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Chapter One

Rosalinda carefully arranged her silk gown as she sat on the embroidered chair pulled up to her writing table. She did not want any untoward creases, especially on this of all days. Opening the volume that lay in front of her she took a sharp letter opener and slit the uncut pages, exposing creamy blank vellum. She took a moment to contemplate that first virgin page, then dipped a quill into the inkstand and began scratching words onto it.

Wednesday, May 10, 1811

Today I begin a new journal and a new life. I am so elated I vow I could float above the trees in Hyde Park. This morning I am to wed Lord Harry Montague, the handsomest man in the entire world. All the other young misses who made their debuts with me are astonished & quite madly jealous that such a fine Corinthian has offered for me so early in the Season. Of course, I have known Lord Harry since we were children, & it was no great task to convince him he should propose. I can scarcely wait to walk down the aisle, bedecked in flowers & my new silk gown, to meet my handsome Lord Harry on the altar. We are having the most magnificent wedding the ton has seen in ages. The church will be a sad crush. It may be unkind of me to say so, but I cannot help hoping Letitia Dunthorpe appears decidedly out of curl when I pass her on the aisle, as she was quite certain she would be wed before me, & thus far the only beau who has shown an interest in her is old Lord Wetherby, who is sixty if he is a day & has spots.

A knock on the door made Rosalinda quickly scatter sand on the page to blot the ink and obscure her entry.

"Are you ready, my darling daughter?" A plump woman gowned in purple satin bustled in, gray curls bouncing under her turban. "The carriage is waiting outside."

"I have been ready for hours, Mama. How do I look?"

Rosalinda twirled in her pink silk gown for her mother's benefit. She knew the color set her complexion off to its greatest advantage, because the dressmaker had told her so. A comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl helped hold her golden hair in place, allowing just a few curly tendrils to escape and tease her temples.

Eleanor, Duchess of Wallingford, looked on approvingly. There was no denying that her daughter was a beauty. She had hair the color of buttercups, the most marvelous azure-blue eyes, plump pink lips that formed a pretty bow, and a trim figure that had caught more than one gentleman's eye.

As the Duke of Wallingford's only daughter, Rosalinda had been spared no luxury, nor denied the least indulgence. So when she set her cap for her childhood friend Lord Harry, known as a handsome, engaging rake, neither the Duchess nor her husband could withhold their approval. In fact, Eleanor mused, she and the Duke were quite relieved Lord Harry came up to scratch. If he hadn't, there could have been a painful scene.

Eleanor didn't consider Rosalinda a willful child, not like her brother Geoffrey, the Marquess of Edgefield, whom the Duke and Duchess gratefully consigned to boarding school when he was five. Now, there was a headstrong lad, always at odds with his parents.

By contrast Rosalinda had a sunny disposition, and never displayed any bad temper to her parents or her governess. But then, why should she? Rosalinda's beauty and social standing had kept adversity at bay all her life. Indeed, her mother had no idea how her daughter would handle disappointment, and hoped she would never have to find out.

"Your father and I would like to present a gift to you on this your wedding day, my poppet. And we just could not wait till the wedding breakfast."

Rosalinda clapped her hands. "Oh, a present? You are too, too good to me, Mama. May I open it now, or should I wait till Papa is here?"

"Oh, we must not wait. I will burst if I cannot see your expression."

Eleanor handed her daughter a small cedar box. Its fragrance wafted over the room as Rosalinda opened it, and took out a piece of midnight blue velvet. Coiled in the fabric was a necklace of pink diamonds and pearls, with a matching bracelet.

"Oh mother, how perfectly lovely!" Rosalinda sighed with delight.

"We were going to give you just the pearls, suitable for a morning wedding, but your father insisted on the diamonds, to match your gown," her fond mother explained. "They are ever so rare. Fit for royalty."

"It is so very pretty. Thank you, Mama. You and Papa are the best of parents." Rosalinda gave her mother an impulsive hug. "This is a wonderful day. Even the sun is shining through the clouds. Nothing can ruin this day for me."

The Duchess, who had a pronounced superstitious streak and was fearful the fates would be tempted by her daughter's bold words, looked for a piece of wood to knock. She took the cedar box in hand, but before she was able to rap her knuckles on it there was a knock by another hand on the door.

"Come in," said the Duchess. "What is it that you want, Hendricks?"

"There is a gentleman in the drawing room who wishes an audience with Lady Rosalinda," said the butler, after a deferential bow. "He said it is most urgent."

"His name, Hendricks. He must have provided you with a name," said the Duchess.

"He is a Mr. Phelps."

"Oh, how nice, Mama! That must be Simon, come to wish me well," said Rosalinda. "Lord Harry told me he was coming to the wedding. He has been in America, and Harry was not sure he could book passage on a ship in time for our ceremony. I vow, I haven't seen Simon in ages, since we all played together in the village. Harry will be so pleased our old friend is here. I wonder if they have seen each other yet?"

"Begging your pardon, your Grace, but Mr. Phelps said he is here on behalf of Lord Harry Montague."

"Inform him that we will be down presently."

"That's odd." Rosalinda furrowed her fair brow. "I wonder what he wants, Mama."

"Most likely nothing of consequence, my dear. No doubt Lord Harry asked him to perform some small service, such as inquiring how many trunks you are taking on your trip."

"Oh, la, my trousseau takes at least ten trunks, and I am still packing! We will need a very large ship to cross the Channel, and stout horses on the Continent to pull our carriage."

Rosalinda relaxed and smiled at the prospect. "Is it not delightful that Lord Harry wishes us to take a wedding trip to Italy? He stopped there on his Grand Tour. He assures me I will be enchanted with Venice. Even you have never been to Venice, Mama. Soon I will be the most well traveled member of the family. Letitia will be sick with envy."

And with a much lighter heart Rosalinda swept down the stairs of the ducal townhouse in her rose-colored gown with her new necklace clasped around her neck.

When she reached the drawing room the butler opened the doors. The young man waiting inside, dressed formally in black boots, cream-colored breeches, a crisp high shirt collar, a carefully folded cravat and white waistcoat under a well-fitted jacket of dark blue superfine, looked up as she entered. He started, and was momentarily speechless when she smiled at him. Then he recovered his poise.

"Simon," said Rosalinda, walking towards him with her hands extended. "It is so lovely to see you again. It has been many years since we played together on the banks of the village stream, has it not?"

"Yes, and in that time you have become a diamond of the first water," said Simon with a bow. "Though you were quite lovely then as well."

"Fie, Simon. I was fifteen and in my awkward years," said Rosalinda with a self-deprecating laugh, fully aware she had never experienced an awkward day, much less a year.

Simon continued to hold both her hands in his, and seemed to struggle for words. The Duchess, coming into the room behind her daughter, cleared her throat.

"Indeed, Mr. Phelps. I would scarce recognize you as the young scapegrace who used to romp across the countryside with Lord Harry whenever the Montagues came to Wallingford Hall. How is your father, the village vicar?"

"Very well, thank you, your Grace."

"And how goes you? I understand that you are now in the King's diplomatic service, Lord Ellis having taken an interest in you while you were at Oxford."

"I have been very fortunate, your Grace. My tutor at school aided my entry into that great university, and there I found a kind mentor in the Earl. He has great influence with the Court and helped me obtain my present position."

Somewhere in the hall a clock chimed half past ten.

"I am sure your achievements are well-deserved. But we must away to St. George's for the wedding, which I see you are dressed for as well, so perhaps you should now tell us the purpose of your call."

Simon twisted his high-crowned beaver hat in his gloved hands.

"I am afraid I am the bearer of somewhat difficult news."

"Difficult news?" said the Duchess, crossing the room to the settee. She sat on the brocaded seat with a flourish of her ample skirt. "Pray, explain what you mean by 'difficult news'?"

"Perhaps you should sit as well, Lady Rosalinda."

Rosalinda stood in the middle of the room, rooted to the floor, and acted as if she hadn't heard his suggestion.

"What difficult news? Where is Lord Harry? Has anything happened to him?"

"Ah, I am glad you brought that up," said Simon. "I am afraid Lord Harry is a bit indisposed."

"Indisposed?" said the Duchess. "Whatever do you mean? Is he in his cups?"

"No," said Simon, his face reddening under his sideburns all the way to the roots of his dark brown, close-cropped curly hair. "That is, he did stay rather late at his club last night. And we did go through quite a few bottles of claret."

"If he is ill," said Rosalinda softly, "we can postpone the ceremony."

Even as she made the suggestion she thought how galling it would be to have to admit to Letitia that her groom was too drunk to make it to the church. But in a society where nearly every male was a hard drinker, she knew his sin would soon be forgiven, even laughed about.

"I am afraid it would be no use to postpone the ceremony. Lord Harry is no longer in London. He is on his way to Dover."

"Dover? Is he going to start the wedding trip without me?" asked Rosalinda, confusion on her lovely face and a quaver in her voice.

"My stars and garters!" said the Duchess. "Harry's done a bunk, hasn't he?"

"I don't understand. Mother, what are you saying?"

The Duchess was too flabbergasted to break the news gently to her daughter.

"He's bolted. Fled the country. There'll be no wedding, gel. Your bridegroom has taken a powder."

Rosalinda sank to the floor in a fluid silk puddle. Simon rushed to catch her.

"I am so sorry to be the bearer of this news, Lady Rosalinda. You must allow me to help you. Are you ill?"

Rosalinda put one shapely hand to her brow. "I am far from well. I cannot comprehend what has happened. How could he leave without me?"

"I do not understand it either, my lady," said Simon, still cradling her in his arms. "Any man would have to be mad to abandon you at the altar."

Rosalinda looked at him, her blue eyes wide, as his words sunk in.

"I have been jilted, haven't I? And in the worst possible way. I will be the laughingstock of London."

The Duchess crossed the room and pulled on the bell. A second later Hendricks, who had been listening in the hall, entered.

"You rang, your Grace?"

"Smelling salts, Hendricks. No, better make that brandy. We've all had a shock."

Rosalinda was crying in earnest, plump tears wetting her eyelashes and trickling down her cheeks. Her hands were balled into fists, and she was pounding the floor with them.

"I will kill him! How can I ever show my face in Society again? This was to be the most-talked about wedding of the Season!"

"I would say that's a dead certainty now," said her mother glumly.

Rosalinda went on cataloguing her disappointments as if she hadn't heard her.

"Bushels of flowers brought in from the country. And Gunter's made the most wonderful confection for the wedding breakfast. A miniature of Astley's Amphitheatre, composed entirely out of spun sugar. With horses and riders! Oh, oh, oh!"

"Thank you, Hendricks," said the Duchess, pouring a generous measure of brandy and handing it to Simon. "Make her drink it. She's becoming alarmingly red in the face."

The Duchess then poured herself twice her daughter's measure of brandy and downed it in one gulp.

"How could he do this to me?" Rosalinda's melodious voice had attained a near-wail.

"I have no idea, my lady," Simon gently eased a few drops of the golden liquid on her lips.

"I am completely ruined! Oh, won't Letitia rejoice!" Rosalinda started to cry and hiccup at the same time.

Rosalinda's abject grief tormented Simon.

"Believe me, Lady Rosalinda, I would do anything to spare you this intolerable pain," he said, with heartfelt fervor. "Even marry you myself, would that were possible."

"Ho now, what was that?" said the Duchess, her hand halting in middle of refilling her glass. "Did you just offer to marry her yourself?"

Simon started to stammer. "Well, naturally, any man would be the most fortunate of beings to have Lady Rosalinda as his wife."

"Is that so? Young man, you've given me an excellent idea. Stop your blubbering, daughter. There may yet be a way out of the social ruin we're facing."

Rosalinda stopped her weeping. "Mama?"

"Yes, indeed." The Duchess finished filling her glass and downed the contents. "Wipe your tears, daughter, for there will be a wedding in St. George's this morning."

"But how, Mama? Lord Harry is g-g-gone." Sobs threatened to engulf her once more, but she quelled them with a big gulp.

The Duchess shrugged. "One groom is as good as another on the altar, my dear. No one notices the grooms, anyway. They are all looking at the bride."

"I do look awfully fine in this dress, don't I, Mama?" said Rosalinda wistfully.

"Indeed you do, and we are not going to waste it. You'll marry young Phelps here."

"Simon?" Rosalinda looked at her potential rescuer as if she had never seen him before. For his part, Simon looked as if he'd been struck, his mouth slightly agape. He looked like he was about to object, but the Duchess overrode him, addressing her daughter.

"Now, my girl, stop your fussing. You have little choice, if you do not wish tongues to wag. We shall put it about that he was your intended all along, that your other engagement was a ruse, and Lord Harry went along with the hoax for the sake of his friend."

"I hardly think..." Simon began.

"No one is asking you to think, sirrah. True, you are not my first choice for my darling daughter, but you have no scandal attached to your name, and everyone knows you are under Lord Ellis's wing. You'll do in a crisis, and that is exactly where we stand."

"Mama, I cannot marry Simon. We played together as children, but I scarcely know him now. He doesn't even have a title." She had the grace to blush as she turned to Simon. "Please forgive my plain speaking. I am only stating what is sure to be a common objection to this match. Indeed, Mama, what will people say?"

"Pshaw. You are making too much of this. You are the Duke of Wallingford's daughter. You have title enough for the both of you. And as for not knowing your husband, what bearing does that have on the issue? Many wives, particularly at our level of Society, barely know their husbands before they marry. It can be better that way. If I had known your father too well before we were wed, I might have had second thoughts. None of that matters now, of course. A wise wife learns to manage her household and her husband."

"Now, hold a moment," said Simon, rising indignantly.

"Are you reneging on your word, young man?"

Simon looked at Rosalinda's tear-stained face. His expression softened. "No, of course not."

"There's a sensible fellow. I suggest you ride over to St. George's, and await us at the altar. Oh, you will have to stop for a special license, but that should not pose a problem. The Archbishop of Canterbury is a good friend of the Duke's, and he is the cleric performing the ceremony."

Simon helped a dazed Rosalinda to her feet, and stood for moment with her, as if he wanted to add something.

"Off with you now," said the Duchess. "We will be there presently. And if you see the Duke, tell him not to fly up into the boughs, and that I will explain the situation to him later."

Rosalinda felt exactly as she did the time she fell off her horse and had the wind knocked out of her. She was experiencing the same sensation of not being able to breathe as her mother gave her more brandy to drink and Simon disappeared.

She didn't want to marry Simon. She didn't even know Simon very well, remembering him only as a somewhat serious friend of Lord Harry's. But what she wanted even less was to be an object of pity or ridicule among the ton's vicious gossips. She knew the delight her competitors on the Marriage Mart would take in the news that she had been left at the altar. No, her mother was right. The only way out of this dreadful predicament was marriage.

"It's not as if it has to be binding," her mother explained, reading her mind. "We can always get the Archbishop to annul it if you find you really can't stand the chap. Just don't allow him any intimacies while you make up your mind."

At Rosalinda's blank look, her mother elaborated, and in the process allowed some of her country-bred coarseness to surface.

"Don't let him get a leg over, gel. Keep him at bay."

Rosalinda blushed, and would have objected, but the brandy was beginning to take effect and she felt a little dizzy.

She leaned rather heavily on her father's arm an hour later, as the duke prepared to walk her down the aisle. As the organ pipes swelled with the opening processional, he inclined his head to speak to his daughter.

"This is a hare-brained scheme, but if your mother is behind it I am assured it is necessary. At least Phelps appears to be of sound character. Ellis speaks highly of him. You could do worse. I never did trust that Montague fellow. Too rackety by half."

Rosalinda closed her eyes and willed the ceremony to be over. Twenty minutes later she was walking back down the aisle, this time on the arm of Simon Phelps, whom she hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words with in five years and who was now her husband before God and man.

By the time she sat down to her wedding breakfast a headache blazed behind her eyes. She accepted the congratulations and good wishes of her friends, along with many hearty exclamations of surprise.

Over and over again she heard "Aren't you the clever ones? You had us all gammoned--we were convinced you were marrying Lord Harry! We should have known that dashing rogue could never settle on just one woman."

"Mama," Rosalinda said in her mother's ear, "I feel unwell."

"Nonsense," her mother whispered back. "If you leave now, people will assume there is something havey-cavey about this wedding."

"There is."

"Stick it out, gel. Not far to go now."

But it wasn't until three o'clock that the last visitor left, and Rosalinda found herself alone with her husband in the drawing room once more.

"Simon, please forgive me. I would like to go upstairs now, and return to my chamber. I have the most frightful headache."

"I can well believe it." Simon smiled, a sympathetic light coming into his gray eyes. "It is difficult to fully comprehend what transpired today. It all happened so quickly. I awoke a bachelor, and now mere hours later I am most unexpectedly a married man. At least you anticipated being wed today, Lady Rosalinda."

"Indeed," said Rosalinda. "Though admittedly to someone else."

Her new husband smiled ruefully. A stab of compassion struck Rosalinda. She took his hand in hers.

"Poor Simon. This turn of events must be just as confusing for you as it is for me. And now we must decide how to proceed from here."

He squeezed her hand in return, and a small silence fell between them.

He cleared his throat. "I must away to Whitehall this afternoon. I have a meeting with the foreign secretary. I confess I did not think to cancel my appointments, not expecting to have any husbandly duties to discharge today."

He smiled, causing his face to light up. Rosalinda blinked. Simon was a handsome man, especially when he smiled. Not Lord Harry-handsome, perhaps, but quite attractive in his own way.

She forced herself to refocus on their discussion.

"I quite understand. You naturally have prior commitments. But that still leaves us in a quandary. What shall we do now?"

A frown of concern shadowed his rugged features.

"Quite honestly, I have been racking my brain trying to come up with a good answer to that question. The rub is that I am obliged to sail the day after next for America. I am needed most urgently there, and plans have been made that cannot be cancelled or postponed."

"America! You do not expect me to accompany you, do you?"

"S'truth, though that option did occur to me, I have not had the time to fully consider it." He looked at her doubtfully. "I do not believe you would care for the rigors of a sea voyage, Lady Rosalinda. And you would find American society quite a bit different than what you are accustomed to in England."

"So I should think. I have heard accounts of fierce savages in leather fringe and feathered headdresses roaming the streets of American cities, along with plain Quakers and wild-eyed revolutionaries. It does not sound like a suitable place for a gently-bred female."

"I should say not," said the Duchess, entering the room. Rosalinda guessed her mother had overheard their conversation. She had an uncanny sense of hearing when it came to interesting news. "Go to America if you must, Phelps. Rosalinda shall await your return to London."

The Duchess finished her speech with a broad wink. Rosalinda knew her mother was thinking it would be easy to arrange an annulment if Simon were to leave for the several months his trip would require.

The shock and disappointment Rosalinda felt earlier hardened into resentment. She placed her hand on her pounding forehead. This was all Lord Harry's fault. She should be planning a wedding trip with the man of her dreams, not an annulment to an obliging stand-in. And Rosalinda knew that no matter how adroitly her mother managed things, some scandal was inevitable.

She would never forgive Lord Harry for putting her through all this. Never. In fact, she hoped he would suffer some day the same way she was suffering now.

Though she was normally not a vindictive person, that thought gave her some comfort. And in a much more cheerful frame of mind Rosalinda bade her new husband adieu and went upstairs to the bedchamber she had slept in all her young life, to rest and entertain sweet dreams of revenge.

Chapter Two

The next morning Rosalinda awoke at ten o'clock, headache-free and refreshed. When the maid opened the shutters Rosalinda could see that once again the sun was shining. She let the events of the previous day wash over her.

Yes, she was married, but really, her life hadn't appreciably changed. She was still in her same bed, surrounded by the frills and furbelows of her bedchamber, ensconced in the comfort of the ducal mansion. Her marriage to Simon yesterday was but a necessary maneuver, to keep her social standing in the ton intact. Her mother would know what to do next. Her mother knew how to handle any emergency.

Rosalinda propped herself up in bed with pillows and awaited her hot chocolate and the Morning Post. It was another comforting ritual, her chocolate and newspaper, and she needed a lot of comfort at the moment.

"Come in, Mary," she said in answer to the maid's knock. Mary carried a silver tray that held a pink rose in a bud vase and cup of steaming chocolate.

"Where is my morning paper, Mary?"

"It has not arrived, Lady Rosalinda. And her Grace told me to tell you she is not done reading it."

"How can my mother be reading a paper that hasn't arrived?" Rosalinda asked in a patient, reasonable tone of voice. She never raised her voice to the servants. It was ill bred. Even when they didn't make any sense.

Mary blushed and curtsied. "Begging your pardon, my lady, I am just repeating what her Grace told me to say."

Foreboding stirred within Rosalinda.

"Mary, does my mother not wish me to see the morning paper?"

Clearly miserable, the maid nodded.

"Do not be concerned. You are not in trouble. But I do wish to see the paper. Go fetch it for me now."

Mary scurried away, and Rosalinda sipped her chocolate thoughtfully. What news could be so dreadful that her mother felt she had to withhold the paper from her?

A few minutes later Mary reappeared with the folded Post. Rosalinda opened it and scanned the headlines. She sighed with relief when she could find no mention of Lord Harry. She feared an accident had befallen him. She relaxed and turned to her favorite column. And what she read there made her spill her chocolate.

Yesterday's celebrated Mayfair Marriage seemed more like a Mayfair Mischief when the bride changed grooms like horses at an inn at the last minute. The fond mama, the D--of--, spread it about that man who took her daughter's hand was the intended all along, and the rest was but a jest, but no one credits her tale. Friends of the embarrassed Lady X fear she may fall into a decline at the thwarting of her plans to leg-shackle the dashing Lord Y. My spies tell me the newly liberated lord has been seen rollicking about the town, celebrating his narrow escape from the parson's mousetrap. Could there be more larks to follow?

"This is unsupportable," Rosalinda muttered. She leapt out of bed and ran to the door, calling down the hall. "Mother! Have you seen the Post?"

No one answered, and thoroughly upset, Rosalinda flung a wrapper around her shoulders and ran down the stairs in her night-rail, to the second level of the town house where she expected to find the Duchess working on her correspondence in her morning room.

"Lady Rosalinda," objected a scandalized Mary. "You are not dressed to receive company."

"That does not signify," Rosalinda said with passion. "I need to talk to my mother." She swept past the maid into the morning room.

But her mother wasn't alone. Sitting on a floral chintz-covered chair holding a cup of tea was Letitia Dunthorpe. Her eyes grew wider than the saucer she was holding at the sight of a disheveled Lady Rosalinda.

"So it is true. You did spend the night here, and not with your husband. Does this mean it is naught but a marriage in name only? Did Mr. Phelps take pity on you, because you were jilted?"

"That will do, Miss Dunthorpe," said the Duchess sternly. "As I was explaining, Rosalinda was feeling unwell. His only object being her welfare, Mr. Phelps insisted his wife stay the night here, where I could nurse her."

"You nursed her?" said Letitia, disbelief evident in her voice. "Do you not have maids for that, your Grace?"

"I'll thank you not to quibble," said the Duchess in her most awe-inspiring voice. Rosalinda had seen her mother make stammering idiots out of grown men with that voice. But Letitia, flushed with the triumph of her discovery, was impervious to it.

"I must go," she said, rising abruptly. "Please excuse me, your Grace, but I have a full morning of calls ahead of me. Lady Rosalinda, I do hope you are feeling better soon."

Rosalinda nodded with as much dignity as she could muster, clutching her wrapper tightly to her body as Letitia hurried out of the room. As soon as she left, her mother rounded on her.

"Are you such a pea goose, daughter? How could you burst in here and let Letitia Dunthorpe see you in déshabillé? Her account of this will be all over town by the time the clock chimes the next hour. Whatever possessed you to act so recklessly?"

Rosalinda's eyes welled with tears, and she didn't trust herself to speak. In all her twenty years she had never heard her mother address her so harshly.

Wordlessly Rosalinda held out the morning newspaper, folded to the page with the offensive gossip column. Her mother's unyielding expression did not change.

"You should know better than to let yourself be overset by such tripe, daughter. That imbecilic writer is forever prattling on about Lady X that and Lord Y this. We could have faced that down. But all you have done with your behavior this morning is confirm the worst possible interpretation of yesterday's events. Now there's no hope for it. Letitia Dunthrope will broadcast your situation more thoroughly than the town crier. You will have to immure yourself in the country till this whole affair blows over. It may take months, perhaps even years. Society has a long memory for this sort of delicious scandal. And you are a Duke's daughter. You will have to go far away."

The Duchess paused to think. "Yorkshire, perhaps. Even Newcastle. I believe we have a connection on the Isle of Skye. That would be answer to our needs to a nicety."

"I will not be banished from society like that, mother. Surely this whole nightmare can be cleared up. What if Lord Harry comes forward to explain what happened?"

"Oh, Lord Harry has already obliged us, dear daughter. He did not go to Dover yesterday. He got as far as Canterbury before he turned around. He's been roistering throughout London since yesterday evening, casting himself as the aggrieved party, almost tricked into marriage by a love-struck girl."

Rosalinda, who had been standing, felt the blood drain from her face followed by an immediate need to sit down. How could he trivialize the devotion she had to him?

"Tricked into marriage? Has he no heart? No honor?"

Her mother sighed. "He is but a boy in a man's body, like all too many a rake. Your father and I wanted to believe the best of him, but even we had our doubts, which he has richly confirmed. All that aside, his coming back to town puts us in a spot. We cannot declare ourselves ill-used, when it was I who spread the story that your intention was to marry Mr. Phelps all along. All we can do now is ignore him. And get you out of London as quickly as possible for the time being. When Society can no longer feast its eyes upon you, it will turn to another topic."

Rosalinda stared out the window. The day was not so fine after all.

"I will not be rusticated in the country for Lord Harry's crimes, Mama. No, I see a better solution. I shall go to America with Mr. Phelps, and give the lie to all who say he is but a sham husband."

"Daughter, have you lost your mind? America is no fit place for a Duke's daughter! Believe me, those revolutionaries will not welcome a member of English aristocracy."

"Then I shall have to take my chances, Mama, as plain Mrs. Phelps. My luck has run out in England. Perhaps I'll discover a new store of it in America."

"You do realize that our chances of annulling this marriage will be dramatically reduced if you make this voyage. It will be months, or even years, before you can return to civilization."

Rosalinda closed her eyes, and immediately recollected a sketch of a North American savage she had seen once in the Times. The Indian had next to nothing on, just a scrap of leather, and his head bald save for a strip of hair running from his forehead to his nape. He held what looked like a small type of ax, feathers tied to the handle. And his expression was fearsome.

She quickly opened her eyes. Now was not the time to be cow-hearted.

"I have little choice, Mama. Simon will take care of me. And I would as lief sail to America than endure a winter in the Scottish highlands."

Rosalinda saw a glimmer of approval in her mother's eyes, though the Duchess kept a scowl fixed firmly on her face.

"I vow, your father will not approve. I cannot fathom what the Duke will say to your mad scheme."

Rosalinda allowed herself a small smile.

"We both know father will be guided by your counsel in this, Mama. You have always known how to get him to do exactly what you wish, even as he believes it is he who is making the decision."

The Duchess assumed a lofty tone. "I do not know what you are talking about. What I do comprehend is that you are saying you wish to make a real marriage with Mr. Phelps. Are you truly prepared for all that entails? Perhaps we should engage in further discussion about it."

"To be honest, Mama, it matters little to me now. The one true love of my life has betrayed me. I hope one day to make him feel the full weight of his betrayal, and have it cut into him as deeply as it has cut into me. In the meantime, what I do with my life matters little to me. At least I shall be seeing more of the world this way."

"I see," said the Duchess. Her expression was difficult to decipher. "Well, love or money make better foundations for marriage than revenge, but since you are already married, I can see the sense of proceeding down this path you have already embarked upon." She shook her head. "Though had I known you would actually act as wife to this Phelps person you married yesterday, I may have advised you differently."

Rosalinda had never seen her mother question herself. It was unsettling, like seeing the sun rise in the west. Rosalinda realized that she was venturing into uncharted territory, and for the first time in her life she would have to rely more on her own counsel than her mother's.

She reached for the Duchess's hand.

"I do believe, mother, you are the most unconventional peeress in London. The two of us have contrived to place me in a most peculiar situation. I shall leave with Simon when he sails, and the ton will see that our marriage is genuine. I will strive to be an adequate wife to him. Simon is innocent in all of this, and deserves no less of me. Do not concern yourself with my safety. I will survive my time in America. And I vow I will return to England one day. On that day Lord Harry will have to reckon with what he did to me. Until then, I shall merely be marking time."

There was a knock on the door. Hendricks entered following the Duchess's summons.

"Beg pardon, your Grace, but a Mr. Phelps has called. Is Lady Rosalinda at home?"

"To her husband? Of course she is. Show my son-in-law to the parlor, and bring him some tea. Inform him that Lady Rosalinda will be with him presently. He does not need to know that she must dress first."

"Very good, your Grace." The butler started to bow out of the room.

"Oh, and Hendricks..."

"Yes, your Grace?"

"Have the brandy decanter at the ready. Mr. Phelps may need some fortification. His voyage to our former Crown colonies just became a bit more encumbered."

* * *

Simon left the Duke's townhouse with his head spinning. He had spent the early part of the morning with the Duke's solicitor, ironing out the financial and legal arrangements that went with marriage to the Duke of Wallingford's daughter. It was evident to Simon that Carter, the Duke's man, was relieved that Simon was a man of some means. Certainly he was well able to support a wife, even a titled one.

A wife. Simon still wasn't accustomed to thinking of Rosalinda as his wife. He was much more familiar with the hopeless devotion he had nurtured in his breast for her since they were both children. Even when she was five years old and pestering him and Harry as they played in the village, Simon knew Rosalinda was special. Over the years he had seen her grow in grace and beauty, all the while keenly aware that their relative social positions were an insurmountable barrier to any relationship beyond friendship. That is why he embraced the extensive travel requirements of diplomatic service. It was much better to be abroad than live in a country where he could see but not attain the object of his devotion.

He had fought North American savages alongside British troops in Canada, yet the hardest thing he had ever done was sail back to England to watch Lord Harry, the fun-loving, irresponsible companion of his youth, marry the woman of his own dreams. He knew Harry Montague wasn't good enough for Lady Rosalinda. But they were of comparable rank and social position, and that's what mattered.

Also, Simon was under no illusions as how Rosalinda felt about Harry. Even as a little girl she'd been blind to his faults. He'd seen the lovesick way she looked at him. All Simon could do was hope that Harry never disappointed her, the way he eventually disappointed all his friends and anyone else who cared about him. The only reason Simon decided to attend the wedding was to talk to his friend beforehand, and make sure he was prepared to be a devoted husband.

When the Duchess suggested Simon marry Rosalinda in Harry's place, Simon was flabbergasted. He knew there were a million reasons why he should refuse. But looking at Rosalinda's forlorn face, his own heart overflowing with a love long denied, Simon knew he couldn't walk away from her, not in her moment of need. He also knew he would gladly give his own life to protect hers. She may not love him now, but perhaps with enough devotion on his part she would come to have some regard for him.

He shook his head and laughed, causing a pedestrian sharing the pavement to scuttle away from him. Never in his wildest imagination did Simon think he would be returning to America with Rosalinda as his wife. If this was a dream, he hoped he would never awaken.

So immersed was Simon in his thoughts that he was scarcely aware he was walking down Bond Street. He passed the threshold of White's and nearly collided with a fair young man exiting that establishment.

"Phelps!" The young man looked at him through bleary blue eyes.

"Harry! What are you doing here?"

"I must be waiting for you," he said, and he pulled back his arm and popped Simon right in the face with his fist.

"Ha," said Lord Harry. "You deserved that."

Simon held his handkerchief to his bleeding nose. "As long as we're discussing who deserves what, I believe I owe you this." Simon planted his fist right in Harry's face, causing him to fall backward and to knock his hat off his sandy blond hair.

"Now, see here, you two, this isn't Gentleman Jackson's boxing parlor," said a porter, coming out of the club. "Both of you take your brawl elsewhere."

"Sampson, it is I, Lord Harry Montague," said Lord Harry with a slur. "I am a member. I belong here. He doesn't," he added, pointing at Simon.

"I think you must be mistaken. Our members don't act like ruffians. Perhaps if you return at a later date we may remember you."

With that the porter closed the door.

"Sampson forgets himself," said Lord Harry. "Phelps, you have caused me to bleed like a common person. We shall repair to your rooms for a restorative. And you have much explaining to do. Word has it you have married my wife."

The two men walked the short distance to Simon's chambers. Once upstairs, Simon furnished cloths and a washbasin to attend to their injuries.

"Lady Rosalinda is not your wife, Harry," Simon said to Lord Harry. "She could have been, but you failed to attend your wedding. In fact, you will recall, you delegated me to tell her the wedding was off."

"And that is the full extent of what I charged you with," said Lord Harry. "I don't recall adding, 'and marry her yourself, old man.'"

"That wasn't my idea. It was the Duchess's."

Lord Harry shuddered. "That dragon was almost my mother-in-law. By Gad, Simon, that prospect was almost as bad as the marriage itself." He looked around. "You wouldn't happen to have any brandy in these dismal rooms, would you?"

"Harry, you gave me a facer in the street. Why should I give you brandy?"

Lord Harry contrived to look surprised. "You do want my blessing, do you not?"

Simon shook his head. "You appall me. Have you no remorse for what you have done?"

"It appears all I have done is play matchmaker."

Simon thought his friend's smile was a little brittle.

"I do care for the chit, you know," Lord Harry continued. "She's a most taking little thing, and her adoration of me was quite amusing, though I am convinced I would have grown weary of it in time. But Simon, can you honestly see me married?"

"No. So why did you propose?"

Lord Harry shrugged. "I could tell that is what she desired me to do. And it made her so happy. Plus, I was able to snatch a kiss or two as her fiancé," he added with a wink.

"I should draw your cork again for that, but I really haven't the time. I must prepare for my voyage. You are quite pathetic, Harry."

"Many members of the fairer sex wouldn't agree with you, Simon. I am considered quite charming. I vow I could even get Rosalinda to forgive me, were I to exert myself."

"We shall never know, shall we? Lady Rosalinda is my wife now, and unlike you, I take marriage seriously."

Lord Harry snorted. "Your wife in name only, I'll be bound. If I know the Dragon, er, Duchess, of Wallingford she is already angling for an annulment, courtesy of her bosom bow, the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"Well, Harry, that is just where you are wrong. Lady Rosalinda will be with me on a packet to Boston the day after tomorrow, quite out of reach of her mother, the Archbishop, or even you."

"You are bamming me," said Lord Harry, slipping into their childhood vernacular. "Rosalinda would never agree to a sea voyage. Even if her mother would allow it. The idea is ludicrous. I have a half a mind to see her myself and ask if it is true."

"Oh, it is true all right. And you only have yourself to blame. I believe she would prefer just anywhere else on God's green earth to England at the moment, to avoid encountering you."

Lord Harry preened a bit. "That is quite flattering, in a way. Wait till I tell the chaps down at White's."

Simon immediately realized his mistake. Harry would be quite content to further humiliate Rosalinda in order to build his own legend.

"I wouldn't say a word to anyone, if I were you, Harry, unless you wish your face to be permanently rearranged. And I'm warning you, if you try to contact my wife, if I so much as see your face at the docks when we set sail, I'll see to it that a full account of your disreputable behavior reaches your Great Uncle Montague, who's been funding your town amusements since you were sent down from Oxford. He's become quite religious in his old age, hasn't he?"

"Yes, worse luck. Were he to get wind of this he would be very tiresome for awhile, and I am short of funds. Thank God he's in Scotland, and never corresponds with anyone."

"That could change."

Lord Harry eyed Simon consideringly. "This is the end of our friendship, isn't it?"

"I believe you have the right of it."

Lord Harry shook his head dolefully.

"Simon, Simon, I never thought a woman would come between us. But since she has, there is something you should know. You will never be the man I am. I can have any woman I want, and have always possessed that skill, while you have to resort to stealing other men's cast-offs. If and when I chose, I could even have Rosalinda back, your wife or not."

Simon was silent for a moment, trying to marshal himself even though he was boiling inside.

"For the sake of our former friendship I won't kill you for that. But this is a one-time reprieve, Harry. Get out of my rooms now. I never want to see you again."

Lord Harry stood and placed his hat on his head. "Bon voyage," he said, sweeping his hat off with a flourish to accompany an exaggerated bow.

His self-control exhausted, Simon threw the bottle of brandy at his former friend's retreating form, hitting the lintel.

"What a waste," said Harry, watching the dark liquid trickle down the wood. Simon heard the heels of Harry's Hessian boots thump as he disappeared down the stairs.

Simon fervently hoped that was the last he would ever see of Lord Harry Montague.

Chapter Three

Extracted from Lady Rosalinda Phelp's journal:

June 23, 1811

Never in my life have I felt so miserable. To my complete mortification, I find that I suffer greatly from the mal de mer. The moment I stepped aboard the Ceres & felt the rocking of the waves my stomach somersaulted, & it hasn't settled yet. The ship's captain has been very kind, & when he observed I did not have my maid with me (Mary absolutely refused to step foot on board the ship at the last minute) he sent his wife to nurse me. It is a fortunate happenstance that Cora Pennington was on board, sailing back to Boston with her husband after a lengthy visit to England to visit her British cousins. She has been quite patient with me. It must be tiresome for her to share a cabin with someone in my distressed condition.

I must say my new husband has been very solicitous, even though I have instructed Cora not to admit him while I am ill. I do not wish for him to see me looking quite so poorly, & with such a fickle digestion. Yet, he inquires about me regularly, & sends me such delicacies as he can find onboard ship, including something called hardtack, with dried fruit. Perhaps they taste better than they sound, though I dare not swallow any solid food, since its lodging in my stomach is so temporary.

July 24, 2006

Today, thankfully, I felt a bit better, & allowed Mrs. Pennington to take me up on deck, until the swells convinced me to return to my cabin. After our voyage through the North Atlantic, which at times has proved quite stormy, we are near to land, according to Mrs. Pennington. Indeed, she tells me the air and water have undergone a dramatic change as we approach our destination, & she has even identified a few shore birds flying over the masts with the sea birds, which she says is another sure sign of land.

Her husband the captain has confirmed that we will reach Boston Harbor within another day's sail. We have made the crossing in good time, just under six weeks. Six weeks to cross more than three thousand miles seems like a fairy tale; we might as well be flying over the waves like the birds above. Traveling the same distance on land would have taken many months longer, or even years.

Now that the end of our journey approaches, I find myself increasingly nervous about what awaits me in my new home. What will Boston society be like? What are its amusements, & what do people converse about? Those thoughts are naught but a distraction when I consider what my new married life with Simon will be like. Simon seems more of a courteous acquaintance than what I dreamed a husband would be. I cannot imagine how we shall go on. Since I was in short petticoats I imagined myself married to Lord Harry, & I dreamt that marriage would be as fun & amusing as he was. Simon is not amusing, but he is kind. I am determined to be guided by him, as a proper wife should be guided by her husband, though I cannot picture him in that role. When we were children Simon always bowed to Harry's leadership in their games. Oh, Harry, how could you have placed me in this situation?

Rosalinda heard a call outside her cabin porthole that seemed to originate from somewhere high in the ship's rigging.

"Land ho!"

Apprehension and excitement warred within her as she ran up to the deck. Squinting, she was able to spot a thin brown line on the horizon.

"Boston Harbor," said Simon's voice softly in her ear. "I am so glad to see you are feeling more the thing, Rosalinda."

Her ear tingled from the caress in his tone. "I could not forego a glimpse of terra firma, Simon. I have quite forgotten what it feels like not to have deck boards rolling beneath my feet. I shall doubtless have to relearn how to walk."

Simon chuckled appreciatively. "Then I shall have to carry you, my lady wife. We shall scandalize the good people of Boston."

Rosalinda laughed with her husband, and felt her insides unclench. Simon was as pleasant a companion as she remembered. He would make a tolerable husband. Many women, even among the upper reaches of Society, had to endure much worse. Husbands who drank excessively, gambled away the family estate, or couldn't resist the lure of a light skirt. Simon had displayed none of these tendencies earlier, and he showed none now.

Allowing for the fact that he was not Lord Harry, he would do her very well.

The rest of the day was consumed with preparations to make port. The ship was a hive of activity, and Rosalinda marveled at how adroitly the deck hands maneuvered the tall ship into the harbor. She watched as her trunk was raised off the ship and lowered onto the dock.

She gave a heartfelt good-bye with gratitude to the captain's wife, and felt her eyes start to tear at Cora's equally fond farewell. Rosalinda knew her shipboard companion was setting off to her home, somewhere up the rugged coast of Massachusetts (a place she could finally pronounce after much practice, but still wasn't sure she could spell) and Rosalinda felt as though she was losing her only friend.

She looked at the bustling town nestled on the hills before her. Funny how the sea gulls sounded the same here as they did on the other side of the world. But Boston was so small compared to London! And it felt strange to be at the far edge of the Atlantic and have the ocean at her back instead of its vastness lying before her.

She was so very far from home.

Then Simon was at her elbow. "Shall we venture into Boston, my lady? You will find my bachelor's quarters somewhat smaller than what you are accustomed to. But we can make arrangements to move into something more suitable, if you wish."

"Perhaps I should see our new home before making any judgments, Simon. I am persuaded it will be charming." She unfolded her parasol and flashed him a smile to demonstrate a bravery she was far from feeling. Simon seemed relieved, and she was proud of herself for banishing the worry from his brow and bringing a smile to his face.

They stepped onto the Long Wharf, amid the controlled chaos of ships docking and cargo being disgorged from their holds. Bales of tea, and barrels of coffee beans, along with silks, sugar, spices and nankeens were among the merchandise being unloaded around them. But as they rode in a hired hackney through the town's cobblestone streets, Rosalinda noticed that very few people seemed to be abroad.

"It is Sunday morning," her husband explained. "Most people observe the Sabbath here a lot more strictly than they do in London."

"Oh," said Rosalinda in a small voice. Though there were plenty of churches in London, she attended them mostly for ceremonies and holidays. And the last time she had been in a church was not something she liked to remember.

She wondered again how she would adapt to her new home.

Simon had a set of furnished rooms upstairs in a small wooden frame house, in the north end of the city, not far from the waterfront. The furnishings were sparse, the windows were narrow and small, and Rosalinda observed nothing resembling a kitchen in or near his quarters. The closest thing was a tiny fireplace, with a hook from which a hearth kettle hung.

"Where do you dine, Simon?"

"At the local tavern. I can bespeak us a private room there, if you wish."

"But that is not a very proper way of doing things for everyday. I want to be mistress of a proper household."

She looked around more carefully, taking in the worn settee and chipped porcelain vase sitting on a three-legged table underneath a grimy window. Through a doorway she could see the dwelling's one other room, a lone bedchamber.

Her heart sank.

"Where is my bedchamber? Where shall I direct the men to place my trunks?"

Simon reddened. "When I bespoke these rooms I did not plan on bringing a wife to them, Rosalinda. I am aware that they are a bit below your customary level of elegance. As for the bedchamber, it is not uncommon for married people to share a bedchamber."

This time Rosalinda blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. The entire time at sea she had been ill in her cabin, and the question of sharing quarters with Simon never arose. It struck her forcibly that now she was married, and Simon would be within his rights to claim her in any way he saw fit. She felt a frisson of fear--or was it excitement?

Simon crossed the room to stand before her. Rosalinda's pulse started to soar. He took her hands in his.

"Rosalinda, I have no intention of taking advantage of this situation. I understand the reason why you married me so abruptly. I want you to know I would never coerce you. If it would put you more at ease, I can go to the inn and inquire if any rooms are available."

Rosalinda felt her whole body relax. Simon was no brute. He would respect her sensibilities. She need have no fear of him.

So why did she feel the slightest twinge of disappointment?

"Do not be silly, Simon. We can both stay here, as a married couple should. That is, till you find us more proper lodging."

She saw Simon's gray eyes light up at her words, and she felt proud of herself for being so mature.

"Till then, I shall sleep in the bedchamber, and you can use the settee."

She thought it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. So why did Simon look so out of sorts?

* * *

Rosalinda did not see much of Simon the following week, as he went out in the morning before she awoke and stayed out till late in the evening on diplomatic business. He always left her a tray with a cup of tea and a plate of food, usually fruit, some cold meat and a piece of toast. She didn't know where or how he obtained the food, but she was grateful for it.

At night she would hear Simon come in, pull off his boots, hang up his coat and the settee would groan a bit under his weight. She always pretended to be asleep, but in truth she sometimes cried. Life was so different here than she could have imagined, and so was marriage. All the rosy dreams she had of an idyllic honeymoon with Lord Harry in Italy had been replaced by the cold reality of days spent in lonely walks through the Boston Commons, or gazing in the shop windows. Sometimes she went down to the busy harbor to observe the scores of merchant ships arrive and depart.

Often she would stare out to sea, watching tiny sails appear on the horizon and loom larger as the ships approached the harbor. She knew that just beyond the point where the sea melted into the sky lay England, her family, and Lord Harry, the man who had ruined her life. She prayed for the strength to survive this experience so she could return to England and make Harry sorry he had ever been born.

One morning Simon didn't go out early as usual. Instead, he knocked on her chamber door.

"Rosalinda, are you awake?"

She pulled the covers up under her chin.

"Simon? What do you want?"

"I'm traveling down to Quincy today, to meet with a former American president. His wife is quite charming, and I thought you might be longing for some female companionship. Would you care to accompany me?"

She leapt out of bed before he had finished talking.

"Yes, by all means," she called through the door. "Pray, do not leave without me!"

They took a hired carriage with Simon at the reins through the worst roads Rosalinda had ever experienced about ten miles south of Boston to Quincy. But she did not mind the bumps and jolts. She was so happy to be out with Simon on a bright sunny day that she felt like singing along with the birds. The summer air was warmer and more oppressive than she remembered in England, but freshening breezes off the bay worked to dilute the humidity. And despite the jarring ruts and pervasive dust, Rosalinda noticed and admired how competently her new husband handled the ribbons.

She couldn't help contrasting it to an experience she'd had with Lord Harry a few months back. He had obtained permission from the Duchess to take her for an afternoon drive, and then he turned a pleasant outing to Kensington, on much smoother roads than she was riding on now, into a death-defying race. She had to hold onto her bonnet with one hand, and the side of his high-perch phaeton with the other.

It was thrilling, but dangerous, and the Duchess was furious with Lord Harry when she found out about the excursion later.

Simon concentrated on handling the equipage with as much care as possible. Rosalinda saw him veer to the side of the road whenever a particularly large rut appeared, and he would pull over and stop to let approaching carriages and farmer's carts pass safely. A much less exciting ride, but then, she didn't have to hang on for dear life, either.

When they reached their destination Rosalinda was surprised. Simon had told her the man they were visiting was once the President of the United States, and she'd expected a former president to have a grand house, at least as grand as the Duke's town home, if not his country estate. But this dwelling, while no doubt impressive by American standards, was not like the homes of royalty she had seen in England. It was stately, but modest somehow, surrounded by trees and fronted by a neat little fence with a front gate.

Simon brought the horses to a halt, and handed the reins to a stable boy who came running out from behind the house. Jumping with athletic grace out of the carriage, he lowered the stairs for Rosalind and handed her down to the gravel drive.

"I hope you like John and Abigail Adams, Rosalinda. I find them both to be people of great good sense and unfailing courtesy. And they are a model of devotion to one another."

Rosalinda looked at her husband as if he had suddenly starting spouting Greek. She couldn't think of a single couple in the entire Beau Monde who would fit that description.

An elderly woman with an aristocratic tilt to her nose, curls under her lace-trimmed bonnet and a decided twinkle in her brown eyes came bustling out onto the drive to meet them. Rosalinda wondered if she could be their hostess. She had the air of owning the place, though Rosalinda would have expected a butler or housekeeper to greet them first. And, this woman was dressed somewhat plainly for the wife of a dignitary--no satins or silks, just a modest, well cut dress made of a fine gray merino wool. Rosalinda was quite sure her mother didn't have anything remotely like it in her wardrobe.

"Welcome once again to Peacefield, Mr. Phelps. My husband eagerly awaits you in his study."

Simon took the woman's hand. "You look exceptionally well today, Mrs. Adams. The summer must be agreeing with you. Never have I seen the roses bloom so in your cheeks."

"La, Simon, one can see you are well suited to the profession of diplomacy." She turned to Rosalinda. "And this must be your charming bride. We were quite surprised when we received Simon's letter. We had despaired of him ever marrying, believing him to be destined for bachelorhood. But I can see now he was merely exercising a praiseworthy discretion. Welcome, my dear Mrs. Phelps. You must call me Abigail. I know we shall be great friends."

Rosalinda felt a warmth curling in her toes and spreading throughout her whole body. "Thank you, Mrs. Adams."

"Abigail."

"Abigail. You may call me Rosalinda."

As she said it, Rosalinda realized it was the first time she had ever dispensed with her title. Both her mother and father would have been horrified.

The smell of lilacs wafted through the air as Rosalinda followed Mrs. Adams into the house. Simon spent the afternoon with John Adams, closeted in his study, while Rosalinda took tea with Abigail and met her grandchildren. She toured the Adam's family home and marveled at the recent additions. Abigail asked her about her home in England, and seemed to know a surprising number of the ton personally.

Abigail told Rosalinda about her sojourns in England and France when John Adams was a United States ambassador, before being elected President. Rosalinda had never heard of, much less spoken to, a woman as well learned as Abigail, nor one who made such witty and articulate observations.

Then the talk turned to her and Simon.

"You must tell me about your courtship," said Abigail. "I confess I cannot picture our diffident Simon as a love-struck swain."

"Oh, it wasn't quite like that. Simon and I knew each other as children. That is, we were both acquainted with Lord Harry Montague."

As she said Harry's name, Rosalinda felt her cheeks start to burn. Abigail watched her with a perceptive eye.

"I see. This Lord Harry was the link between you. Is he still?"

"No," said Rosalinda with more force than she'd intended. Abigail kept on with her needlework.

"Tell me about this Montague fellow. Is he the typical society rake we see in plays--charming but dissolute?"

"Oh, he is charming." Bitterness crept into her tone. "But faithless."

"Indeed. I am glad he has stayed back in England, then."

Abigail was such a sympathetic listener. Rosalinda felt emboldened to tell a bit more of the story.

"I heard he even abandoned a gently-bred lady at the altar."

"He sounds like a bounder. What did the poor woman do?"

"Her friend married her to prevent a scandal."

"Ah. Without knowing more of the story, I would have to say the woman made a fortunate escape. By this account Lord Harry would have made a disastrous husband. But what of the friend? Does he care for his new bride?"

"He hasn't really said."

"And what are her feelings for him?"

Rosalinda paused for a moment. "I believe she is not entirely sure. She feels gratitude, of course. Everything happened so quickly--or so I heard."

Abigail paused to count a row of stitches before continuing.

"As I am quite sure I don't need to tell you, Rosalinda, the best marriages feature an open and easy communication between husband and wife. Politics separated me from my own dear husband for many years. If not for our letters I am sure we would have grown quite apart. Our correspondence actually deepened our affections for each other during that difficult time. I do so hope this woman you speak of will learn to talk to her husband and get to know him. If she is fortunate, she may one day know the same felicity I have enjoyed in my long marriage, and which I hope you and Simon come to experience."

Rosalinda looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. "There is much in what you say."

"As for this Lord Harry," Abigail snapped her fingers and gave a merry laugh, "good riddance I say! A man such as your Simon Phelps is easily worth two of him!"

Rosalinda laughed too, but couldn't help thinking how little Lord Harry's title, or Simon's lack of one, mattered to Abigail Adams. And she was a woman who had been received at the highest levels of French and English society! It made Rosalinda almost dizzy to think about it, it was so disorientating.

Though the Adams pressed them to stay the night, Simon and Rosalinda left after an early supper. Abigail gave them a basket of fresh-picked cherries to take back with them, and promised to send a maid to Rosalinda, a young girl she knew from a local farm who would be glad of a chance to go to Boston.

Her head thrumming with new ideas, Rosalinda watched the summer sun set as the long evening waned on the ride back to town. She wondered what Simon and John Adams had discussed all afternoon, but was too shy to ask. Though her father sat in the House of Lords, he had never discussed politics around his wife and children. Rosalinda knew Abigail and her husband often discussed matters of state, but she didn't feel she was as clever as Abigail, and probably wouldn't understand. Up to now, that thought would not have disturbed her, but now she wondered what it would be like to share those kinds of thoughts with her husband, the way Abigail and John did.

Eventually her eyes grew heavy and her chin dropped. Simon wrapped an arm around her shoulder and leaned her gently against him. Her last conscious thought as she drifted off to sleep was how strong her husband was, and how safe she felt in his arms.

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