MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS by Margaret McPhee

was an arrangement, nothing more.’ She still had her pride.
    ‘But the way you looked at one another. If Fallingham looked at me like that...’ Sara fanned a hand before her face as if just the thought brought her out in a scorching flush.
    ‘We had a good time.’ Alice gave a shrug of her shoulders as if it was nothing so very special. ‘But these things aren’t meant to last.’ A parody of the words Razeby had said to her, standing there in that bedchamber.
    ‘Was it an amicable separation?’ Sara’s curiosity was getting the better of her. She looked surprised, making Alice wonder just what the gossipmongers had been saying, given that they had so little to go on. Maybe she needed to give them a little grist for their mill.
    ‘Sorry to disappoint the girls, but, yes, it was.’
    ‘We thought you were upset, you’ve not been seen out anywhere on the town.’
    ‘I’ve been busy. Give me a chance. I’ve not even finished my first opening week!’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Sara.
    ‘And I’m not upset in the slightest.’ Alice smiled to prove it.
    Sara gave a grin and looked like she believed her. ‘So you’ll come tomorrow?’
    ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
    The door closed behind Sara.
    Alice took a deep breath. There could be nothing of avoidance. Avoidance was tantamount to admitting that she cared, that she was hurt, that she could not bear to face him. And none of that was the case, as London would see soon enough.
    She was getting on with her life. And if Razeby happened to cross her path, then so be it.
    It would make not one jot of difference to her. He would make not one jot of difference to her.
    * * *
    Within Hyde Park Miss Pritchard was strolling by Razeby’s side, her concentration more on the people in the park who were looking at them than anything else. Behind them, Mrs Pritchard, her younger daughter by her side, was espousing on the merits of good breeding and outlining a detailed Pritchard family lineage in the process.
    The Pritchards were wealthy and well connected. A suitable alliance for Razeby. But Razeby did not know if he could suffer Mrs Pritchard’s incessant boasting. Or, indeed, Miss Pritchard herself. All he had to do was marry her and bed her. It should be simple enough, especially for a man like him who had bedded no shortage of women in his life. But the prospect left him cold. He stared into the hazy afternoon distance and tried to not to think about it.
    The last time he had been here in Hyde Park was with Alice. She had shunned the use of his curricle and insisted they walk. She did not care about being seen on his arm or not. What she had cared about were simple things—the glory of the sunshine, the freshness of the air, the birdsong and the furls of new green buds on the trees; riches for the eyes, as she called nature or art or anything that she liked to look at. He had been unable to prevent his fingers from curling in hers. And she had smiled and not given a damn about who was watching them.
    The memory made his heart swell.
    He felt Miss Pritchard’s hand upon his arm stiffen. Mrs Pritchard was still talking, but he could hear the increased arrogance and volume of her tone, that sudden slight edge of superiority and distaste.
    And then he saw the reason why. Ahead, rounding the corner was a small party of men and women, out taking the air and being seen at this most fashionable of hours in the park. But not just any men and women. The men were some of the highest in the ton. Of the women, Razeby only noticed one. A woman who stood out from the others because she was golden and beautiful and she just seemed to glow with life and with happiness. He could hear the playful banter within the little party, the laughter, the teasing, flirtatious air.
    Alice, clad in her plain pale-yellow walking dress and contrasting cream spencer and gloves, was walking by Hawick’s side, listening to something the duke was saying to her. Perched at a jaunty angle on