Slowly she descended the stairs, playing a little game with herself that she was wearing a gown of richly embroidered satin, that there were diamonds round her neck and her hair was powdered.

And she was not an ordinary country girl going down the stairs in her muslin.

She was a Queen, a Princess, someone in a Fairy story, taking part in a great drama that was just beginning to unfold.

She felt herself thrill to her own imagination. She felt her heart beat a little quicker because she was excited and the breath come quicker between her lips.

And then, as she reached the bottom step, she realised that the Marquis had been watching her standing in front of the fireplace, his hands behind him, his dark head tilted back a little to watch her, the expression on his face inscrutable and his lips twisted in that strange cynical smile.

CHAPTER TWO

As dinner ended and the footmen in their gold and claret livery and powdered wigs left the room, the Marquis pushed back his chair a little and turning to Gretna suggested,

“Now, tell me about yourself.”

The meal that they had just eaten had seemed to Gretna almost unreal. Delicacies such as she had never heard of, let alone tasted, were provided in almost bewildering succession on gold plates.

The dining table was decorated with orchids and the huge candelabra, which each held a dozen tapers, showed walls covered with valuable paintings.

It was, however, not the luxuriousness of her surroundings that made Gretna feel shy, but her host with his odd disconcerting smile and a manner of looking at her that she felt was always critical and frequently disdainful.

He looked as magnificent as the room he owned. His blue velvet coat was cut by a Master hand and, although he was unpowdered, his hair was swept from his square forehead in the fashion sponsored by the Prince of Wales and tied at the neck with a ribbon.

There were diamonds glittering at his neck and on the buckles of his knee breeches, so that she was instantly aware of the plain inadequacies of her simple cheap muslin gown.

But, because this was an adventure, she refused to be downcast by her own appearance. What did it matter how she looked when tomorrow she would be gone and perhaps never again be privileged to see such splendour as was to be found here in Stade Hall?

She was more afraid that she would have little to talk about, but the Marquis with a polished ease led the conversation easily and without difficulty during the many courses of dinner.

He told her, among other things, that he had just recently returned from abroad.

“I had almost forgotten,” he said, “how beautiful the English countryside can be in the spring.”