When Larimore left, Ian picked up a contract he needed to read and approve; but before he'd read two lines Jordan stalked into his study unannounced, carrying a newspaper and wearing an expression Ian hadn't seen before. "Have you seen the paper today?"

Ian ignored the paper and studied his friend's angry face instead. "No, why?"

"Read it," Jordan said, slapping it down on the desk. "Elizabeth allowed herself to be questioned by a reporter from the Times. Read that." He jabbed his finger at a few lines near the bottom of the article about Elizabeth by one Mr. Thomas Tyson. "That was your wife's response when Tyson asked her how she felt when she saw you on trial before your peers. "

Frowning at Jordan's tone, Ian read Elizabeth's reply:

"My husband was not tried before his peers. He was merely tried before the Lords of the British Realm. Ian Thornton has no peers."

Ian tore his gaze from the article, refusing to react to the incredible sweetness of her response, but Jordan would not let it go. "My compliments to you, Ian," he said angrily. "You serve your wife with a divorce petition, and she responds by giving you what constitutes a public apology!" He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Ian behind to stare with clenched jaw at the article.

One month later Elizabeth had still not been found. Ian continued trying to purge her from his mind and tear her from his heart, but with decreasing success. He knew he was losing ground in the battle, just as he had been slowly losing it from the moment he'd looked up and seen her walking into the House of Lords.

Sitting alone before the fire in the drawing room, two months after her disappearance, he gazed into the flames, trying to concentrate on the meeting he was going to have with Jordan and some other business acquaintances the next day, but it was Elizabeth he saw in his mind, not profit and cost figures. . . . Elizabeth kneeling in a garden of flowers; Elizabeth firing pistols beside him; Elizabeth sinking into a mocking throne-room curtsy before him, her green eyes glowing with laughter; Elizabeth looking at him as she waltzed in his arms: "Have you ever wanted something very badly-something that was within your grasp-and yet you were afraid to reach out for it?"

That night he had answered no. Tonight he would have said yes. Among other things, he wanted to know where she was; a month ago he'd told himself it was because he wanted the divorce petition served. Tonight he was too exhausted from his long internal battle to bother lying to himself anymore. He wanted to know where she was because he needed to know. His grandfather claimed not to know; his uncle and Alexandra both knew, but they'd both refused to tell him, and he hadn't pressed them.

Wearily, Ian leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes, but he wouldn't sleep, and he knew it, even though it was three o'clock in the morning. He never slept anymore unless he'd either had a day of grueling physical activity or drunk enough brandy to knock himself out. And even when he did, he laid awake, wanting her,' and knowing-because she'd told him-that she was somewhere out there, lying awake, wanting him.

A faint smile touched his lips as he remembered her standing in the witness box, looking heartbreakingly young and beautiful, first trying logically to explain to everyone what had happened-and when that failed, playing the part of an incorrigible henwit. Ian chuckled, as he'd been doing whenever be thought of her that day. Only Elizabeth would have dared to take on the entire House of Lords-and when she couldn't sway them with intelligent logic, she had changed tack and used their own stupidity and arrogance to defeat them. If he hadn't felt so furious and betrayed that day, he'd have stood up and given her the applause she deserved! It was exactly the same tactic she'd used the night he'd been accused of cheating at cards. When she couldn't convince Everly to withdraw from the duel because Ian was innocent. she'd turned on the hapless youth and outrageously taken him to task because he'd already engaged himself to her the next day.

Despite his accusation that her performance in the House of Lords had been motivated by self-interest, he knew it hadn't. She'd come to save him, she thought, from hanging.

When his rage and pain had finally diminished enough, he'd reconsidered Wordsworth's visit to her on her wedding day and put himself in her place. He had loved her that day and wanted her. If his own investigator had presented him with conjecture-even damning conjecture-about Elizabeth, his love for her would have made him reject it and proceed with the wedding.

The only reason she could have had for marrying him, other than love, was to save Havenhurst. In order to believe that, Ian had first to believe that he'd been fooled by her every kiss, every touch, every word, and that he could not accept. He no longer trusted his heart, but he trusted his intellect.

His intellect warned him that of all the women in the world, no one suited him better in every way than Elizabeth.

Only Elizabeth would have dared to confront him after the acquittal and, after he'd hurt and humiliated her, to tell him that they were going to have a battle of wills that he could not win: "And when you cannot stand it anymore.? she'd promised in that sweet, aching voice of hers, ?You'll  come back to me. and I'll cry in your arms and tell you I'm sorry for everything I've done. And then you'll help me find a way to forgive myself."

It was, Ian thought with a defeated sigh, damned hard to concede the battle of wills when he couldn't find the victor so that he could surrender.

Five hours later Ian awoke in the chair where he'd fallen asleep, blinking in the pale sunlight filtering in through the draperies. Rubbing his stiff arms and shoulders, he went upstairs, bathed, and shaved, then came back downstairs to bury himself in his work again, which was what he had been doing ever since Elizabeth disappeared.

By midmorning he was already halfway through a stack of correspondence when his butler handed him an envelope from Alexandra Townsende. When Ian opened it a bank draft fell out onto his desk, but he ignored that to read her brief note first. "This is from Elizabeth," it said. "She has sold Havenhurst." A pang of guilt and shock sent Ian to his feet as he read the rest of the note: "I am to tell you that this is payment in full, plus appropriate interest, for the emeralds she sold, which, she feels, rightfully belonged to you."

Swallowing audibly, Ian picked up the bank draft and the small scrap of paper with it. On it Elizabeth herself had shown her calculation of the interest due him for the exact number of days since she'd sold the gems, until the date of her bank draft a week ago.

His eyes ached with unshed tears while his shoulders began to rock with silent laughter-Elizabeth had paid him half a percent less than the usual interest rate.