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Henry laughed. “What is it, Willoughby? You are not wanted here, you know.”

“Listen, I thought I’d better warn you that I’ve seen Mrs Brandon wandering about the place. I think she's looking for you, Miss Dashwood.”

“Thank you, Mr Willoughby,” Margaret managed to say behind the curtain. She was far too embarrassed to show her face.

They heard the door open and shut once more. It was time to go, but surely they could find a moment for one last, sweet kiss.

Marianne left the room as soon as she was able. If it were possible she would find Margaret and they would return to Manchester Square. Her impatience to be gone from London increased with every moment. She sighed for the air, the liberty, and the quiet of the country, and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Delaford must do it. She would be reunited with little James, and the world would be set to rights again. They would go home in the morning. Out in the corridor she walked along, looking into rooms where cards were being played, and people stared at her as if they wondered why they were being disturbed. At the end by the staircase she decided she would take one quick look upstairs. Mounting the steps, she felt rather nervous, almost as if she were snooping. It was very dark as she looked down the length of the corridor and deciding she would not venture far she took a few steps before she was struck by the sight of a figure coming out of a room. In her haste to get away, she turned quickly on her heel. The pain that seared through her ankle was enough to make her cry out. She stumbled but before she hit the ground with a thump she had been caught, righted on her feet, and swept up into the arms of Mr Willoughby.

“Put me down at once, Mr Willoughby,” she started in distress. The gentleman, ignoring her protestations, opened a door to his right and carried her in. He promptly put her down as she requested, on a striped sofa at the foot of a large four-poster bed.

“I will get help. Stay there; do not move or you will do untold damage.”

“I must go and find Margaret,” she said as she struggled to get on her feet. “She has disappeared and I am a little worried about her at present.”

“Miss Dashwood is quite capable of looking after herself,” he answered immediately in a stern voice. “Stay where you are.”

The authoritarian tone of his voice had an immediate effect. Marianne allowed him to take charge for a moment before the recollection that she had seen him looking most intimate with her sister made her instantly speak out.

“I saw you with my sister earlier this evening,” Marianne began in an accusing tone. “I’d like to know what you think you are doing.”

“Forgive me, Mrs Brandon, but I have no idea to what you allude.”

“You were whispering into her ear, I saw you,” she started, not quite knowing how to go on.

“What do you accuse me of doing, Marianne? Am I guilty of having an exchange of words with your sister?”

“I saw the way you looked at one another, an expression so conspiratorial that I do not know what to think.”

“Ah, I see. I think I know now what you have assumed. You think I am carrying on a liaison with your sister, am I correct?”

Willoughby was kneeling next to her, with his face inclined toward her and very close. In the dim light his eyes were laughing, his expression one of mockery. Marianne wanted to move; at least she told herself that she did. She struggled to sit up but realised that by doing so his countenance was brought ever closer.

“I do not know what to imagine, Mr Willoughby.”

“I think you have imagined the very worst of me,” he said, all the amusement gone from his face. “How could you believe that I would even look at your sister, let alone make love to her, when the only woman I want to take in my arms is here with me now.”

“Mr Willoughby, you must not say those things. Please, you said you would get help.” Marianne made a great effort, rising to her feet. The pain was not so strong now and she made a move toward the door, only to be caught by Willoughby, who grasped her arms tightly, forcing her to stop.

“I should