“Do I really have to go? Could we cry off at the last minute?” said Caroline.

Her mother looked mortified. “No, absolutely not. Lord Newhall is one of the most eligible men in all of England. Of course, you must go.”

“But . . .”

Caroline was on the verge of explaining to her about the several unpleasant encounters she’d had with Lord Newhall, but she thought better of it. It was bad enough that her parents thought her a tease; for her to turn down even the slightest opportunity to become Countess Newhall was unthinkable.

“But nothing. You wished to get out of London. And I know you wanted to go to Scotland, but look at this as a much better opportunity than just sitting up on the windswept ramparts of Strathmore Castle. Who knows, you may even get a husband out of the trip.”

A resigned Caroline went back to the upstairs sitting room and picked up her sewing. As she pushed the needle back into the hem of the nightshirt she was making for Francis, she swore.

“A whole week with bloody Newhall—that is all I need.”