She was afraid of London. Lady Middleton had lived there—hostessing parties in the elegant three-story house in Grosvenor Square, attending the ballet at the Royal Opera House, the theater in Drury Lane, shopping on the West End. Lady Middleton had played bridge with members of Parliament and had sipped tea at Buckingham Palace. Lady Middleton had been a quiet, dutiful wife, a woman of intelligence, breeding and control. She had nearly suffocated in London.

Perhaps if Ashley hadn’t come between Paula Carlin’s daughter and Eric Middleton’s wife, Spencer would have accepted her role with ease. She’d wanted to, had struggled to. Too much passion simmered inside her. It had been there all of her life, but the months with Ashley had liberated it. Controlling something dormant was entirely different from harnessing something that pulsed with life. There had not even been her profession as an outlet for the energy that drove her.

Coming back to London was the most difficult step yet. There she would not only have to face memories of Ashley, but the ghost of a woman she had pretended to be. It was all so familiar—Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, the smells, the voices. Even the anticipation of Wimbledon couldn’t block them out. There would be faces here that would remember the coolly elegant Lady Middleton. And there would be questions. Publicly she would remain aloof, distant and uninformative. Spencer felt she owed Eric that much. She would simply refuse to discuss her marriage or its demise. Her early training, her years of following her mother’s rules, would serve her now more than ever.

She would give them tennis. With one semi-finals and one finals appearance now under her belt only after a few months, Spencer would have been spotlighted in any case. It was up to her to sway the press away from her personal life toward her professional resurgence. What was growing between her and Ashley was still too fragile to be shared.

Happiness. She had nearly forgotten how simple and overwhelming the feeling was. Lazy midnight talks, crazy loving, quiet walks. They shared a hotel room and made it home for the days and nights they were there. She felt as much a Gypsy as Ashley, and was content to be so. Once she had looked for roots, stability, and commitment. She’d learned that they meant nothing without the fullness of love. Ashley’s spontaneity had always fascinated her. This time Spencer would resolve the lingering fear of it and enjoy.