Thirty minutes later Ian presented himself to Jordan's butler and asked to see Alexandra. She walked into the room with accusation and ire shooting from her blue eyes as she said scornfully, "I wondered if that note would bring you here. Do you have any notion how much Havenhurst means-meant-to her?"

"I'll get it back for her," he promised with a somber smile. "Where is she?"

Alexandra's mouth fell open at the tenderness in his eyes and voice.

"Where is she?" he repeated with calm determination. "I cannot tell you," Alex said with a twinge of regret. "You know I cannot. I gave my word."

"Would it have the slightest effect," Ian countered smoothly, "if I were to ask Jordan to exert his husbandly influence to persuade you to tell me anyway?"

"I'm afraid not," Alexandra assured him. She expected him to challenge that; instead a reluctant smile drifted across his handsome face. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. "You're very like Elizabeth. You remind me of her."

Still slightly mistrustful of his apparent change of heart, Alex said primly, "I deem that a great compliment, my lord."

To her utter disbelief, Ian Thornton reached out and chucked her under the chin. "I meant it as one," he informed her with a grin.

Turning. Ian started for the door, then stopped at the sight of Jordan, who was lounging in the doorway, an amused, knowing smile on his face. "If you'd keep track of your own wife, Ian you would not have to search for similarities in mine." When their unexpected guest had left, Jordan asked Alex, " Are you going to send Elizabeth a message to let her know he's coming for her?"

Alex started to nod, then she hesitated. "I-I don't think so. I'll tell her that he asked where she is, which is all he really did."

"He'll go to her as soon as he figures it out." "Perhaps."

"You still don't trust him, do you?" Jordan said with a surprised smile.

"I do after this last visit-to a certain extent-but not with Elizabeth's heart. He's hurt her terribly, and I won't give her false hopes and, in doing so, help him hurt her again."

Reaching out, Jordan chucked her under the chin as his cousin had done, then he pulled her into his arms. "She's hurt him, too, you know."

"Perhaps," Alex admitted reluctantly. Jordan smiled against her hair. "You were more forgiving when I trampled your heart, my love," he teased.

"That's because I loved you," she replied as she laid her cheek against his chest, her arms stealing around his waist.

"And will you love my cousin just a little if he makes amends to Elizabeth?"

"I might find it in my heart," she admitted, "if he gets Havenhurst back for her."

"It'll cost him a fortune if he tries," Jordan chuckled. "Do you know who bought it?"

"No, do you?"

He nodded. "Philip Demarcus."

She giggled against his chest. "Isn't he that dreadful man who told the prince he'd have to pay to ride in his new yacht up the Thames?"

"The very same."

"Do you suppose Mr. Demarcus cheated Elizabeth?" "Not our Elizabeth," Jordan laughed. "But I wouldn't like

to be in Ian's place if Demarcus realizes the place has sentimental value to Ian. The price will soar."

In the ensuing two weeks Ian managed to buy back Elizabeth's emeralds and Havenhurst, but he was unable to find a trace of his wife. The town house in London felt like a prison, not a home, and still he waited, sensing somehow that Elizabeth was putting him through this torment to teach him some kind of well-deserved lesson.

He returned to Montmayne, where, for several more weeks, he prowled about its rooms, paced a track in the drawing room carpet, and stared into its marble-fronted fireplaces as if the answer would be there in the flames. Finally he could stand it no more. He couldn't concentrate on his work, and when he tried, he made mistakes. Worse, he was beginning to be haunted with walking nightmares that she'd come to harm-or that she was falling in love with someone kinder than he-and the tormenting illusions followed him from room to room.

On a clear, cold day in early December, after leaving instructions with his footmen, butler, and even his cook that he was to be notified immediately if any word at all was received from Elizabeth, he left for the cottage in Scotland. It was the one place where he might find peace from the throbbing emptiness that was gnawing away at him with a pain that increased unbearably from day to day, because he no longer really believed she would ever contact him. Too much time had passed. If the beautiful, courageous girl he had married had wanted a reconciliation, she'd have done something else to bring it about by now. It was not in Elizabeth's nature to simply let things happen as they may. And so Ian went home to try to find peace, as he had always done before, except now it was. not the pressures of his life that brought him up the lane to the cottage on that unusually frigid December night; it was the gaping emptiness of his life.

Inside the cottage Elizabeth stood at the window, watching the snow-covered lane, as she'd been doing ever since Ian's message to the caretaker had been delivered to her by the vicar three days before. Ian was coming home, she knew, but he obviously hadn't the slightest notion she was there. His message had simply said to have the cottage stocked with wood and food, and cleaned, because he intended to stay for two months. Standing at the window, Elizabeth watched the moonlit path, telling herself she was ridiculous to think he would arrive at night, more ridiculous yet to be dressed for his arrival in her favorite sapphire wool gown with her hair loose about her shoulders, as Ian liked best.

A tall, dark form appeared around the bend of the lane, and Elizabeth pulled shut the new, heavy curtains she'd made, her heart beginning to hammer with a mixture of hope and dread as she recalled that the last time she'd seen him, he'd been leaving a ball with Jane Addison on his arm. Suddenly the idea of being here, where he didn't expect her to be-and probably didn't want her to be-didn't seem good at all.

After putting his horse in the barn Ian rubbed him down, then made certain he had food. Dim light shone through the windows of the cottage as he walked through the snow, and the smell of wood-smoke rose from the chimney. The caretaker was evidently there, awaiting his arrival. Kicking the snow off his boots, he reached for the door handle.

In the center of the room Elizabeth stood stock still, clasping and unclasping her hands, watching the handle turn, unable to breathe with the tension. The door swung open, admitting a blast of frigid air and a tall, broad-shouldered man who glanced at Elizabeth in the firelight and said, "Henry, it wasn't necess-"