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few days this, and the journey."

"Oh." The queen shifted, to smile down at her son. "Come show me your pretty daisy chain, herzlieb."

Diana gave him a hand so he could toddle over and present the flowers, relieved that the queen's attention had shifted.

When the queen had praised the flowers and picked him up, however, she said, "Many women would envy you that journey, Lady Arradale. They might feel you had wasted a golden opportunity."

"To flirt with the marquess, ma'am?" Diana asked, as if the notion had never crossed her mind.

The queen's mouth tightened, and she turned her attention back to her babbling son. With a sigh of relief, Diana began to edge backward, but the royal eyes fixed her again. "So, Countess, would the idea of the marquess as husband be an equal surprise?"

"A complete one, ma'am," Diana said, sure she was showing all the appropriate shock, but it was shock at having it stated so bluntly. What was she to do now?

"Put your mind to the matter, and perhaps it will cease to be so startling. My husband the king thinks it would be an excellent idea."

"But the madness, ma'am!"

"Doubtless a brain fever or such. In all other respects he is a desirable husband, yes? You cannot claim that he is unpleasing to women, or has any lack in manly parts."

"No, but - "

The queen cut her off with a gesture and waved her away, and Diana escaped before she said something disastrous. As she backed into the next section of the garden, however, panic made her want to clamber over the iron railings and flee.

She'd come here to persuade the king that she was no danger to his country. Then she'd thought she had to escape numerous unnamed suitors. She'd never expected to have to fight a determined attempt to push her into the arms of the man she loved.

Despite hating having to tell Bey what a mess she was making, she desperately needed to see him and hear his advice. She needed to warn him, too.

She thought briefly of sending him a message, but it was impossible to say anything to the point even in code without creating a connection between them that must be avoided.

Even when he came to court, she thought with a hiss of annoyance, they would have no time in private. She would have to use the code. Pretend she'd received a letter from Rosa...

Coming up with the best innocent phrases, she stroked a lovely, full-blown rose.

At her touch, it disintegrated.

She stared in shock at the carpet of creamy pink, remnants of beauty destroyed by her touch.

Nothing - not even a Malloren - could put that rose back together again. She gathered some of the fallen petals as if she might find some way to stick them back on the stem, then held them to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume. Warm from the sun, they were like soft skin.

Like his skin, which in places was smooth and soft.

And in places hard.

Swept back to the White Goose, she knew their consummation had been as foolish as it had been wonderful. Despite their efforts, it would leave her in anxiety until her courses came. Even if she escaped that disaster, she would be left in bitter longings all her life unless she could find a way to change his mind.

To change a noble purpose fixed years ago and for good reason.

She opened her hands and let the petals float back to the ground. Her intent was not destructive. She would not think that. It offered hope of true happiness.

This plan of the king and queen's did not, however, even though she saw that it came out of good intentions. He could not be forced.

She returned to planning the right words to warn him.

Chapter 22

Rothgar was finishing the hasty meal and being merciful by looking at Ingram's designs for new liveries - which seemed to him little different than the ones in use now - when Sir George Ufton was announced. The stocky man hurried in, looking strangely pale. "My lord, thank the heavens you are here!"

"Sir George. What has happened?"

"Georgie! My son George. He's been taken up as a horse thief!"

Rothgar guided the man to a chair and poured brandy for him. "Now, Sir George, tell me exactly what has happened."

Uncharacteristically disordered in the telling, the story was quite simple. Young George had been passing the time at market day in Dingham by gaming at an inn - something his father would have