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His grace of Avon had been watching Vidal pace the length of the room for the better part of the day, his own unpleasant memories of a rather similar occasion not twenty-five years prior the only reason why he forbore from remonstrating with his son.  

It was quite late in the evening when Léonie finally emerged from the birthing room, her countenance so uncommonly grave as to make all colour drain from Dominic’s face. “Is it Mary? For God’s sake, Maman, do not just stand there looking at me – tell me at once, and be done with it!” 

The Duke raised his eyebrows quite high at that, but still he refrained from comment. He knew what his wife was going to say next, even before she opened her mouth to speak; however, one had to make allowances for the very natural concerns of a prospective father, and Vidal was still rather young when all was said and done.  

“Mary is quite well,” her grace shook her head, clasping her son’s hand between her own. “She is of a certainty a strong one, and exceedingly brave, too. The child is very well, also – but I will not permit you to go in and see them until you promise to me that you shall behave as you ought.” 

Some of the colour came back to Vidal’s cheeks at last. “I fear I have not the pleasure of understanding you, madame."  

“You have a daughter, my son,” his grace interposed, having decided it was time to put him out of his misery. “My congratulations, by the way.” 

“Good God, is that all?” ejaculated Vidal, snatching his hand away from his mother’s. “I pray that you do not mistake me for my grandfather, Maman. Now, with your permission, I will go to my wife and child.”  

He bowed quickly and stormed out of the room. The irrepressible dimple quivered on Léonie’s cheek, and his grace of Avon’s shoulders shook almost imperceptibly. 

“It was perhaps unkind of you to tease him thus, mignonne,” the Duke observed mildly, and stepped closer to the fire. “Though moderately clever, I will allow that.” 

“You know I could not permit Dominique to be disappointed in being presented with a girl,” Léonie said severely. “And for all her good sense, la petite was quite distressed that she could not give him a son tout de suite.” 

“Let us hope Vidal shall undeceive her speedily,” his grace sighed, and extended his hand for his wife to take. 

“You do not mind, monseigneur, do you?” Léonie enquired after a slight pause, and for perhaps the hundredth time since his late adversary’s most timely demise, Justin experienced the overwhelming desire to revive Saint-Vire only to be allowed to kill him with his own hands. 

“I cannot conceive why I should be supposed to mind, ma chère,” he stated, quite forgetting to affect his usual bored manner. “You said yourself that Mary is quite well, so I can only assume there is no reason why she should not present Vidal with a boy at any point in the next ten or fifteen years. And even were she to find herself unable to do so, she has already proved herself quite invaluable in the management of your son – something for which I can scarcely expect to ever discharge my debt of gratitude in her regards.” 

Léonie twinkled, and leaned quite close to him. “Dominique needs someone to scold him when he is maladroite, like I did when I first met you.” 

“Still do,” his grace murmured, and pressed a kiss to her expectant lips.  

“Oh, but you must try again for a son at once,” Mrs Challoner rattled on, in a manner which made her daughter’s hand clench more tightly around the teacup. “What is a daughter to a man such as Lord Vidal – and there is the dukedom to be considered, my girl, I need hardly remind you of that.” 

“His lordship assures me he is quite pleased with our daughter,” Mary replied stoutly, doing her utmost to ignore the dull ache she had been carrying inside for the past several days. For someone who persisted in professing himself quite delighted with the result of his wife’s labours, Dominic had surely been spending a considerable amount of time away from home, and invariably demurred when presented with the sleeping infant for him to hold.  

Knowing his husband as well as she did, Mary was perfectly aware that it would require some time for him to get used to his new role as a father; still, she could not completely ignore the small voice at the back of her head which kept insinuating that Dominic would have undoubtedly discovered himself much better disposed towards fatherhood had his wife succeeded in presenting him with a male heir, and it was enough to reawaken her old insecurities about thrusting herself into the noble family of Alastair. 

“At least she has black hair,” her mother prattled on. “You must pray that she takes as much after her father as you did yours, Mary – if his grace of Avon is anything like your grandfather, he might even be persuaded to forgive you your mistake in time.” 

“Mistake,” Mary repeated dully, wishing she was not so poor a creature as to merely sit there while her mother spoke of her beautiful child as if it were nothing. The Duchess had assured her that she would recover her strength soon, and she prayed for it daily; but for now, she felt exceedingly tired and much inclined to weep at the slightest provocation.  

“Indeed,” Mrs Challoner nodded – quite unfeelingly, Mary thought. “One would have thought you might have made more of an effort, my girl, after his lordship’s parents had so graciously condescended to countenance the marriage. Why, I forgot to tell you – my little Sophy has written only the other day to inform me that she is increasing already! I have no doubt at all that she will give the Vicomte a boy, just like she should, and the child will be monstrous pretty, too.” 

Mary’s hand stole to her cheek, and she would have excused herself at this point, had it not been for the child still sleeping peacefully in her insensitive grandmother’s arms. She was saved from the humiliation of proving herself so weak as to burst into tears from the click of the door at her back being shut none too gently, and she was left to stare in wonder as her husband, the Marquis of Vidal, strode purposely into the room until he was towering over Mrs Challoner, glaring down at her with as dark a frown as his wife had ever seen on him.  

“My compliments, madam,” he said, icily, and bowed with awful politeness. “I trust you found your grandchild as satisfactory as you no doubt expected her to be. May I be permitted to be handed back my own daughter, if you please?” 

His lordship had never before evinced any desire to be presented with his child, but Mrs Challoner could not be aware of that. With a look of very lively fear written all over her face, she swiftly complied with the Marquis’s command, and promptly excused herself from my Lord’s presence.  

Mary did not dare to stir nor do so much as to move a finger as the door closed quite unheeded on Mrs Challoner, while Dominic still stood in the middle of the room like one rooted to the spot, peering down at the babe in his arms – who was now fairly awake, looking back at him with wide eyes of a very dark blue. Mary had been told there was a chance they might turn darker yet, but she had a somewhat prophetic feeling that the child might take after the Duchess in this, which would please her grace quite well, she thought.  

“My precious girl,” my Lord Vidal murmured slowly, as if surprised with himself – and Mary had no compunction in allowing herself the relief of tears at last.  

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“But I do not at all understand why you are here, Dominique,” the Vicomte de Valmé complained for perhaps the hundredth time, only this time his exasperated cousin did not show the slightest compunction about boxing his ears.  

“Then you are even more of an imbecile than I thought you to be, Bertrand,” Vidal informed him quite unfeelingly. “Or do you imagine I would permit my wife to travel quite alone and unprotected to France?” 

His cousin shrugged. “That is what servants are for, I find.” 

Dominic swore softly under his breath, then threw down the rest of his wine. He had made a solemn promise that he was under no circumstance to quarrel with Bertrand while his wife was brought to bed, and he had no intention of going back on his word, though it was proving increasingly difficult to keep his temper in check. 

A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he asked without preamble: “Who was that raven-haired chit hanging from your arm, anyway?” 

“You wouldn’t know her,” Bertrand waved his hand somewhat dismissively. “Though she is quite the rage here in Paris, let me tell you.” 

“Opera dancer, eh? I thought your father had warned you against flaunting your lights o’ love before the eyes of the world.” 

“Oh, do not look at me like that, Dominique,” his cousin shrugged. “You are hardly one to cast stones, after all.” 

The Marquis’s temper flared up all at once, and he instinctively felt for his sword-hilt. “However deplorable my past conduct may have been, I would have you know I should not dream of disrespecting my marriage in such a shameless manner as you seem intent on doing.” 

“Yes, I have heard rumours that you have become very staid and respectable,” Bertrand laughed rather recklessly. “I could not fully credit it, but I see now that you are quite the reformed character, my dear cousin.” 

Vidal raised his eyebrows in faint hauteur. “That is not quite the insult you believe it to be,” he said coldly and made to reach for the bottle, only to think better of it. Mary did not like it when he drank too much, and he was not about to breach his second bottle while in the company of his excessively irritating cousin.  

“I hear that the divine Juliana has lately presented her – oh so lamentably dull! – husband with a son,” the Vicomte remarked apropos of nothing. “It is quite the pity that I did not wed her while I could.” 

“She would never have had you,” Vidal said crushingly. “And we both know mischief rather than marriage was your object when you flirted shamelessly with her right under Comyn’s nose.” 

“As for that, cher Dominique, I have a very big notion that it would have served you right had you succeeded in eloping with Sophia as you planned, and had been forced to marry her instead.” 

The Marquis of Vidal held his cousin’s gaze for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “Not even Sir Giles Challoner himself could have moved me to do such a thing, believe me. Sophia knew well enough I intended to make her my mistress, and still she agreed to come with me. I count myself excessively fortunate that my Mary would have none of that, and I suppose I owe some debt of gratitude to her wretched sister for being instrumental in bringing us together.” 

“And making my own life a misery,” the Vicomte said bitterly, and reached for the wine. 

“You have only your own folly to blame for that, Bertrand,” his cousin replied with marked asperity. “But I should have thought you, of all people, would have found a way to make the best of it by now.” 

“Is that a compliment or an insult, I wonder,” Bertrand considered pensively, and sipped at his burgundy.  

“Both,” Dominic shrugged, stretching one elegantly shod foot towards the fire.  

Not ten minutes later a soft scratching at the door made both gentlemen stand up from their chairs, and the Vicomte de Valmé bowed quite correctly as the Marchioness of Vidal entered the room with her usual brisk determination. Her gaze met her husband’s only for a moment, and his lordship knew at once they were all in for trouble.  

“Your wife has been safely delivered of a girl, my lord,” she stated very calmly, and to the untrained eye showed no sign of being upset in reaction to the disappointment written plainly all over Bertrand de Saint Vire’s countenance. “Both mother and child are as well as can be expected.” 

“I thank you for your troubles, madame,” the Vicomte bowed stiffly, and turned on his heels. “You will give me leave to retreat, I hope.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Bertrand,” Dominic admonished him, to very little avail, he thought. Mary’s quiet voice broke into the awful silence, and there was a perceptible edge of pain in it now. “Will you not consent to at least see the child, my lord?” 

The Vicomte de Valmé had paused with his hand still on the doorknob, and from what little he could see of his face, Vidal almost fancied he could detect something like shame briefly flicker across his cousin’s features.  

“I should count myself honoured to be permitted to see my daughter, madame,” Betrand announced after some consideration, and it was apparent to all that he was making a great effort to overcome his natural disappointment in seeing his every hope come to nothing.  

Dominic looked on in some not inconsiderable relief as his wife preceded his cousin out of the room, and let himself fall back into his chair. The sooner Bertrand managed to reconcile himself with the idea of a daughter, the faster he and Mary could be out of here, and safely on their way back to England; he was finding he was daily growing more impatient to see his own child, and he could not say he minded the discovery in the slightest.  

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“No coffee for me,” the Vicomtess de Valmé addressed the unfortunate lackey with as much confidence as if she owned the place. “I shall have some toast, and a cup of very weak tea, if you please.” 

Vidal pushed back his plate, and clenched his teeth in a desperate bid to stop himself from making a scene before the servants. “This is all very charming, Sophia, but isn’t it time you went back to France?” 

“I couldn’t possibly leave my sister at such a time as this, my lord,” Sophia said virtuously, as if she cared a fig for either Mary or the babe. Vidal snorted, and reached for the tankard of beer sitting at his elbow; he only relented when he saw his sister-in-law had grown rather green around the gills, and bracing himself for the inevitable scene signalled for the servant to quit the room.  

“Is it possible, my dear sister, that you take me for a fool?” he began in his best approximation of his father’s cool haughtiness. “I will have you know I have not the slightest intention of housing a runaway bride, and furthermore, I apprehend that my cousin never gave you permission to take his daughter to England in the first place.” 

“You need not concern yourself about the scandal, my lord,” the Vicomtess stated with unprecedented bitterness. “My most honourable husband would be only too glad to be rid of me, I can assure you, and since my poor little Claire had the misfortune of being born a female, he can scarcely be brought to remember her existence most of the time.” 

“I fear you have only yourself to blame for your present unhappiness, my dear,” Vidal could not resist pointing out, though he knew he was courting disaster in doing so. Sophia’s whole face crumpled, and in another moment, she was treating him with an attack of the vapours. 

“You cruel, unfeeling creature,” she sobbed more artlessly than Vidal would have expected from a chit of her quality. “Have you forgotten already how you loved me once?” 

“Fiddle,” the Marquis shrugged without the slightest consideration for her feelings. “I may have wanted you in my bed, but I have always known you for what you were, my girl. And may I remind you it was you who designed to trick my deluded cousin into marriage, not the other way round?” 

Sophia was weeping in earnest now, and it was enough to give Vidal some pause. He did not think his cousin would stoop so low as to mistreat the wench, but since he was familiarly acquainted with the infamous Saint-Vire temper, he could not discard the possibility altogether. He wished himself as far away from this room as he could possibly be, then remembered it was his duty as her husband to spare his Mary any hint of anxiety while she was still to rise from the childbed, and called for his every reserve of patience to deal with his flighty sister-in-law. 

“Look at me, Sophia. Has Bertrand ever laid violent hands upon you?” 

The Vicomtess shook her head, and searched for her handkerchief; there was nothing for it but for Vidal to offer the use of his own, which she took without comment and proceeded to blow her nose in a rather unpoetic manner. 

“He knows well enough I would not tolerate any such thing,” Sophia said coldly. “But he never misses an opportunity to remind his every acquaintance of how much he detests me, and it pleases him to be seen about with that odious French Cyprian on his arm more than he does with his own wife.” 

Vidal, who had heard a great deal more about his cousin’s mistress than he should have liked to know, thought it prudent to hold his tongue on the matter of Mademoiselle de Vareine’s manifold attractions. “You surprise me, my girl – I did not think you to be one to give up so easily.” 

“It is all very well for you to speak, my lord,” Sophia snapped, though there was real hurt in her voice. “You have your precious Mary, a daughter whom no one accused to be anyone else’s but your own, and now you have a son to carry on the family name. While my child is looked at askance for taking after myself rather than displaying the true Saint-Vire countenance, though it is my husband and not myself who has been dishonouring the marriage bed since the moment we were wed.” 

“Then Bertrand is even more of a fool than I thought,” Vidal observed, and stood up. “Red hair or not, if that daughter of yours is not a Saint-Vire, then I’m not an Alastair.” 

“I thank you for your vote of confidence, my lord,” Sophia rose, and dropped a mock curtsy. “I should be much obliged to you if you could bring your esteemed cousin to perceive the matter in the same light.” 

“Eat your breakfast,” Vidal advised, and although Sophia paled considerably at the thought, she eventually appeared to see the force of his argument and went about complying with unusual meekness.

It was entirely possible she was carrying a boy this time, and the Marquis prayed that it might be so, for his own peace of mind as much as his wife’s. For all that he could scarcely force himself to be more than civil to his sister-in-law, it would be much preferable for both sides of the family if the Vicomte and his Vicomtess could be brought to reason; the arrival of a male heir would ease matters considerably, and perhaps in time Bertrand might even find it within himself to apply more discretion in the management of his more clandestine affairs, and seek some solace in his lawfully wedded wife for a change. 

Vidal didn’t hold much hope on that count, but it was not, thankfully, his affair. On his way upstairs he made a detour the nursery, and was treated with an enthusiastic welcome from young Elizabeth who had apparently decided nap time was for the weak, and way below the dignity of an Alastair. 

“In bed with you,” Vidal ordered, pressing a kiss to her dark locks. The little truant complied speedily, much to the admiration of the head nurse, and the Marquis headed out with so soft a smile on his lips as to cause one of his valets to very nearly stumble on his feet as he passed him down the corridor. 

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“The Vicomte de Valmé is here, ma’am, and desires to speak to his wife,” Mary’s own abigail announced in dramatic accents, and she knew at once that Dominic would have much to say about this later, once they were given the occasion to be private together.  

“I shan’t see him,” Sophia shrugged, regarding her little nephew with an interest Mary knew well enough she was far from feeling. “You may take him to see his daughter if he wishes it.” 

“Sophy, dear,” Mary begged her, though she had very little hope her sister could be brought to reason when she was in one of her moods. 

“I won’t take any lectures from you, dear sister, and that is all there is to it,” Sophia said mutinously, and went to pick up the babe by way of giving herself something to do. Mary’s motherly instincts briefly rebelled against the intrusion, then just as quickly subsided in favour of her more rational side.  

“He is still your husband, Sophy,” she pointed out, and was treated with a defiant toss of the head.  

“You need hardly remind me of that, dear Mary. I shall not see him, for all that.” 

Little Giles began to stir in Sophia’s arms, and she quickly handed him over to her sister. Mary sighed, and with practiced motions brought him to her breast. 

“What is even the point of being a Marchioness if you persist in your absurd affectation of tending to the child yourself?” Sophia asked flippantly, though she did not appear overly interested in receiving an answer.  

With her son latched securely to her breast, Mary turned her grave gaze upon her younger sister. “Does your husband even know that you are with child?” 

“Does it matter? With my luck, it will be another girl, and that horrid woman whom Bertrand calls his adored one will laugh and laugh – perhaps one day she might even induce him to take her bastard for his heir, and I shall run away where no one can find me.” 

Despite all past animosity between them – on Sophy’s side at least, though perhaps not entirely without reason – Mary’s heart fairly ached for her sister, and she carefully extended a hand. “Sophy, dear, I cannot credit the Vicomte to be as heartless as that. And there is little Claire to be considered; surely you would not think of abandoning her to grow up without a mother?” 

Sophia ignored the proffered hand, though she appeared to lose some of her flippancy. “I wish I had married Dennis O’Halloran,” she declared, and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. “He did love me, though he is but a plain mister.” 

Mary wisely refrained from pointing out that although that would have been a much more sensible course of action, it was much too late to go back now, and the best Sophy could do was to find a way to get on with her husband. 

“I hate you,” Sophia went on querulously, very much in the manner of a child. “I hate your perfect husband, your perfect life, and your perfect son who shall live to be the Duke of Avon one day.” 

“Sophy,” Mary said gently, and this time, her sister gave up all pretence and buried her face into her shoulder. Mary adjusted her son in her arms, and ran her fingers soothingly through Sophia’s perfectly arranged ringlets.  

“I cannot go back to France,” Sophy sobbed helplessly. “I can’t, Mary, please.” 

“Shh,” her sister murmured, as if she was dealing with one of her children. “We shall think of something, I promise. But you must consent to speak with your husband first – he has come all this way to see you, and I feel he deserves the chance to be heard out, if nothing else.” 

Sophia only clasped the fabric of Mary’s sleeve more tightly, but said nothing in reply. Mary prayed that Dominic would manage to talk some sense into his cousin before the upcoming interview with his wife, and gathered the child more closely to her breast in silent gratitude for all the blessings she had been granted in her life. 

After retiring to her bedchamber to refresh herself and allow the maid to pin back her hair, Sophia felt more equal to the upcoming confrontation with her husband – in point of fact, there was a small, reckless part of herself which relished the prospect of telling the Vicomte exactly what she thought of him, and it was for this very reason she demanded him to be shown into her dressing room rather risking making a scandal of it by having it out in one of the parlours where a servant might walk in at any time. 

It was fair to say that Bertrand de Saint-Vire looked to be in as towering a rage as his wife felt herself to be, and wasted little time in possessing himself of Sophia’s wrists very much in the manner of the brutish husband my Lord Vidal had briefly suspected him to be. 

“You will have the goodness to explain all of this to me, madame,” he stated in an icy tone that was in marked contrast with the fire in his eyes. 

“There is nothing to explain, sir,” Sophia spat back, wishing she could free one hand for a moment only. “Perhaps you will have the goodness to unhand me – you will permit me to inform this is hardly the manner for a gentleman to treat a lady, though I am well aware you do not regard me as one.” 

“That is enough,” the Vicomte warned her, though he released her hands. “You shall go back to Paris with me, immediately.” 

“I shall not, sir. I will have you know that I am not entirely unprotected – though my lord Vidal might be loath to put himself forward for so unworthy a female as he undoubtedly perceives me, I cannot conceive that my grandfather will permit himself to remain entirely unmoved by my pleas.” 

“You will perhaps recall, madame, that it was you who elected to throw yourself at me with the object of becoming my wife, regardless of my own inclinations in the matter. I will not have you bring scandal upon my name – not after I was forced to sacrifice everything for the sake of my reputation, and yours, may I remind you.” 

Sophia laughed with all the defiance she was capable of. “You do not seem to care overmuch for your reputation when it comes to flaunting your light o’ love before the eyes of the world. But you may put all the blame on me, my lord – you have succeeded so well in convincing all your friends and family of my flawed nature that they will have no difficulties in believing you to be the wronged party. I feel sure Madamoiselle de Vareine shall be only too happy to console you for your misfortunes, and I know very well how much more agreeable you find her company when compared to mine.” 

“Do not try my patience, Sophia,” her husband warned her, addressing her by her Christian name as he very seldom did. “I think we both know the rôle of the jealous bride hardly suits you.” 

“You presume too much, my lord,” she snapped, and quickly averted her face. She would rather die than give him the satisfaction of tears, but she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a tight enough control on her feelings.  

“Do you deny you did not give the snap of your fingers for me when you elected to become a Vicomtess? That you purposely trapped me into marriage with the sole object of gaining a fortune and a title?” 

Sophia bit her lip, and raised her chin in a belligerent manner much reminiscent of her mother’s. “I am not so poor a creature as to deny it. It does not follow that I could not have made you happy, had I been given the chance to try it.” 

The Vicomte paused, as if bedazzled with a new notion which appeared to be entirely foreign to him. “I cannot credit that you truly desired to put yourself to so much trouble on my account, madame.” 

“You insufferable creature! It would scarcely have been on your account only – but pray, do not do violence to your feelings, for the impulse to be a good wife to you has long deserted me since.” 

“Look at me, Sophia,” Bertrand commanded her after a very long pause, but it was in much softer accents than he had been employing thus far. 

Sophia, who was crying in earnest by now, merely treated him with a shake of her head. “I shall not be ordered about, least of all by you. You may go back to your fair Cyprian with my blessing, and I wish her joy of it, for I am much tired of putting on a brave face and pretending I do not see what is going on behind my back.” 

“Sophy,” her husband murmured with unusual kindness, and placing his fingers very gently under her chin turned up her face so that he could meet her eyes.  

Sophia would have gladly informed him that she had never given him leave to address her so familiarly; she swallowed quite inelegantly in this stead, and permitted him to dry her cheeks. “I wish I had been allowed to run away with Lord Vidal and become his mistress,” she announced at length, though she did no longer believe it. “I should have been much better off, had I done that.” 

“Pray, do not speak such nonsense, madame,” Bertrand said impatiently. “You would have met with such a fate as anyone should find even more distasteful than being wed to me, I assure you.” 

“I have a notion it would not have been such a hardship for your cousin to bed me as you appear to find it, my lord.” 

Her husband’s mouth was upon hers before she was finished speaking; after a moment’s shock, Sophia found herself responding in kind, much to her own surprise.  

“Do not think you can win me back with one kiss, sir,” she warned him, yet allowed herself to be manoeuvred onto the nearest chaise.  

“As to that, we shall see, my darling wife,” he mocked her, though there was a wicked gleam in his eye which unaccountably excited her. 

“You will find me remarkably hard to convince, sir,” she retorted, her breath catching in her throat as her husband struggled his way under the layers of fabric and petticoats. Then his mouth was upon her, and she fairly screamed – it had been way too long for her, and she was not above taking her pleasure where she could find it. 

It was only when Bertrand dropped himself at her side, sweaty and satisfied and entirely too smug for someone who had been regarding his wife as the bane of his existence for as long as he had known her, that her eyes filled with tears once more.  

“It is of course your right to demand your marital dues from your wife any time you wish it, my lord.” She hated the way her voice wavered, but she was finding she could do nothing about it. “But I feel like I should have informed you that if conceiving a child is your object, your efforts are no longer needed at present.” 

The Vicomte raised his head in surprise, and a frown crept back to his face. “You should not have undertaken the crossing, if you knew yourself to be increasing. But although I confess myself quite pleased with your news, I do not believe I should have acted any different had I been informed in a more timely fashion.” 

“Vastly pretty of you, my lord,” she teased him, in a more light-hearted manner than she had ever dared to employ with him before. 

“Bertrand,” he corrected her, and it was her turn to raise her eyebrows in surprise. “I feel sure you must be well enough acquainted with my name by now.” 

“I shall take it under consideration, sir,” she conceded, and laid her head upon his breast in what felt considerably more like a victory than a surrender. 

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“I cannot wait to have the house all to myself again,” the Vicomte de Valmé sighed, and took snuff. “And do not think for one moment I shall ever forgive you for being so disagreeable as to foist that horrid woman upon me, Dominique.” 

His abominable cousin laughed quite unrepentantly. “Oh, but I could not possibly deprive our esteemed belle-mère of the chance to meet her new grandchild. She has been talking my ear off about the blasted Gunning sisters and how her own daughters have far outshone those ladies’ success, and I think it only fair you get your own share of her raptures, my dear cousin.” 

“If Sophia ever turns out to be the slightest bit like her mother, I shall shoot myself,” Bertrand announced with a heartfelt shudder. Mrs Challoner was not at all comme il faut, and it was only with a supreme effort that he could bring himself to tolerate her vulgar prattle for his wife’s sake; she was not in the least the sort of mother-in-law he had once envisioned for himself, and he was thankful that the sea ordinarily separated him from her and the rest of his bourgeois relations by marriage. 

Vidal frowned, and stared down his nose at him. “Sophia is more forbearing than I ever gave her credit for if she can stomach you housing your mistress under the same roof, and at such a time when she has finally succeeded in providing you with an heir. Had she been in her daughter’s place, I feel certain Mrs Challoner would have made quite the scandal of it by now.” 

It was Betrand’s turn to laugh, and his eyes fairly twinkled with mischief as he smiled sweetly at his unsuspecting cousin. “My poor Dominique, you are quite mistaken, I find – Madeleine is here on my wife’s express request, and although I have a feeling you might not credit it, the two ladies have become bosom friends of late.” 

The Marquis’s frown only blackened at this extraordinary pronouncement. “Do you perchance take me for a fool, Betrand? Am I supposed to believe that after being induced to flee from Paris on account of you flaunting your mistress before the eyes of society, your wife willingly befriended the wench upon her return?” 

“You do not understand my meaning, Dominique,” the Vicomte shook his head serenely, and rose. “The most intimate of friends, I assure you.” 

He was understandably pleased with himself when he perceived his impetuous cousin regarding him in astounded silence. “I never took you for a Puritan, mon cher, but perhaps I was wrong after all.” 

With this parting shot he bowed slightly and quit the room. If he was fortunate enough, he would manage to see his son without Mrs Challoner pouncing on him the moment he entered the nursery; little Claire too, for he was finding he did not quite mind his firstborn being a female now that he knew himself safe from the fate which had befallen his infamous uncle, of whom he had heard so much. 

Sophia rose from her bed the next morning feeling very well rested, and ready to hold her ground before the whole of the Saint-Vire family. They were to host an informal supper on the occasion of her churching to celebrate her precious little Armand, future Comte de Saint-Vire and born with as fiery a head of hair as that of his father and the grandfather of whom he bore the name; no one would ever dare to look askance at the Vicomtesse the Valmé again for failing in her duties as a wife, nor dream of accusing her of exchanging the child for that of a peasant as the late Comte had had the audacity to do. 

Bertrand had been exceedingly pleased in being presented with a son at last, and although she had felt no compunction in encouraging her husband to take his pleasure elsewhere over the past few months, she had been much moved by their encounter last night. The Vicomte could be quite a considerate lover when he wished to be, and she felt tolerably sure he had found her just as pleasing as he did dear Madeleine, though they had felt compelled to take certain precautions to prevent her from getting with child again so soon after her confinement.  

A soft scratch came from the connecting door between her bedchamber and that of her husband, and she smiled in sweet anticipation as she bade her morning visitor to come in. A swish of silk and foaming lace heralded the entrance of Mademoiselle de Vareine, her dark locks in charming disarray – Bertrand had a lamentable inclination for tugging at his lady love’s hair while in the throes of his passion, and although his wife had made the attempt to cure him of the habit, her efforts had thus far been met with indifferent success.  

“Tu es ravissante, ma chérie,” Madeleine whispered silkily, brushing her lips across Sophia’s in a most teasing manner.  

“Flatterer,” Sophia retorted at once, and deepened the kiss. Madeleine’s deft fingers were already working on the lacing of her night rail, and she fairly moaned as those same fingers slipped inside the opening to trace her bared skin with maddening slowness. Her breasts were always fuller after a birth, and considerably more sensitive to the touch; Madeleine dropped a kiss on each of them in turn, before going down on her knees and reaching for the hem of her shift.  

Sophia prayed that neither her mother nor her sister happened to find themselves within hearing distance of her bedchamber, and willingly surrendered herself to the mounting pleasure. 

In a bedchamber quite removed from her ladyship’s, the Marquis of Vidal was engaged in venting his emotions to his ever-level-headed wife. “This goes beyond everything, upon my word it does,” he ejaculated, only to stop short as he was finally brought to consider the ramifications of what he had just divulged to Sophia’s own sister. “But I should never have told you, forgive me.” 

“It is quite all right,” Mary stated pensively, the smallest of frowns disturbing the placidity of her countenance. “I should have seen it, perhaps – Sophy was always so attached to Eliza since they were both very young, in a manner which was not quite that of a girl to her dearest friend. But I think – if it makes them happy – it is none of our concern, really.” 

“It is quite clear to me I was entirely mistaken in my first reading of your character, my love,” Vidal announced with mock severity, and was not entirely surprised to be met with frank amusement.  

“For someone with as dreadful a reputation as yours, my lord, I find you are all too easily shocked,” Mary retorted with admirable composure, though he could see the gentle laughter in her eyes.  

“You little wretch,” the Marquis shook his head, his lips curling in a slow, wicked smile. “Upon my word, you deserve to be schooled, my girl.” 

The Marchioness of Vidal did her utmost to achieve an expression of outraged virtue. “We are in your cousin’s house, sir – even you would not dare.” 

Dominic fairly snorted at that. “Bertrand deserves nothing less, after he had the audacity of ravishing his flighty wife on the chaise in my guest bedchamber. There was nothing for it but to order Fletcher to dispose of the cursed thing, damn his impudence.” 

“My lord, I am constrained to remind you that you are speaking about my sister,” his wife scolded him, only to find herself shoved rather unceremoniously back against the pillows. 

“Dear Mary, pray hold your tongue,” he said sweetly, and took possession of both of her hands. 

Mary chuckled quite recklessly, and proceeded to silence him with a kiss.