The Cosgroves' cook had laid on a lavish spread. Silver dishes covered the snowy white tablecloth, and silver candlesticks ensured plenty of light. There were tureens of spiced mulligatawny soup, dishes of boiled fowl, and plates of tongue and ham. Pies and pasties were set out on silver salvers, and a pyramid of fruit took pride of place. Marianne was just helping herself to a venison pastie when she heard a voice at her shoulder and turned to see Mr Windham.

Unaccountably, she felt uncomfortable. Her gaze swept the room, hoping for the reassurance of familiar faces, but there was no one else there. They were quite alone.

'Miss Travis, is it not?' he asked, as he helped himself to a slice of veal pie.

Marianne nodded.

'I thought that is what Mr Cosgrove said. A delightful family, the Cosgroves.'

'Yes,' Marianne agreed.

'You were dancing with Jem earlier, I noticed. A fine young man. And his sister is a jovial girl.'

Marianne agreed again. The conversation, whilst being unexceptionable, struck her as slightly odd. It seemed forced; not natural; as though it was leading somewhere. But where, she could not guess.

His manner, too, made her feel uneasy, although she could not think why. He was perfectly polite - charming, even - but there was something uncomfortable and unnerving about him. If she had not been in the middle of eating a pastie she would have excused herself and returned to the dancing. As it was, she had no choice but to remain.

'Have you any brothers or sisters, Miss Travis?' he asked. He gave her a reassuring smile, but it had the opposite effect and she felt her skin prickle.

'One. A brother.' She spoke unwillingly. She did not know why, but somehow she did not want this man to know about her family.

'Ah. You are fortunate. Me, I have no family. It must be a great comfort to have a brother. He is here tonight?'

'No.' Marianne's answer was brief.

'A pity. I would have liked to have had the honour of meeting him. He is in London, perhaps?'

'I - yes.' Marianne frowned. She did not actually know where Kit was, and she wondered why she had just lied. She was usually a very truthful person, but she didn't want to tell him anything about her brother.

'He is there long?'

The questions, whilst trivial, seemed somehow pointed, and Marianne had just decided that she would excuse herself, no matter how odd it may seem, when Lord Ravensford entered the room.

She felt a tide of relief wash over her.

Lord Ravensford had his own depths, but somehow they were intriguing rather than murky, like Mr Windham's.

'Ah! There you are, Miss Travis,' he said, going over to Marianne. 'I have been looking for you everywhere. You have not forgotten your promise to dance the minuet with me, I hope?'

And without giving Marianne the chance to object he took her plate from her, put it down on the table, and steered her out of the room.

The tension in his hand conveyed itself to her through her long white evening glove. She could not deny the fact that she was grateful to him for rescuing her from Mr Windham, but even so she did not take kindly to being treated in such a way. She was about to wrest her arm free when he opened one of the small doors leading off from the hall, and to her surprise he steered her into Mr Cosgrove's study.

Lord Ravensford dropped her arm, but before she could speak he said curtly, 'I want you to keep away from Windham, Marianne. Do you understand?'

He had shed his careless air like a sloughed skin, and the effect was electrifying. Marianne could not protest at his use of her name, she could not even remember that she ought to protest, because the atmosphere had become charged with a force so powerful it drove all normal considerations out of her mind. Instead of railing against him she found herself fighting a flood of new and unwanted images that had invaded her mind, images of him kissing her hands before pulling her into his arms and kissing her passionately on the lips.

She stood stock still for a moment, overcome by the highly charged atmosphere and her own ungovernable imagination. Where had such images come from? And how had they taken control of her? She shook her head angrily, driving the pictures away. This man had taken charge of her; had steered her out of one room and into another; had told her what she could and could not do, had laid down the law by telling her who she could and could not speak to, and all she could do was imagine his mouth on hers?

It was mortifying.

'I will decide what I do,' she said, quickly regaining control of herself and redirecting the anger she had built up against herself towards him. 'If I choose to speak to Mr Windham I will do so. Perhaps it is your custom to cut people you dislike, but it is not mine.' She ignored the part of her that said she had been about to do exactly that, too angry to be fair. 'Mr Windham is a guest at this ball and I would not dream to insulting him, or the Cosgroves either, by refusing to make a little polite conversation.'

'Polite conversation?' he asked. 'Was that all it was?' His eyes were darker now that he was angry, she noticed. In fact, his whole body had changed. It seemed to have grown, and his presence filled the room. 'Tell me,' he demanded,' what was your conversation about?'

For a moment she nearly told him. So strong was his presence, and so unsettled was she by Mr Windham's pointed questions, that she longed to talk about it, but she was angry with Lord Ravensford for thinking he could order her life, and the moment passed.

'Your manners haven't improved,' she told him, angered by his high-handed attitude. 'I will talk to whomever I choose.'

'Marianne.' He used her name again, and crossing over to her in one stride he gripped her by the arms, looking intently down into her eyes. 'This is too important a matter to trifle with. I want to know what he said.'

His eyes bored down into her own. He was so close that she was made forcefully aware of everything about him: his angular cheekbones, golden eyes and exciting lips. Her own parted un unknowing invitation and she gazed up at him. She had never felt like this before. She had never lost control of herself. But now she seemed to be melting. The Miss Travis who ran her family's estate, and who spent her life on her duties seemed to be liquefying, dropping away, until all that was left at the centre was Marianne. Marianne, who wanted to forgt her duties and be free again; Marianne who, innocent though she was, knew there was a world beyond the one she had already experienced and wanted Lord Ravensford to take her there, leading her by the hand. No one had ever made her feel as he made her feel. Not once in her three London seasons had she met a man who made her pulses race, or even stir. But Lord Ravensford, newly arrived in the country, made her forget everything else - everything except the fact that she was a woman and he was a man.

It can't be allowed to continue, she thought. Lord Ravensford might have an enormous effect on her body, but he was overbearing and dictatorial, and must be made to realise that he could not order her about.

She wondered briefly what he had against Mr Windham: he had been very adamant that she must not speak to him. She knew instinctively that it was not jealousy - Lord Ravensford, she felt, was too sure of his own powers ever to be jealous of Mr Windham, or any other man - but she could think of no other possible reason for his reaction. True, she had not liked Mr Windham either, but she would hardly have ordered someone else to keep away from him. No, there must be some reason for it, she thought, as she looked deep into Lord Ravensford's eyes.

And then she saw them change. The gold light burned out of them and he let go of her arms, taking a step back.

'You are right,' he said in clipped tones. 'I have lost my manners completely.'

He gave her one more searching look and then, making her a curt bow, he strode towards the door.

He was almost out of it when Marianne called, 'Lord Ravensford?'

He turned round.

Marianne hesitated. Was it wise to talk to him? But he seemed to know Mr Windham, and she needed the answer to some questions about the man. 'About Mr Windham . . . '

His eyes remained hard. 'Yes?'

'I . . . didn't like the man. I was trying to free myself from him when you arrived.'

'Then why . . . ?'

'Because I don't take kindly to being ordered about. I am not a child. I have a mind of my own and I use it. I will not allow you or anyone else to tell me who I can and can not talk to. But all the same, there was something about Mr Windham I very much disliked.'

His eyes were shrewd, and there was an unmistakeably glimmer of respect in them. 'Your instincts are good. You told me, at our first meeting, that I was anything but a gentleman - and no, don't tell me again,' he said with a wicked smile, 'because I am not about to disagree. You are right. I am not a gentleman. I was born a gentleman and have been raised as one, but the blood of the first Earl runs strongly in my veins and he was a wolf of a man. Earldoms are won by predators: men with ambition, men who take what they want. And so yes, Miss Travis, you were right: I am anything but a gentleman. But Windham . . . Windham is something much worse.'

She nodded. 'I sensed something devious about him,' she said. 'Underhand.'

'Windham is a vicious man.'

Marianne sat down suddenly, as vague yet alarming possibilities forced their way into her mind. 'He is hunting my brother.'

CHAPTER FIVE

The weather turned colder overnight. Frost sparkled from the trees and ice glinted in the ditches. Marianne, having played her morning game of chess with her Papa, was busily cleaning the morning-room when she saw Jem Cosgrove riding up to the house. Hastily she took off her apron - although the neighbours knew the Travis's means were straitened, they did not know that Marianne often helped out with the cleaning - and ran upstairs, changing out of her plain woollen dress and into something more suitable for receiving guests.

'A good thing you saw him coming, Miss Marianne,' said Trudie, fastening the wide green sash that girdled Marianne's trim waist and giving a last brush to the glossy ringlets that fell down her back. 'It's bad enough for the neighbours to see you go visiting in a horse and trap; you'll never hold your head up again if they know you do the dusting as well.'

Slipping her feet into a pair of satin slippers - a dark green, to match the colour of her dress - Marianne ran downstairs, and was sitting elegantly on the chaise longue in the drawing-room when Jem was shown in, just as though she had been sitting there all morning, with nothing better to do than to browse through the latest edition of The Lady's Magazine.

'Raw weather!' Jem greeted her cheerfully as he came stamping and blowing into the drawing-room. 'Cold enough to . .. ' His face fell, as he remembered that he was in a lady's drawing-room and not a gentleman's club. 'That is to say, cold enough to make a man feel cold,' he ended rather lamely.

Marianne smiled. Jem, though good-hearted, had never had a way with words. 'Won't you sit down?' she asked, indicating the sofa.

'Yes. Rather. Raw weather,' he said again. He looked round the room once he had planted himself on the sofa. 'Trudie not about?' he said.

Marianne shook her head. Trudie usually joined her when she had visitors, sitting and sewing discreetly in the background, but a problem with one of the maids had called her away and as Jem was such an old family friend, not likely to do Marianne or her reputation any harm, Trudie had been prepared to leave her alone with him for a few minutes.

'Hem.' Jem went bright red and looked at the wall. 'I say, Marianne,' he broke out a moment later, 'you shouldn't have to be doing all this.'

'All what?' asked Marianne, wondering whether Jem could have seen her dusting as he approached the house.

But Jem, obviously embarrassed, was being even less coherent than usual. 'All this,' he said vaguely. 'At least, that's what m'mother says. And I agree,' he added hastily.

Marianne, usually able to follow Jem's somewhat incoherent speeches, was mystified.

'Looking after everything. Running the whole show,' he explained suddenly. 'Need a man to do that kind of thing. Two estates. Joining one another. Join at Nether Field. At the corners. Can't say they don't. May not join anywhere else, but join at Nether Field. Oh yes. So what d'you think?'

He looked at her hopefully.

Marianne was at a loss. Then the light dawned. 'You're offering me Bates,' she said. She was touched. Bates was the Cosgrove estate manager, and Jem, it seemed, had been sent to offer her his services.

'Bates? Good God. Can't mean to say you'd marry Bates?' asked Jem, amazed.

'Marry . . . ?' asked Marianne, startled.

'Not the thing,' said Jem, shaking his head. 'Not the thing at all. Can't marry Bates, Marianne. Good man, I'll grant you. One of the best. But got a wife. And children. Any number of 'em. Ten, there were, at the last count. And still rising.'

Marianne smiled broadly. 'I wasn't thinking of marrying him. I thought you were offering me his services to help me manage the estate!'

'Oh!' Jem slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. 'You thought m'father meant to share Bates! Lord, no, Marianne! M'father would never share Bates.' He suddenly sobered. 'Don't mean Marianne. Mustn't call you Marianne. Got to call you Miss Travis. M'mother says so. M'mother's never wrong. Though why in Hades I should call you Miss Travis when I've known you since forever's beyond me. Still, better do what m'mother says.'

He paused, obviously having lost the thread of his conversation. Marianne prompted him kindly. 'You said your father doesn't want to share Bates?'

'No, Marianne - Miss Travis - dash it, Marianne - that's right. M'father don't want to share Bates. He wants to share me. Well, not share me exactly . . . Lord, I'm making a mull of this,' said Jem, tugging at his cravat. 'Jennifer said I would. Looks like she's right. Damn fine girl Jennifer. Oh! dash it! Didn't mean to say damn! Told me to go down on one knee or some such thing. Don't half like it. Look a fool. But the ladies like it.' And to Marianne's amusement he knelt down in front of her.

'Oh, don't Jem,' she said, much to his relief. 'Do get up, I beg of you. I'm very fond of you Jem, you know that, but if you mean to ask me to marry you I'm afraid I must refuse.'

'Thought you would,' said Jem, gratefully getting up off his knees. 'Not dashing like Ravensford. Don't know how to sweep a girl off her feet.'

Extract from Anything But A Gentleman by Amanda Grange, published by Chivers/Thorndike