved on toward the coaches. "I would have thought the poet Sappho acted as reminder of that." Instantly, she regretted it.

He didn't seem disturbed. "Nothing Sappho does surprises anyone. Perhaps I should have said 'apparently conventional" women."

She turned to look up at him, deliberately astonished. "You find me conventional?"

His smile was even more pronounced this time, warming his eyes. "A mistake. I apologize profusely. So, Lady Arradale, what sort of woman are you?"

"My lord Rothgar, turn your microscope on yourself."

She found the strength to walk away then. As she let a footman hand her up into a waiting coach,