But even as the thought came to her, she turned away from it in disgust. Then, as if the Devil himself tempted her, Violet knew there was another way that she could keep Robert – she had only to appeal to his honour, his chivalry. She had but to tell him clearly in no uncertain terms that he had compromised her and that he could only reinstate her in the eyes of the world if he made her his wife. If she spoke of such things, she knew clearly and unmistakably that he would marry her. Robert was a great gentleman, he would not fail her.

But unfortunately, she thought wearily, she was a lady. If Robert would not behave like a blackguard, neither could she.

If Robert was honourable, then she, too, had a sense of honour.

He turned from the wine table with the drink in his hand and walked across to the fireplace where she was standing.

She knew he was nervous. And there was something infinitely pathetic in the knowledge that Sir Robert Stanford of Cheveron was nervous of her. She had known him in many moods, she had watched him experience many emotions, but never before had she known him afraid, nervous or embarrassed, and she knew that now he was all these things and perhaps more.

For the first time since they had met, Violet felt her age.

Robert was so intensely masculine that always she had thought him as being so immeasurably older in the things that mattered. He had commanded and she had obeyed. He had always been the stronger of the two, both physically and mentally, but now in this moment of crisis Violet realised that he was in some ways very young where woman were concerned. His ideals had never been shattered. To him a woman was a very wonderful and very lovely creature, lovely both in mind and body.

At that moment Violet felt a jealousy so violent in its intensity that it almost tore her in pieces – a jealousy of the woman whom Robert would love and who would be his wife.

He would lay all these great gifts of his at her feet, and what was more, he could offer her what was to all intents and purposes an untouched heart. He was sensitive, he had imagination, he would be able to give to the woman he loved so much more than anyone else, including herself, had up till now been able to take from him.

Violet’s jealousy burned within her like a fire. As suddenly as it had flared up, it died away, leaving her curiously depleted and for a moment emotionally detached.

Robert put his hardly touched glass of whisky down on the table. It seemed as if he were not thirsty although his lips, were dry. He took a deep breath.

‘I have something to say to you,’ he began.