It couldn’t be him. It simply couldn't.

Her heart pounding like the piston of a steam engine, Edie ran through the station and out the front doors, her only thought to get as far away from Stuart as possible. She paused on the steps to locate her carriage, and when she saw the open vehicle, she muttered a frustrated oath to see it standing empty by the corner. Roberts had, of course, followed them inside with the luggage, and she'd have to wait for him unless she wanted to drive the vehicle herself.

That would certainly cause the tongues of Clyffeton to start wagging, especially in light of the duke's return and the way she'd bolted from the station like a rabbit. Still, better that than to wait and have Stuart accompanying them back to Highclyffe. She needed time to pull her wits together, time to assimilate the impossible. Her husband was home.

"Your Grace?”

Roberts's voice behind her was like the answer to a prayer. She turned. "Take me home at once, please."

A frown of bewilderment crossed the driver's face. He hesitated, glanced back over his shoulder, and returned his gaze to hers. "Oughtn't we to wait for—"

"No." Waiting for Margrave was the last thing she wanted. Edie started toward the landau without another word, and after a moment, Roberts continued following her. When they reached the vehicle, he rolled out the steps, she got in, and moments later, they were off. As he turned the landau around to take her back to Highclyffe, she glanced at the station, and when she saw no sign of her husband attempting to follow, she sank back against the seat with a sigh of relief.

Idiotic to dash out the way she had, but . . . bloody hell. She hadn't known what else to do.

Stuart was home. That wasn't supposed to happen—ever. They'd agreed on that in the bargain they'd made five years ago, so what was he doing here?

The image of him on the train platform flashed through her mind, of him surrounded by trunks and crates, and she felt another jolt of the same panic that had sent her running out of the train station.

Edie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to think, reminding herself that she didn't know for certain what had brought him home. He might have just returned for a holiday, to see old friends and family.

No, not family, she amended at once. His immediate family was all out of the country, and besides, family ties meant little to Stuart. Friends, yes . . . he might have come home to see friends.

The vast amount of luggage might be gifts—ivory or skins or whatever it was he hunted on the African savannahs. She knew about his expeditions, of course, but beyond that, she wasn't quite clear how he occupied his time in Kenya, for they didn't correspond and never had. That had been part of the bargain, Edie turned her head, staring out over sprawling green fields and hedgerows, but in her mind's eye, a different scene opened up before her—a dazzling London ballroom half a decade ago, and girls moving across the dance floor like color-washed rose petals floating on a breeze.

The years fell away.

Nineteen and nearing the end of her first season in London, Edie watched the girls on the ballroom floor with admiration and a hint of envy. She'd loved waltzing as a young girl, but even then, she'd never been much good at it. Impossible to be a floating rose petal when you were taller than your partner, and having shot up to a height of six feet by the age of fourteen, Edie always seemed to be taller than her partner. She also had the tendency to lead rather than be led, which generally resulted in smashed toes, embarrassing collisions, and frustrated partners. And even if she had managed to master the waltz, it would have done her little good, for ever since Saratoga, she could hardly bear to be touched. Not that any of that mattered much anyway, for no man ever asked her to dance. By now, every male from London to New York knew she was a giraffe, and at every ball, she spent most of her time lined up along one side of the room with all the other wallflowers.

Daddy had brought her to London in the hope things would be different for her here. Rich American girls not accepted by the New York Knickerbocker set could often find—or buy—a place in London society. He had even hired Lady Featherstone, England's most successful matchmaker, to assist in the effort to gain social acceptance for Edie. But much to Arthur Jewell's dismay, even an enormous dowry and the matchmaking Lady Featherstone hadn't been enough to sway any peer, however impecunious or desperate he might be, to marry his ruined eldest daughter. Of course, Edie knew her mop of curly, carrot-and-ginger hair, the splatter of freckles across her face, her towering height, and unprepossessing bosom hadn't done much to help her chances either. And though the outspokenness and independent spirit of American girls were characteristics that Englishmen seemed to find charming, in Edie's case, both traits had fallen rather flat. All in all, she was almost as great a social failure in London as she'd been in New York, even before whispers of her sullied reputation had started seeping over from the other side of the Atlantic.

Now, time was running out. In three days, it would be August 12, a date that marked the official end of the season and Edie's return to New York. Though Lady Featherstone had suggested they remain a bit longer, Daddy's business matters back home required his return, and given Edie's lack of social success so far, he couldn't see the point of prolonging their stay.

For Edie, going home meant disaster. It meant going back to the stifling atmosphere of Madison Avenue and the awful shunning at Newport, a return to the smothering shame and the horrid whispers behind her back. But far worse, going home meant seeing again the man who had caused it all.

Frederick Van Hausen was part of the Knickerbocker set, unquestioningly accepted by MacAllister's Patriarchs and happily invited by Mrs. Astor to her annual ball. Edie's family had never been part of the social circle in which the Van Hausens moved, but she would still see him. He lived only a few blocks from her home on Madison Avenue. His family's house in Newport was less than a mile from hers. Both fathers were members of the New York Yacht Club, and both owned racehorses that ran at Saratoga. Just the thought of seeing him ever again was enough to make her physically ill. To face him, even from a passing carriage or across a bookshop, to ever see again the contemptuous satisfaction in his eyes and the triumphant little smirk on his face would be unbearable. To look into his eyes and know that he was remembering what he'd done to her, that he was reliving the pleasure he'd gained by giving her pain, would be the pit of hell.

Marriage to an Englishman, she knew, was the only way to avoid what awaited her in New York.

In addition, marriage would gain her a measure of control over her own life, and after Saratoga, control was something she desperately wanted. And yet, the idea of marriage was as unbearable as that of going back home, for marriage gave her husband the legal right to her body whenever he wanted it.

Edie's white-gloved hands curled into fists. The lilting music of a Strauss waltz and the hum of ballroom conversation faded as she once again strove to find a way out. But she feared there was no way out of hell.

"Ooh, look!" Beside her, Leonie Atherton's voice was an excited squeak that penetrated Edie's brooding thoughts. "The Duke of Margrave's just arrived."

Glad of the distraction, Edie drew a deep breath and followed her friend's gaze to the ballroom entrance nearby. When she spied the man standing there, she felt a flicker of surprise to discover there was at least one man in society taller than she was—a good two or three inches taller, by the look of With thoughts of Frederick still at the forefront of her mind, she studied the man by the door, struck by the fact that he was as different from Frederick as chalk was from cheese. This man was no fair-haired Apollo with the face of a choirboy, the clothes of a dandy, and the air of the privileged.

No, this man had a lean, tanned face and a devil-may-care demeanor, and he wore his impeccably cut clothes with a careless sort of elegance. His white tie was undone, his dark hair was unruly, and though he might be a duke, Edie wondered if he even gave a damn. Having been surrounded by ambitious social climbers all her life, Edie was rather amused by the notion of a man who didn't care how well-born he was. "He's supposed to be one of the most charming men in London," Leonie said beside her. "And handsome, too. Even you, Edie, as fastidious as you are, must admit he's handsome."

She might be chary of men, thanks to Frederick, but that fact hadn't affected her eyesight. "I suppose he is," she conceded, "if you like that dark, reckless sort of good looks."

"And who doesn't?" Leonie laughed. "But you've got him pegged, that's for sure. He lived in Africa for two years," she went on with the knowing air of one who read the scandal rags every day. "He hunted things—elephants, lions, leopards, all that. Saved the life of some chieftain, I believe. Or maybe it was a British diplomat? Anyway, he's trekked through the jungles, navigated rivers, had all sorts of adventures. He's quite wild, so they say."

"He looks it."

"Doesn't he, though? It's said that half the girls in London were in love with him, and he left a trail of broken hearts behind him when he went away. He had to come back when his father died, but he desperately wants to return to Africa. He wants to live there forever. Can you imagine? But I doubt he'll be able to go."

"Why not?"

"He's the duke now, and I don't think a duke could live in Africa, do you? They have to manage their estates, and . . . and things." She paused, her knowledge of a duke's actual duties having apparently run out. "Not that being the duke does him much good, for he's in a difficult position. He's got heaps of debt. Everything's mortgaged to the hilt and the papers announced last week that his creditors have called his loans. They'll probably take everything that's not entailed."

"I see. Not only handsome, but a wrong 'un."

"Not him! It was his grandfather who gambled away most of the money, and whatever his grandfather didn't lose at the card table, his father sank into some very bad investments. Oh, if only he'd ask me to dance! He's said to dance divinely. But, of course, he can't do that, for we've never even been introduced. But it would be heavenly if he'd look in my direction and be so captivated that he'd march over to Lady Featherstone and request an introduction! She could tell him how rich I am," she added, laughing, "and he might marry me, and I could solve all his problems!"

Edie froze at her friend's laughing words, staring at the tall man with the carelessly handsome face who stood a dozen feet away. Leonie might be joking, but for herself, did it have to be a joke?

Mightn't it be just what she'd been hoping for?

For the first time since Saratoga, she felt a stirring of hope. Could this man be her salvation? she wondered. Could this Duke of Margrave be her way out of hell?

As if he sensed her scrutiny, he glanced her way, and when their eyes met, she sucked in a sharp breath. He had beautiful eyes—piercing, pale gray eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul. She wondered if perhaps she was also looking into his.

She was staring, she knew, and yet, she couldn't look away. My escape from hell, she thought, and the air between them seemed to stir, rippling over her skin like a cool breeze. She shivered and turned her head, forcing her gaze to the dance floor, but after a moment, she couldn't resist another glance at him. To her astonishment, he was still watching her.

He was smiling a little, head to one side, a quizzical little frown between his dark brows. She wondered what he could be thinking.

A way out of hell.

She was mad, she must be, she thought. Mad with desperation and panic. She looked away again and tried to set aside the idea that was running through her mind. Handsome the Duke of Margrave might be, but the angled planes of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, and the hawklike shrewdness of those beautiful eyes spoke plainly of a man who would not be easy to manage. Still, if he was leaving for Africa, that might not matter.

When he walked by where she stood, he didn't look her way, but she studied him from beneath her lashes as he passed, noting the easy, athletic grace with which he moved, grace that didn't come from navigating English ballrooms. When he melded into the crowd, she murmured something to her friend about needing a glass of water and followed him.

Making her way toward the refreshment table, she watched him as he paused to converse with a group of acquaintances, and she almost groaned in dismay as he led the beautiful and rich Susan Buckingham of Philadelphia out onto the dance floor. Though Edie had five times Susan's money, she couldn't hold a candle to her fellow American heiress in looks, and she feared the wild, crazy idea in her head might be doomed to failure before she could even try to implement it.

But she needn't have worried about Susan. Though they waltzed beautifully together, though she said things that made him smile and laugh, when the dance was over, the duke did not linger with her. Instead, he returned her to her place, bowed, and moved on, and Edie's hope flared up once more.

She knew she needed to get him alone, but she didn't see how she could manage it. And then, Providence, which had not been favoring Edie much of late, came to her aid. The duke paused at the other end of the refreshment table, lingering over the unopened bottles of champagne that were chilling on ice in an enormous silver bucket. She moved closer, watching as he pulled out, rejected, and returned several bottles. He finally selected one, but he didn't call for a footman to open it. Instead, bottle in one hand, he took up a glass from the table with the other and turned away, stepping out through the nearby opened French doors that led to the terrace.

He didn't seem to be slipping out for a rendezvous. A glance at the dance floor showed that Susan had been claimed by a new partner. He might be meeting someone else, of course, but Edie didn't think it likely since he'd only taken one glass with him. This was her chance if she had the nerve to take it. It might be the only chance she had left.

With that thought, she moved to the end of the refreshment table where he'd been standing, took up a champagne flute of her own, and after a quick glance around to be sure Lady Featherstone was nowhere in sight and no one else was watching her, she slipped outside to follow the duke. He was no longer on the terrace, but as her gaze swept over the moonlit gardens, she saw him striding away across the sweeping expanse of lawn. He seemed to be making for the tall boxwood hedges that formed a maze at the back of the grounds.

Moving as quickly as she dared, she followed, but by the time she reached the maze, he had already slipped into its labyrinthine depths.

She plunged in after him, but only a few minutes later, she found herself at a dead end, with Margrave nowhere in sight. She rose on her toes, elevating herself as much as she could in her flat slippers, but even as tall as she was, the hedge was too high for her to see over, and she sank back down with an exasperated sigh.

She assumed he was headed for the center of the maze, but though she made several more attempts to follow, all of them proved useless, and she soon found herself hopelessly lost. Equally bad, she'd lost him. "Now what?" she muttered, staring into the dark green wall of yet another dead end.

"Looking for me?" a deep, lazy voice inquired behind her.

With a rush of relief, Edie whirled around to find her quarry less than ten feet away. But when she looked into those extraordinary gray eyes of his, her relief dissolved into something more like dread because her question to herself still remained unanswered. Now what?