The voluptuous woman lifted up on an elbow and pulled a sheet to her s. Frowning slightly, she studied the darkly handsome youth of eighteen who was standing at the window of his bedchamber, his shoulder propped against the window frame, looking out across the back lawns, where a party in honor of his mother's birthday was in progress. "What do you see that interests you more than I?"  Jessica asked as she wrapped the sheet around herself and walked over to the window.

Jiyong Kwon, the future heir of Kwon Company, seemed not to hear her as he looked out across the grounds of the estate that would, upon his father's death, become his. "Evidently my mother has acquired a new lover," Jiyong drawled sarcastically. "Really?" Jessica asked,  "Your husband." Turning fully toward her, Jiyong studied her lovely face, searching for some sign of surprise. When he saw none, his own features hardened into an ironic mask. "You knew they were together, and that accounts for your sudden, interest in my bed, is that it?" She nodded,  "I thought," she said, running her hand up his hard chest, "it would be amusing if we were also to get together. But my interest in your bed isn't sudden, Jiyong, I've wanted you for a long time. Now that your mother and my husband are enjoying each other, I saw no reason not to take what I wanted. Where's the harm in that?"

 He said nothing and her eyes searched his. "Are you shocked?" "Hardly," he replied. "I've known about my mother's affairs since I was eight years old, and I doubt I could be shocked by what any woman does.

 Although he was only eighteen, Jiyong potent attraction for women was already a topic of feminine gossip. Jiyong understood women; he understood her, and although it was obvious he didn't admire or approve of her, he accepted her for what she was, with all her weaknesses.

"Are you coming to bed, my lord?"

"No," he said mildly.

 "Why?"

"Because I find I'm not quite bored enough to want to sleep with the wife of my mother's lover."

"You don't have a very high opinion of women, do you?" Jessica asked,

"Is there any reason I should?"

"No. I suppose not. But someday you'll have to marry in order to have children."

His eyes suddenly glinted with amusement, and he leaned back against the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "Marry? Really? Is that how one gets children? And all this time, I thought"

"Jiyong, really!" she said, laughing, , teasing side of him. "You'll need a legitimate heir."

"When I'm forced to pledge my hand in order to produce an heir," he replied with grim humor, "I'll choose a naive chit right out of the schoolroom who'll leap to do my merest bidding."

 "And when she becomes bored and seeks other diversion, what will you do?"

 "Will she become bored?" he inquired in a steely voice. Jessica studied every inch of Jiyong’s tall frame positively radiated raw power and leashed sensuality, he had breeding, looks, and wealth. Her brows lifted "Perhaps not."

While she dressed, Jiyong turned back to the windows and gazed dispassionately at the elegant guests who had gathered on the lawns at Kwon’s mansion to celebrate his mother's birthday. To an outsider on that day, the mansion doubtless looked like a fascinating. To eighteen-year-old Jiyong, the scene held little interest and no beauty, he knew too well what went on within the walls of this house when the guests were gone.

With her small chin propped upon her fists, Miss Sandara Park watched the yellow butterfly perched upon the windowsill of her grandfather's cottage "What did you say, Grandfather? I didn't hear you."

"I asked why that butterfly is more interesting than Socrates today," the kindly old man said, smiling his gentle scholar's smile at the petite fourteen-year-old. Amused, he tapped the volume of Socrates' works from which he had been instructing her.

Sandara sent him a melting, apologetic smile, but she didn't deny that she was distracted, for as her gentle, scholarly grandfather said, "A lie is an affront to the soul, as well as an insult to the intelligence of the person to whom one lies." And Sandara would have done anything rather than insult this gentle man who had instilled her with his own philosophy of life, as well as educating her in mathematics, philosophy, and history.

"I was wondering," she admitted with a wistful sigh, "if there's the slightest chance that I'm only in the 'caterpillar stage' just now, and someday soon I'll change into a butterfly and be beautiful?" "What's wrong with being a caterpillar? After all," he quoted, teasing," 'Nothing is beautiful from every point of view.' " His eyes twinkled as he waited to see if she could recognize the quotation's source. "Horace," Sandara provided promptly, smiling back at him. He nodded, pleased, then he said, "You needn't worry about your appearance, my dear, because true beauty springs from the heart and dwells in the eyes."

Sandara tipped her head to the side, thinking, but she could not recall any philosopher, ancient or modern, who had said such a thing. "Who said that?"

Her grandfather chuckled. "I did." Her answering laughter tinkled like bells, filling the sunny room with her musical gaiety, then she abruptly sobered. "Papa is disappointed I'm not pretty, I can see it whenever he comes to visit. He has every reason to expect me to turn out better, for Mama is beautiful and Papa is handsome.

 The elderly man smiled at his granddaughter; the "cycle" was not such a bad thing, he thought. She was everything he hoped she'd be, and more. She was gentleness and laughter, intelligence and indomitable spirit. He wondered what sort of man she would marry someday

With her usual sensitivity, Sandara noticed the sudden darkening of her grandfather's mood and strove immediately to lighten it. "Are you feeling unwell, Grandpapa? The headache again? Shall I rub your neck?" "I do have a bit of the headache," Mr. Park said, " she came around behind him and began with her child's hands to soothe away the tension in his shoulders and neck.

"Because you work too hard," she said, but she pressed a kiss against his parchment cheek and returned to her seat to study Socrates. A few moments later, her lagging attention was diverted by a worm inching its way past the open door of the cottage. "It's Papa!" she burst out joyously. "Papa has come from Seoul at last!"

"And about time it is, too," Mr. Park grumbled, but Dara didn't hear, she was racing through the doorway and hurtling herself into her father's reluctant arms.

"How are you, little gypsy?" he said without much interest. Mr. Park rose and went to the window,

"How long can you stay this time, Papa?" Sandara said, already beginning to dread the inevitable time when he would leave again.

"Only a week. I'm off to the Landsdowne's place in Kent."

"Why must you be gone so much?" Sandara asked, unable to hide her disappointment even though she knew he, too, hated to be away from her and her mother.

"Because I must," he said, and when she started to protest, he shook his head and reached into his pocket, extracting a small box. "Here, I've brought you a little present for your birthday, Dara." Sandara gazed at him with adoration and pleasure, despite the fact that her birthday had come and gone months before. Her brown eyes were shining as she opened the box and removed a small, silver-colored locket shaped like a heart. "I shall wear it every single day of my life, Papa," she whispered, then she put her arms around him in a fierce hug. "I love you so much!"

As they passed through the tiny sleepy village and Sandara waved at the people who saw her, eager for them to know that her wonderful, handsome papa had returned.She needn't have bothered to call their attention to him. By evening, everyone in the village would be discussing not only his return, but the color of his clothes, and a dozen other details, for the Village of Morsham was as it had been for hundreds of year sleepy, undisturbed, forgotten in its remote valley. Its inhabitants were simple, unimaginative, hard-working folk who took immeasurable pleasure in recounting any tiny event that occurred to alleviate the endless sameness of their existence.

 To an outsider, Morsham might seem a dull place populated by gossipy people, but to fourteen-year-old Sandara, the village and its inhabitants were beautiful