But none of it made any difference. Harry might have been toothless, with a shrill voice, but his mother was the butcher's wife and they were fast married. Gabe's mother was beautiful and wellborn, the third daughter of a country squire, but she was a chipper. To Gabe's mind, Harry's lack of a front tooth was his own fault because it was pure stupidity to taunt him about his mother's situation.

Before that, he had never really noticed that he didn't seem to have any grandparents. He knew his mother was a squire's daughter, although he never wondered where the squire was. Of course, he had known that his father was a duke who had another wife, but he hadn't thought about the implications of that statement.

Not until Harry pointed it out.

Gabe formed his entire philosophy of life in one panting second in the dusty schoolyard. He could wish that his mother were married (and he did), but it wouldn't make any difference. He took the schoolmaster's whipping with stoic resignation because he deserved it. Not for beating Harry, but for fighting for something he could never have. That was stupid, as stupid as Harry losing a tooth over someone else's mother. It was worse to be stupid than to be the son of a chipper. It was stupid to get into fights, and it was even stupider to want what you could never have.

He never fought over the subject again. Occasionally boys called his mother a light-frigate or worse, a doxy or a drab. He just looked at them and walked away. There was something unpleasant in his eye, even without his fists behind it. Generally the words dried in their mouths.

And Gabe accustomed himself to making instanta-neous decisions. If there was something—or someone— he desired, he decided whether it was possible. If it was not possible, he didn't spare it another thought. If it was possible, he fought for it tooth and nail, as long as he judged it an intelligent goal.

His philosophy held him in excellent stead until the Year of Our Lord 1817, on a morning in October, when he looked up and met the eyes of a certain Miss Pythian-Adams. It wasn't merely longing that flooded his body; it was pure, unmitigated desire: for this ladylike, contained, intelligent, exquisite person. For her.

He shouldn't spare her a glance.

He couldn't help looking at her again and again.

It went against all his most deeply held principles. She was unattainable. He shouldn't spare her a thought.

He would have to work on that one later.

For the meantime he settled on making himself as objectionable as possible. Because, after all, she undoubtedly shared the opinion of most gentlefolk, that irregular birth manifested itself in a disagreeable personality. And he had never felt more illegitimate in his life.

For her part, Gillian Pythian-Adams had just discovered that a simple theatrical party was in fact a serious production and that she was, by all accounts, the stage manager.

"None of us knows the faintest thing about these productions," the Duke of Holbrook was saying. "We depend on you for everything."

"Generally speaking, private theatricals are a quite private business," Gillian pointed out. "Did you say that you wished to invite over one hundred people, Your Grace?"

Holbrook nodded. "At least."

"Does that really sound like a private theatrical?" her mama asked.

The duke seemed to have a headache. He had covered his eyes with his hand and just mumbled something in reply.

"I quite agree," her mother said cheerfully. "Let's invite a mere fifty. Or—better yet—let's just invite the village and leave it at that."

"I'm afraid that this must be an altogether more public affair," Mr. Spenser said with quiet authority.

Gillian narrowed her eyes. The man holding the baby was in charge, for some reason. "May I ask why?" she inquired.

"We have a fancy to it," the duke said, his voice hollow. "My mother calculated that the theater could sit two hundred, if need be."

Gillian suddenly remembered how taken she was by the idea of putting on a play in the Duchess of Hol-brook's famous little jewel box of a theater. "The first thing is to decide which play we would like to put on," she said. She picked up a stack of books to her right. "I took the liberty of bringing a few plays with me."

"Since you're holding a volume of Sophocles," the duke said, "I might as well tell you that my mother tried the Greek dramatists, but they failed on the stage. In fact, a few of them were viewed with true dislike."

"There is something uncommonly vulgar about some Greek plays," Gillian agreed.

The professor of divinity looked at her, and she felt herself flushing. "Ought one to enjoy tales such as Oedipus}" she inquired, feeling like a prude.

"The Bible has moments of great vulgarity," he said, "and yet it retains its rightful place in the canon of reading material."

"I would suggest George Etheridge," Gillian said, not feeling up to a skirmish over vulgar moments in sacred texts. "The Man of Mode."

"Petty stuff," the professor said, his lip curling.

Gillian's mouth tightened. "School for Scandal?"

"Baroque in its pettiness."

"I am particularly fond of that play," Gillian commented.

"I haven't read either," Lady Griselda said. "Should I? Are these plays humorous or of the serious genre?"

"Humorous," Gillian said, at the same time that the professor said, "Trivial."

"And what would you suggest?" Gillian demanded.

"I shall ransack Rafe's library tonight," Mr. Spenser answered, "and find an appropriate play. It's not my field."

"We could always try a Shakespeare play, though I do think they're quite difficult for amateurs to do well," Gillian offered.

"Shakespeare was excluded from the early collections of the Bodleian Library, and for good reason," the professor remarked. "Dr. Johnson was the first to note the extraordinary bawdiness of those plays. The comedies, in particular, celebrate nothing so much as reckless behavior."

"Such as falling in love?" Lady Griselda asked. "My dear Mr. Spenser, what kind of plays would be left without human folly?"

Gillian was conceiving a strong dislike for the professor arid his haughty opinions about art. "Perhaps Lady Maitland and Lady Griselda could glance at my suggestions tonight," she said. "Since Mr. Spenser does not seem to be suggesting a less trivial alternative."

"Oh no," Lady Griselda said hastily, "I have nothing to do with it. I couldn't possibly act. The professional actress can manage whatever play you choose, I am sure."

"I myself cannot play a part for such a large audience, as I am unmarried," Gillian said. "Since my mother has stalwartly refused to act since the time I've known her, we may be forced to beg you to play a female role, Lady Griselda."

"I'm most happy to help in other respects. Perhaps if the village were our only audience, but since people are being invited from London—"

"The invitations have already been accepted," the duke said from the couch where he had collapsed. His voice allowed no compromise.

"I don't understand," Gillian said. She looked from the expressionless eyes of the professor to the wan face of his half brother, the duke. Then she put down the stack of books she was holding with a gentle thud. "There is something about this production that I do not grasp."