The street was busy but not bustling, which was ideal for today’s operation. I did not want to stand out on an empty street, but if our suspect proved violent, the fewer bystanders there were, the better.

I folded the paper and held it in one hand as I reached for my pocket watch. One minute to the hour. She would be here soon.

I pretended again to focus on the newspaper as my heart beat faster in anticipation. Not ten seconds later, I saw a flash of red at the corner of my eye. I kept my attention on the newsprint for as long as I could, but she was impossible to resist. My gaze flicked up.

Verity approached with slow, meandering steps, a large straw basket on one elbow. Her red pelisse was striking against her ebony curls and fair skin—skin that I knew from experience was just as soft and smooth as it looked. She inspected the shop windows as she walked, her movements graceful, looking for all the world like a young lady out for an afternoon stroll.

Her disguise was far more effective than mine. Who would guess that beneath that sweet façade existed a woman so fierce and strong that I spent every day in awe of her?

Verity moved closer, her skirts swishing about her ankles. I knew she saw me, but she did not look at me as she stopped only five feet from me, peering with interest at the dress shop window.

“Very convincing,” she said in a low voice, finally letting her eyes flick to mine before going back to the window.

I carefully concealed a smile. “You as well. Is your mother an actress, by any chance?”

Verity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, and it drew my eyes to her mouth. A mouth I’d spent countless hours kissing in the last three months and still craved with an intensity I’d never felt before.

She recovered quickly, clearing her throat. “Focus, Sir Chivalry.” She began to move past me, her skirts brushing the tips of my boots. I could have reached out and touched her. In fact, I could have reached out, pulled her into my arms, and taken her lips with mine. But considering we were currently working a case, I imagined that would be frowned upon by the magistrates of Bow Street, and so I nobly pushed the urge aside.

“You look beautiful today,” I whispered instead as she passed.

She whipped her head to look at me, her deep blue eyes suddenly wide. There was nothing I enjoyed more than watching her cheeks flush with a tantalizing pink, and I was not disappointed now. It was as equally difficult to surprise Verity as it was to make her blush—the woman had a remarkable control of her emotions—so when I managed to do both, I counted it among my greatest accomplishments.

I winked at her, and her eyes narrowed slightly. I thought she might reprimand me; she was always so determined to be professional when working a case. But she only pressed her curving lips together and continued on, though with a slight bounce to her steps.

I liked making her smile. I liked making her happy.

It was fortunate I intended to make her mine forever.

Verity moved down the street until she stopped and lingered beside a hat shop—a shop that happened to be directly adjacent to a silversmith.

We had only to wait five minutes before our suspect arrived, walking down the street toward me. I eyed the man as he passed, keeping my newspaper up to block my face. He was short in stature, with shaggy brown hair and a slight limp. But it was the large bag he held over his shoulder that caught my attention. Based on his ragged breaths and slow steps, the bag was incredibly heavy. As we’d expected.

The man continued down the street until he also passed Verity, who ignored him as she looked completely absorbed staring at the shop window. She really did have a talent for acting, no matter that she denied it, and it had proven her an asset many times over. I fought a smile as I remembered when I’d come across her at that pawnshop when we’d both been pursuing Higgs. She’d played the part of the innocent and slightly panicked young lady a little too well, and I’d been grudgingly impressed at how easily she’d convinced the pawnbroker to help her. Now I was much less grudging but no less impressed.

The man opened the door to the silversmith and entered. After a few seconds, Verity slowly strolled past the silversmith. She glanced in the window, then continued on. She paused again at the next establishment, but she very deliberately switched her straw basket from one arm to the other.

That was the signal. It was time to earn my keep.

I folded my newspaper and tucked it inside my jacket, ensuring in the same moment that my brass-tipped stave was within easy reach. I hoped to apprehend the man without resorting to a weapon, but that did not stop me from being prepared.

I strode down the street, my energy rising with every step. One never knew what could happen when approaching a criminal, and my body reacted to the unknown. I took several deep breaths to calm my mind and focus on the task at hand.

Just before I pushed open the door to the silversmith, I let my eyes go to Verity, still standing up the street. She watched me seriously, all pretense dropped, and gave a short nod.

I nodded in return and opened the door. A low counter ran the length of the shop, and I spotted our suspect immediately. He spoke to the silversmith behind the counter, the heavy bag placed on the counter between them. They both turned at my entrance, and our suspect’s dark eyes darted over me, suspicious and searching. I was glad once again that Bow Street had no official uniform for its officers and the anonymity this allowed me.

Not that it mattered in this case. My next words would reveal me.

“Ebenezer Croft?” I shut the door behind me and planted myself firmly in front of it.

Croft froze, one hand going to the bag on the counter. “Who’s asking?”

The silversmith, Mr. Durham—whom I’d spoken with yesterday—backed away. He’d been willing to play along with our plan by signaling to Verity that this man before us was Ebenezer Croft, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be caught in the middle of a confrontation.

“My name is Mr. Denning,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m an officer of Bow Street, and I’ve come to arrest you on charges of theft, fraud, and damage to property. If you come willingly—”

Croft darted for the back of the shop, abandoning his bag on the counter. It appeared he would not be coming willingly.

I allowed myself a half-second of resigned irritation before I dropped my hat on the counter. “Hold on to that for me, will you?” I called over my shoulder as I took up the chase.

Croft had already wrenched open the back door when I reached the workshop at the rear of the building. The bright sunlight poured over him as he escaped into the alley. I sprinted after him, dodging a barking dog and an alarmed maid who pressed herself against the building. Croft headed for the nearest street, busy with shoppers and traffic. No doubt he meant to lose himself in the melee, but I had no intention of letting him get that far.

I chased him down, my boots pounding the cobblestone beneath me, quickly gaining on him. He looked over his shoulder and quickened his pace, knowing his only chance of escape lay ahead, but I pushed myself harder.

The street ahead of us grew nearer. I was within five feet of him. Three. I reached out one hand, grasped the back of his shirt, and—

WHACK.

An enormous straw basket flew from around the corner and hit Croft squarely in the face. He went down hard, and I released him just before he dragged me down with him.

He rolled on the ground, moaning, as Verity stepped into the alleyway, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Blast it, Verity.” I stood with my hands at my waist, breathing hard. “You were supposed to remain as the lookout.”

“Was I?” she asked facetiously.

I reached for the pair of iron fetters in my jacket pocket. “I really should stop being surprised when you refuse to listen.” I bent over Croft and yanked his arms behind his back. He groaned in response.

“And here I thought it was something of an ongoing lark between us,” she said, crossing her arms. “You insist I stay behind, I come anyway and save the day—”

“A lark?” I said dryly. “Yes, such fun to never be sure when you’ll actually keep to our plan.”

“That is why we work so well together,” she said with a wink. “You plan; I improvise.”

“Is that right?” My exasperation was only half real. She had helped. Croft would have likely fought me, but now he slumped against the wall, expression dazed and body slack.

Verity moved to pick up her straw basket, and it seemed a bit hefty for a woman who was supposedly window shopping.  

“What exactly do you have in that basket?” I asked.

She gave me a look of innocence as she slipped it onto the crook of her elbow. “Just my coin purse and handkerchief.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“And perhaps five or six of my heaviest books.”

I could not help a laugh, shaking my head. “Only you, Verity.”

“Me?” she asked, splaying a hand against her chest. “You are the one who insists we must be prepared for anything. Today I happened to be prepared for a bit of light reading.”

“Light,” I said with a grin. “Indeed.”

Her eyes gleamed as she took a few backward steps. “Come on, then. We’d better take him back now or we’ll be late for dinner, and Mama will have my head.”

I turned to face Croft. He should have been a bit more concerned about being arrested, but instead he stared after Verity with a bewildered expression. “Who is she?”

I could only shake my head as I grabbed his arm. “That, my friend, is a woman the likes of which you will never see again.”
 
***
 
We left Croft in a holding cell at The Brown Bear, and reported our success to Mr. Etchells at the office. It was a fairly simple case, and I doubted he would have any difficulty finding Croft guilty. We’d caught him red-handed with stolen silver, which he’d intended to have melted down until the crest and initials were unrecognizable.

“My client will be pleased,” Verity said as we started back along Bow Street. “He had thought the silver lost forever.”

“I hope you are rewarded appropriately,” I said pointedly.

She slipped her arm through mine. “It was only the one time.”

“It shouldn’t have happened even once.” I had yet to forgive the man who had refused to pay Verity for her services a few weeks ago, even though she had returned his lost dog. As if her being a woman did not entitle her to due compensation. “You did the work, and he owed you.”

“Champion of women, indeed,” she said, her blue eyes light and teasing as she leaned closer, her hand on my arm. I loved her eyes, the way they flashed with every emotion she felt. “Thank you, Sir Chivalry.”

“You hardly need a champion, Verity,” I said.

Still, my chest filled with a familiar warmth. Strange that my unwanted nickname had now become my favorite. Then again, she could call me anything she liked and I would still be a lovesick, smitten fool.

Though I certainly wouldn’t tell her that.

“When do you leave for Devon?” Verity adjusted the basket on her arm.

“Tomorrow,” I said, taking the basket from her. Good heavens, it was heavy. No wonder Croft had fallen so hard. “Rawlings wants an early start.”

She sighed. “Call me selfish if you must, but I am always rather put out when Mr. Etchells sends you away for a case. There is plenty of crime in London, is there not?”

“Yes,” I said in a teasing tone, “but that is what you are for. You must keep the criminals in line while I am gone.”

“You know I shall,” she said. “But that will not make me miss you any less.” Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly around my arm.

I slowed our steps and turned to face her. “It’s only a week,” I said softly.

She absently toyed with the buttons of my waistcoat, sending my stomach through a series of mad flips. “A week without you is an eternity,” she said, her words seeming to hold a more subtle meaning.

Her expression was entirely serious—her lips set in a firm line, her lashes cast downward. Did she mean what I thought she meant?

The last few months had been my own version of heaven. Seeing Verity nearly every day, being allowed to hold her and kiss her, to court her. I’d come to love her while we worked the Harwood case, but now, after spending so much time together, I was more certain than ever that she was all I ever wanted.

But I’d been careful too, during our courtship. I knew her fears about love and marriage, and I hadn’t wanted to frighten her away with the strength of my feelings for her. I forced myself to move slowly, to not push her too far or too fast. After all, I wanted her for a lifetime. What were a few months in the grand scheme of things?

I’d begun to think recently that her mindset had shifted. That she might be ready for more. And as she looked up at me, those beautiful, expressive eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light, every bit of patience I’d stored up flew out of me. I could not wait one minute more. I had to know.

I took a deep breath. “You could come with me.”

She squinted. “Come with you?”

“That is, not tomorrow,” I hurried to say. “But if I were to ask Mr. Etchells, I do not think he would refuse me next time.” I took a leap. “If you were my wife.”

She stilled, her eyes fixed upon me. “Nathaniel, is that—is that a proposal?”

Blast. I’d done it all wrong. “Not a terribly good one.”

I’d been planning and imagining this moment for so long, and now my cursed impulsivity had snatched away that perfect proposal. But if there was one thing I’d grown rather adept at, it was convincing Verity Travers that I loved her. This was my final test.

Bustling afternoon crowds passed all around us, so I pulled her with me to a nearby mew, lit by the setting sun behind us. It gave us an illusion of privacy, though the noises of the street still rang through the air and passersby walked not ten feet from us, ignorant of our life-changing conversation.

“Let me try again.” I set her basket down at our feet and took both of her hands in mine, tugging her closer until our knees touched and she was forced to look up at me. Her pink lips parted, her skin awash in hues of gold, those unruly black curls even more wild than usual. She smelled impossibly good, a sweet something I could not name. I had to force myself to focus, to remember what I wished to say to her. I’d certainly practiced enough times in my head.

“Shall I try again?” I asked in a quiet voice.

She nodded, not speaking.

“I know very well how different we are, Verity,” I said simply. “If you wished it, you could marry a wealthy man, any of your choosing, and live a life of comfort and plenty.”

“Don’t be ridicu—”

I put one finger to her mouth. “But if you are determined to marry beneath you,” I said, allowing my voice to soften, “let me put forth my suit.”

Verity pressed her lips together to hide a smile, then nodded. I lowered my hand, and my gaze swept over her. She was beautiful—she always was—but I loved her for so much more than that. She was clever, courageous, compassionate. She faced obstacles with a stubborn chin and undaunted determination. A woman like her deserved the world—and I would do my best to give it to her.

“I want to be with you always, Verity,” I said, tightening my hold on her hands. “I cannot promise an easy life, but I can promise you laughter and love. I can promise you hope and happiness. If we are together, we cannot help but have those.” I allowed myself a smile. “I do not care if we are chasing criminals or children, I only wish to do it with you.”

A small bubble of laughter escaped her, though her eyes were glassy with tears. I tucked back one of her ink-black ringlets, so soft and so tempting, then I lowered my head to whisper in her ear. “My heart is yours, Verity Travers, to do with as you wish. But if you trust me with yours, I will cherish it until the day I die.”

She pressed her forehead against mine. I watched her. I did not want to miss even one moment of this.

 “You do not realize it, do you?” she said softly. “You do not even realize how you’ve saved me. I was lost, and you found me.”

Her hand slid to my jaw, holding me there against her. I could not speak.

“You have helped me remember who I am,” she whispered. “But even more so, you have helped me understand whom I wish to be. There is no one I trust more with my heart, and I give it willingly. I wish to be yours, Nathaniel. Your wife, your friend, your home.”

It did not seem possible that such a woman could love me. Me, the son of a carpenter. Me, a mere Bow Street officer. But her words sank into me, took hold of me, and made me acknowledge them. She loved me. And I would do everything in my power to be worthy of that love.

I kissed her, my hands finding her back and holding her against me. I’d kissed her countless times, but never had it felt like this. There was a new intimacy between us, soft and unspoken, and I knew she felt it too. The promises we made echoed back with every caress of our lips. This was it. Our beginning. Our future.

When we finally pulled away, she sighed and leaned her cheek against my chest. “You have timed this abominably, you know,” she said, her cheery voice a strange contrast to her words.

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“We still have to attend Mama’s dinner party, and I have little inclination to do anything but stay right here with you.”

“And I thought I’d done well,” I said. “Do you not want to tell everyone right away that you will soon be Mrs. Denning?”

“Hm.” She lifted her head to look at me, resting her chin on my jacket. “Are you sure you do not wish to take my name? You did make such an excellent Mr. Travers.”

I laughed out loud, tipping my head back. “If that is what it takes to get you to the altar.”

She grinned. “Never fear. I rather like the sound of Verity Denning. She seems like a happy and content sort of person.”

“I very much hope she will be,” I said, kissing her forehead.

We stood there in an embrace, the busyness of the city surrounding us. I ignored it all. I had everything I needed right there in my arms, and I would never let her go.

Surprise! I'm excited to share with you today a bonus chapter from A Game of Hearts, a scene I ended up cutting because I felt like it did not quite fit with the pacing and flow of the story. But I still love it and so I wanted to share it with all my wonderful readers as a thank you!

PS. There are MAJOR spoilers if you read this scene! I highly recommend reading A Game of Hearts first for the most enjoyment of this bonus chapter. 

A little set-up: this takes place in between chapters 27 and 28 - after Tristan begins helping with the society but before the Lady Patroness's Meeting. I've edited this as best I can, but if there are small inconsistencies with the finished book, I apologize! This is just a fun extra for you all. 

Merry Christmas!

Marigold

Three days before the prize shoot, I cut short my personal practice to go inside and dress for dinner. Mr. Raines had got it into his head to host a dinner party honoring mine and Tristan’s engagement. I’d nearly laughed when we’d received the invitation a week ago—our betrothal had come from desperation, not from any real desire to wed. It had seemed silly to host a party honoring such an event.
      ​It seemed less silly now.
      I knew my feelings toward Tristan were shifting. Into what, I was uncertain. But the longer I spent in his company, the more hours I craved with him. His teasing, his small touches, his dark, intense eyes.
      It alarmed me, in truth. Was I so changeable? Were my affections so easily won?
      But I knew in my heart it was not that. It wasn’t just that my feelings had changed. It was that Tristan and I were changing, slowly but truly. And it sent a nervous thrill up my spine to think of where we might be heading.
      When we arrived at Stavely Hall for the party, Mr. Raines and Tristan stood as we were shown into the drawing room. Tristan looked terribly handsome in his dark jacket and green waistcoat, and my eyes lingered on his form as he came to greet me.
      “Good evening,” he said with a little bow. “I do hope you are prepared for the awkwardness that is ahead.”
      I smiled as I bobbed a curtsy. He never was one to beat around the bush. “I like to think we are rather accustomed to it by now.”
      “True enough.” His eyes drifted over me a moment, then snapped back to my face. Were his cheeks pinker? He cleared his throat. “You look—you look very pretty tonight.”
      My eyes widened and my own cheeks heated. Had Tristan ever said anything like that before?
      Before I could respond, the butler announced dinner, and Tristan gave me a half smile before going to escort Mrs. Penrose into the dining room. I pressed my hand to my stomach, which fluttered like so many feathers, soft and light. He was just being kind, surely.
      Dinner proved to be a surprisingly cheerful affair, considering its purpose was to celebrate a forced engagement. The time passed in a blur of food and drink, Mama and Mrs. Penrose enthusiastically discussing their plans for the two weddings. Mr. Raines and Mrs. Penrose had decided to marry a week after Tristan and me, a strange sort of deference to our difficult situation.
      My eyes met Tristan’s across the table throughout the meal. Was he looking at me more than was usual? My heart pounded more fiercely each and every time our gazes caught one another.
      After dinner, Mama, Mrs. Penrose, and I took ourselves back to the drawing room while the men had their port. The two continued their wedding talk, of which I had little interest, so I wandered to the window, looking out at the gathering dusk. I could see Mrs. Penrose in the reflection, her eyes bright as she discussed flowers and the fabric she’d purchased for a new gown.
      The men joined us a few minutes later, and groups formed for cards and conversation. Tristan spotted me across the room and immediately came to join me. I tried not to show how pleased that made me.
      “You are not playing cards?” he asked, facing me as he leaned against the windowsill.
      I shook my head. “I haven’t the mind for games tonight.”
      “A revelation, indeed,” he said. “Marigold Cartwell does not wish to win at something.”
      I shot him a superior glare. “I needn’t prove myself every second of the day. I am quite content in the knowledge that I could win if I wanted to.”
      He laughed, and I could not stop the corners of my mouth from darting upwards. This was how our interactions had gone over the last fortnight. Light and airy, some teasing and joking, never anything too serious. It wasn’t unpleasant—and certainly an improvement from our arguments of the past—but after our time together in the mine and our surprisingly emotional conversation at the assembly, it now felt . . . lacking. So much was left unsaid between us, including any talk of our upcoming wedding. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t happening. For me, at least. I wasn’t sure why he never spoke of it.
      Tristan’s smile faded a bit as he crossed his arms. “Your mother came the other day to see the dower house.”
      I cleared my throat. I knew what he was too polite to mention: that I very clearly had not accompanied her. “Yes, she said everything looked well in hand.”
      Mama had wanted me to come with her, but I’d pretended I was too busy preparing for the shoot. She knew I was lying, of course. She was my mother. But she let me be.
      Tristan nodded. “The maids have been busy. The cottage was a bit dusty since no one has lived there in years, but the furnishings are in decent condition.”
      “That is good.” My throat was dry. I swallowed. “I shall come see it soon, of course. Once things have . . . calmed.”
      “Of course.” But he looked out the window, avoiding my gaze.
      I could only imagine what he was thinking. Perhaps that I was so obsessed with the prize shoot that I couldn’t be bothered to spend one minute thinking of my future home. A home I would soon share with him.
       I glanced to where the others sat at the card tables, laughing at something Mr. Raines had said. No one seemed to notice the two of us, talking off to the side.
I turned back to Tristan. “We can go now.”
      “Go where?” His eyes flicked to mine.
      “To the dower house,” I said decidedly. “We’ll sneak away without anyone seeing. It will be great fun.”
      He straightened. “You truly wish to see it now?”
      “Anything to escape talk of the weddings,” I said. “It is all Mama and Mrs. Penrose can speak of.”
      That was perhaps the wrong thing to say if I was trying to convince him I was not dreading our upcoming nuptials. But he only glanced at the rest of the party, then faced me again with a new glint in his eyes. “Come on, then.”
      With careful glances back at our families, we slipped out into the corridor and crept toward the garden door. When we stepped outside, the mid-summer air was light and fresh, the full moon low on the darkening horizon.
      “This way,” he said, leading me north of the house toward thick growth of shadows. “A previous occupant of Stavely Hall planted this mass of elm trees between the manor and the dower house. Apparently he did not much care for his mother.”
      I laughed. “Your uncle will be glad for the trees soon enough. I daresay even a forest won’t be enough to muffle our bickering.”
      ​“You must admit we are bickering much less than we used to.”
      “Oh, of course,” I said airily. “An engagement brings a natural maturity to a person, you know.”
      “Does it, now?” he asked as we started along the path through the trees. “Is that why you told Mrs. Vale I enjoyed poetry and she spent a half hour at the last practice elucidating the themes of Lord Byron’s latest work?”
      “You do not like poetry?” I asked, pretending shock. “How disappointing. I was so sure.”
      “Never fear,” he said. “I made sure to mention how you enjoy pickled oysters. I imagine she’ll be presenting you with that delicacy at tomorrow’s practice.”
      “You did not!” I pushed his shoulder with one hand, though he barely moved at all. Heavens, the man was sturdy. “She is relentless. She will never forget and I will have to pretend I love pickled oysters for the rest of my life.”
      He grinned. “You might have thought about that before setting her after me with Byron.”
      He made this too easy—this new friendship between us, for lack of a better word. It was almost starting to feel natural. But that was only to be expected considering how much time we’d spent together recently. Wasn’t it?
      “Here we are,” he said as the trees opened up to reveal the shadowed cottage. It was smaller than I’d remembered, though it looked pleasant enough in the moonlight, with white shutters and ivy creeping over the gray stone.
      “How will we see inside?” I asked. “Have you a key?”
      “Yes,” he said dryly. “I always carry a key to the abandoned dower house.”
      I made as if to shove him again, and he stepped quickly from my reach, laughing.            “Perhaps we could look through the windows.”
      I gave a dramatic sigh as I moved past him. “Oh, very well.”
      I peered inside the front window, streaked from the recent rain. I could just make out the furniture—what looked like a worn sofa, a few armchairs, and a small writing desk. The wallpaper was a pretty floral, if a bit dated, and a modest fireplace stood directly across from me.
      “What is the verdict?”
      I glanced at Tristan, watching me from a few feet away. There was a new look in his eyes—apprehension. He cared what I thought.
      “It is a lovely room,” I said honestly. “Perhaps in need of a few updates, but I imagine it will have wonderful light in the mornings.”
      Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Wonderful light?”
      “Yes,” I said. “For my . . . my sewing.”
      He choked on a laugh. “Your sewing? When was the last time you ever held a needle?”
      I glared at him. “I am trying to be kind.”
      “So you admit the room is a bit dreary?” 
      “It is nothing that cannot be fixed with new curtains and a vase full of fresh flowers,” I said, raising my chin.
      He paused a moment. “I know it is not what you are used to.”
      “I do not need what I am used to,” I said. “Now stop trying to make me dislike this house before I even have a chance to see the whole of it.”
      I walked to the back of the cottage, peeking in windows as I went. I spotted a dining room and what might pass for a study or small library, with empty bookshelves and a desk.
      He followed, hands in his pockets. “It hasn’t any books.”
      “I’ve never been much of a reader.” I was determined to be optimistic.
      I reached a window at the back of the cottage covered by two splintering shutters. One of them looked loose, hanging down at an awkward angle. I took hold of it and pulled it open, its hinges giving a great squeal. There was no glass beyond, only a dark room with a long table in the center. My eyes adjusted slowly and I saw the gleam of copper pots. The kitchen.
      “What are you doing?” Tristan asked, eyes narrowed.
      I propped one hand on my hip. “Can a lady not explore her prospective home? Come, help me inside.”
      ​“Marigold, you’re wearing an evening gown.”
      “And?” I looked around and spotted a rusty bucket tucked beneath a bush. I fetched it and placed it upside-down under the window to act as a stool. “There.”
      “I wouldn’t—”
      I stepped on the bucket, but as soon as my full weight was centered on the warped tin, it crumpled beneath me. I gave a little yelp as I toppled sideways, the ground rushing to meet me--
      Tristan’s arms wrapped around my waist, solid and strong, and I fell back against his chest. I inhaled a sharp breath, my hands grasping his forearms. For the most vivid of moments, I could feel nothing but his steady warmth surrounding me, his masculine scent invading my senses and his soft breath against my ear setting every inch of my skin aflame.
      “I thought that might happen,” he said, exasperated.
      I blinked. My face—flushed from his close proximity—now took on an immediate coolness. I found my balance and quickly scrambled free of him. “You just happened to guess the bucket would break? How intuitive you are.”
      He crossed his arms, and I refused to notice how the evening shadows emphasized his lean, muscular figure. “Are you irritated with me for catching you?” he asked in disbelief.
      “No,” I said shortly. “I am irritated with you for assuming I could not catch myself.”
His eyes narrowed. “But if I had let you fall, you would be irritated with me for not catching you.”
      We both stared each other down. Then Tristan’s lips twitched. Mine followed suit, and then the two of us were laughing softly, shaking our heads.
Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose we are not entirely finished bickering.”
      “We’d gone too long without an argument. It was bound to happen sooner or later.” I paused. “But I am sorry for snapping.”
      “And I am sorry for catching you,” he said. “At least, I think I am.”
      “Ha,” I said wryly.
      He blew out a long breath, then went to stand by the open window. “Come on, then. I’ll help you.”
      I eyed him, but he seemed sincere. I followed him to the window and he made a basket with his hands, as if helping me mount a horse. I placed one slippered foot on his interlocked fingers, my stocking a flash of white in the moonlight. Too late now to be concerned for modesty.
      “Hold on to my shoulder,” he said.
      I did as he said, steadying myself against the firm curve of his shoulder. My heart beat in my ears, quick and loud, then he lifted me. I found a wobbly seat on the narrow windowsill, bracing myself on either side of the opening. Then I swung both of my legs inside and slipped down from the window, my feet landing with a dull thump on the worn wooden floor.
      “Does it appear safe?” Tristan leaned his forearms on the windowsill as he peered in after me. “You know how I like to send you into dangerous places before entering myself.”
      A short laugh burst from me. “A gentleman through and through. But yes, it seems safe enough, unless you are frightened of spiderwebs.”
      “Ah, you’ve found my Achille’s heel at last.” He climbed through the opening much easier than I had, dropping lightly to his feet beside me. He turned around, peering at the moonlit kitchen. “We should have brought a candle.”
      “This is far more light than we had in the mine,” I pointed out. “I think we can manage.”
      “True enough.”
      I started toward the kitchen door, but he caught my elbow. “No, no. Let me go first. Then I can fight off any ruffians.”
      “Ruffians?” I echoed with a laugh. “There are ruffians in your dower house?”
      His lips twitched. “Only the best for the future Mrs. Gates.”
      He started off before his words landed in my mind. Quite thankfully too, because I froze, staring after him. Mrs. Gates. That was to be my name. My stomach tumbled.
      “Are you coming?”  he called over his shoulder.
      I took a deep breath and followed after him. I’d known I would be marrying Tristan for nearly a fortnight, but tonight was the first time my future had manifested itself so clearly before me.
      And I was still not entirely sure I was ready for it.
 

Tristan
 
      I made my way along the corridor, one hand on the wall to guide me. The moon was full outside, but only snatches of bare light made it to the center of the house. The back of my neck pricked with awareness—Marigold was right behind me, the soft scuffs of her feet bringing back memories of our time in the cave. That was the first time I had realized that Marigold was not who I thought she was, and it had certainly not been the last.
      How many times over the past fortnight had she surprised me? And it was the smaller things more than the big. The kindness and time that she gave so freely to her society ladies. The optimism she was showing now, even though I knew the dower house was far from the home she’d imagined for herself. The moments when I found her watching me with those bright, blue eyes, thoughtful and perceptive. What was she thinking when she looked at me like that?
      “What is that room?” she asked from behind me as we approached an open door.
      “The dining room.” I stopped at the door, but she squeezed past me, her warmth and scent lingering as she moved into the room. I watched as she inspected the long table, the dull copper candlesticks and faded curtains. She could not possibly approve, but no look of displeasure crossed her moonlit face.
      “I suppose I shall have to learn your favorite meals,” she said, letting one hand drift over the newly-dusted surface of table. “If I am to be a proper wife.”
      I cleared my throat, my neck heating. “I can assure you that pickled oysters are not among them.”
      She laughed, her eyes flitting back to mine as she rounded the far end of the table. “A shame, considering Mrs. Vale will surely keep us well-stocked.”
      “Next time I will assure her you enjoy cheesecakes.”
      Marigold made her way into the next room, the parlor she’d seen from outside. It had been cleaned and polished until every surface shone, which almost made up for the fact that the sofa was worn and lumpy, the fireplace small, and the floor creaky.
      “Yes,” she said firmly, placing both hands at her waist as she spun to take in the whole room. “This will do nicely.”
      She was being obstinately optimistic, and I did not know if I was touched by her efforts or exasperated that she was hiding her true feelings.
      “We can make improvements a little at a time,” she said “A new challenge for us.”
      “You know how I like a challenge,” I said wryly.
      She grinned. “Come. Show me the rest.”
      We made our way to the entryway and I paused at the creaky staircase, sending her a cheeky smile. “Should you like to go first? Then I might catch you if you fall again.”
Marigold’s eyes glittered. “I think I can manage a set of stairs. You may go first, so that when the ruffians attack, I shall have time to escape.”
      Once upstairs, we peeked into three small bedrooms. They were each clean, if sparsely furnished. We reached the last door, which opened to a large chamber with a canopy bed and decidedly feminine décor—faded pink wallpaper, soft damask curtains, and a worn but thick rug covering the wood floor. I put my hands in my pockets and leaned on the doorframe, watching Marigold closely as she explored the room.
      “This one is not so bad as the others,” she said with an approving eye, moving to the window. “It certainly has the best view.”
      The moment I’d seen this room last week, I’d known she would like it. I did not know how I’d known it. Instinct, I supposed? “It is yours if you want it,” I offered.
      Marigold straightened suddenly, her meandering steps halting. She did not look at me.
      “Oh,” she said, then coughed, as if her throat had gone dry. “Thank you. I am . . . that is, I shall think on it.”
      I furrowed my brow. What was there to think of? I was offering her the best bedroom in the house.
      Her eyes moved over the room in one last sweep, then she spun on her heel and came back to the door. “We ought to return to the party,” she said, her voice raspy. “They’ll be looking for us.”
      I caught her arm as she tried to move past me. “Marigold, are you well?” Why was she acting so out of sorts?
      She froze in the doorway beside me, my hand on her arm. Her eyes darted up to meet mine, her chest rising and falling as if she had just run a mile.
      “I am fine,” she whispered.
      We stood close together, framed in the doorway like a painting. It would take nothing—the barest movement, the smallest dip of my head—to catch her lips with mine. But I did not move. Because in her eyes, I saw something wild and uncertain. Panic.
      This had been too much. I should not have brought her here until she was ready. Now I’d overwhelmed her.
      ​I knew the feeling well.
      I dropped my hand from her arm and moved into the corridor, allowing her some space. “Let’s return to the house,” I said. “Perhaps you now feel like winning at whist?”
      She managed a small smile as she followed me toward the stairs, but I did not miss the backward glance she sent the bedroom.
      We descended the stairs and let ourselves out through the front door. “I’ll find the key and return to lock it tonight,” I assured her.
      “To keep out the ruffians,” she said lightly, as a peace offering.
      But I wasn’t angry or frustrated. I understood better than anyone how it felt to lose the future one had hoped for.
      The thought flashed through my head before I could stop it: she would not feel this way if she were marrying that cad Eastbrook. She would have been counting down the minutes, packing her trunks with eager anticipation.
      I refused to let that thought fester inside me. It would not do any good to think of what other paths our lives may have taken. This was the road we had chosen. There would be ruts and puddles, rain and mud, but I would do whatever I could to make the journey easier for Marigold.
      The walk back to the house was quiet. She said nothing, and I did not press her. But as we walked side by side, our hands brushed and a tingling awareness surged up my arm. I did not hesitate. I took her hand in mine, so small and delicate. So strong and capable. I held it gently, allowing her to pull away if she wished.
      ​But she did not. She entwined her fingers with mine, and held tightly.

​Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this extra little peek inside A Game of Hearts. 

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Pulling my horse to a walk as we approached the trees surrounding the lake, I looked for any sign of my half-sister—a flash of fair curls or her white dress. I had thought to assign a maid to walk with her, but Olivia insisted, of course, that she could go alone. And besides that, Linwood Hall was still adjusting to once again being occupied. The maids had their hands full as it was, dusting and cleaning, while I… well, I was a naval lieutenant without a ship. Olivia was my responsibility now, and somehow she managed to make twice the trouble of any normal eleven year old girl. Not that I knew a great many girls—normal or otherwise—but surely they weren’t all so taxing as Olivia.

The summer sun pressed down on me, and I removed my hat to swipe at my brow. For a moment, I closed my eyes, trying to remember the feel of a cool sea breeze against my face, the shouts of a crew at work, the rise of the Rachel’s deck as we crested a wave.

A scream broke through my reverie and my eyes flew open. I would know that sound anywhere—Olivia’s nightly terrors had made certain of that. But she could not be dreaming of her mother now.

I kicked my horse and he surged forward, trees thickening around us as we darted into the woods. Another scream, and my stomach twisted into a knot that would have impressed even the Rachel’s scrutinizing bosun.

We burst through the last thicket of undergrowth. The lake spread before us, the rocky shore and blue-green water. On the opposite shore, a golden horse pawed the ground. But my eyes riveted on the splashing and shouting a few yards into the water.

​Olivia was in the lake.

I cursed, pushing my horse around the curve of the lake, treacherous rocks skittering beneath my mount’s hooves. What had I been thinking, letting her come alone?

My blood pumped hot in my veins, as if I stood on the gun deck facing down a broadside from a French corsair. Nothing but battle had ever caused such dread to claim my lungs. Time sped faster than a gull on the wind, and every second that kept me from diving into the water felt an eternity.

I kept my eyes on the commotion in the water even as my vision bounced with my horse’s gait. When we finally reached the edge of the water, I leaped from my mount and nearly crashed into the shallows, boots slipping over the mossy rocks.

And then I came to stumbling halt. Olivia was not alone in the water.

A woman—a young woman—was holding Olivia, knee deep in water as she lurched toward the shore. Olivia was shaking, her face pressed into the woman’s shoulder, but she was there. She was alive.

“Olivia!” Her name rasped from my throat, a shout and a whisper all at once.

The woman started—she hadn’t seen me. She went down on one knee, nearly going under again, but she held Olivia tightly as the girl gave a whimper. I sloshed to them, my gaze fixed on Olivia’s closed eyes and trembling shoulders. I took her easily into my arms—she was a tiny thing, even if she was eleven—and the cold lake water seeped through my waistcoat and shirt. It said something for how frightened she was that she did not protest or push me away.

Which frightened me even more.

“What happened?” I demanded. But both Olivia and the woman were gasping for air, unable to speak. I wanted nothing more than to whisk Olivia from the water and inspect her for injuries, but the woman was crouched in the shallows, slipping over the silt and rocks. I freed a hand and offered it to her, which she took after a short hesitation. I pulled her upward until she found her footing and then she followed as I waded to the edge of the water, holding Olivia tightly against my chest. She shook violently, her eyes closed, wet hair splayed across her face.

I set her on a wide rock and immediately shrugged off my jacket, wrapping it around her as I rubbed her shoulders. She opened her eyes and stared up at me, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. I examined her quickly—no blood, no apparent broken bones. I closed my eyes. Safe, and well enough.

“Are you all right?” I asked her, my voice barely audible. She gave the tiniest of nods, her eyes now fixed down on the rocks beneath her feet. That was likely the most answer I would get from her. So I turned to the young woman who had collapsed on a mossy log a few feet away, only to find she was already staring at us.

“What happened?” I repeated my question from earlier.

Her eyes narrowed, and I drew in a long breath. I’d spoken too loudly, too gruffly. I hadn’t meant to, but my chest felt like it had been crushed beneath an anchor. Olivia was here before me, safe, and yet I could not stop imagining the what ifs.

 “I could venture a guess,” the woman said sharply as she scrutinized the lake behind me, her lips pursed. “Your daughter fancied a climb, and the tree branch went too far over the lake.”

“She’s not my daughter,” I said even as I turned to face the lake. A jagged branch hung above the surface of the lake, directly above where a large, leafy bough floated in the water. My lips tightened. “Olivia,” I very nearly growled.

“You only said not to go in the lake.” Olivia finally spoke, and of course it was in that high, indignant tone she used when she knew she was in trouble but refused to admit she had done any wrong. Meaning, it was the way she always spoke.  

“Yet, that is exactly where you ended up.” I had told her. I had told her to be careful, and here she had gone and nearly drowned because of her foolishness. I exhaled sharply and pushed myself to my feet, stalking away a few paces with my hands at my waist. I wanted to shout, to reprimand, to kick a rock into the lake. How did anyone do this, raise a child? And why in the devil had my step-mother named me Olivia’s guardian?

“Pardon me.”

I started and turned as the young lady stood, her arms crossed over her shivering body. Her defiant blue eyes met mine, refusing to look away as her curls dripped onto her shoulders. I could not stop my gaze from running over the length of her, her slim figure revealed by her soaked riding habit.

“But delightful as it has been to make your acquaintance,” she went on, “I’m afraid I will be going now. I wasn’t anticipating a swim today.”

I stared at her. What was wrong with me? This young woman—whoever she was—had saved Olivia from drowning, and all I could do was muse about my shortcomings as a guardian instead of thanking her.

“Curse it.” I took a step toward her. “I am sorry. I am being terribly rude. Please forgive me, Miss . . . ?”

She hesitated. “Rowley,” she finally said.

Her name struck a memory in me. I squinted at her. “Rowley, you say? Related to a Mr. William Rowley?” I’d met the man a few days past when he’d introduced himself in town. He owned Havenfield, the estate bordering Linwood Hall’s lands.

“Yes. William is my brother.” She shifted her weight.

I could see the resemblance now. Golden brown hair, wide eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.  

“And you are?” she pressed.

“Avery,” I said. “Nicholas Avery. This is my sister, Olivia Avery.” I waved in Olivia’s general direction, still not entirely sure I could keep myself from shouting at her.

“Half-sister,” Olivia muttered behind me. She always liked to clarify that bit, as if she were more embarrassed of me than I was of her. I closed my eyes, saying a prayer for patience that I had very little hope of being answered at the moment.

When I looked again at her, Miss Rowley was eyeing me, her gaze flicking over me from head to boots. From my meeting with her brother, I’d gathered that the Rowley family was both wealthy and influential. No doubt meeting a strange man in the woods while soaking wet was far from how she generally met new neighbors.

She raised her chin. “Am I correct in my assumption that you are rather new to the neighborhood, Mr. Avery?”

“Lieutenant,” I said without thinking.

“Pardon?”

I cleared my throat. Why had I corrected her? Lieutenant or mister were both appropriate means of addressing a man like me. But the events of the last ten minutes had rattled me. I missed the order and efficiency of the navy—life on land was far too complicated.

“That is, you may call me Lieutenant Avery, as I’m still on half-pay" I spoke quickly, fiddling with the hem of my waistcoat. “And yes, we’ve just arrived in Millbury. I’ve let Linwood Hall for the time being.”

At the mention of the estate, Miss Rowley’s eyes narrowed, her lips pinching. Was she so disappointed already in us as neighbors?

“Will your sister often be wandering without proper supervision?” she asked, her voice curt. “I cannot be rescuing her every time I ride.”

My shoulders tightened. I’d already apologized, hadn’t I? “Olivia is eleven years old,” I said. “She hardly needs constant observation.”

“I would say she very plainly needs supervision,” Miss Rowley said. “Or have you for- gotten why we are all so wet?”

I bristled. Only minutes before I had been berating myself for letting Olivia go alone, and now to hear this young woman—hardly more than a girl herself—reprimand me for the same thing…

“An accident,” I said, waving off her words. “And in any case, I was following her and was not a minute behind you.”

“You were following me?” Olivia’s voice came from behind me, and I turned as she stood, her face spotted with red.

I clenched my jaw. Why on earth would this surprise her when we both knew she never listened to a word I said? “I wanted to ensure you would obey my instructions, which you obviously did not.”

Olivia glared at me then shrugged off my jacket so that it fell in the mud at her feet. She undoubtedly had planned that. “You are not my father. You are barely my brother.”

Her words hit me with more force than she could have imagined, and my lungs clenched. Although I was aware enough to know that she felt that way, she’d never said so aloud before. And the fact that she was right only made her voice cut deeper into my chest.

She took a step back, her eyes ablaze. “I needn’t obey you.” Then she darted off into the woods without a second glance.

 “Olivia!” I shouted after her. “Come back here.”

It was useless, of course. I knew she would not listen, and she knew I could not force her to. Blast it all. If she had been a ship’s boy, I would have--

But she wasn’t. And the discipline of a naval frigate had no bearing here in the countryside of Hertfordshire.

“I do not think she is coming back,” said Miss Rowley’s dry voice.

I turned, staring at the young lady once again. She had an amused gleam to her blue eyes, as if watching Olivia defy me was quite worth the effort of saving her life. And even with her riding habit soaked and her hair a sad mess atop her head, I could not deny she was pretty.

Very pretty, really, with her pert features and slim shoulders. Or perhaps too many voyages at sea had made every female of a decent age and appearance seem more appealing than they actually were. Not that I had even the least intention of courtship or marriage, but one could hardly blame a man for looking.

“Well, this has been just lovely,” she said, pulling at the fabric of her skirts that clung to her admittedly shapely legs. “I do hope we meet again on slightly better terms.”

She stepped back, as if desperate to escape my company. But then, I had been something of a lout, my anger at Olivia taking control of me.

“Miss Rowley, please wait.” I moved forward and she paused, albeit a bit reluctantly. I rubbed a hand over my face. How did one apologize for everything wrong that I’d done in the last ten minutes? “I am sorry for all that happened and for the way I acted. I hope you will forgive me.”

Miss Rowley considered that for a moment, those shrewd eyes not leaving mine. Then her face softened. She exhaled and brushed back a brown lock of hair, just beginning to dry in the warm air. I knew nothing about this woman, but it seemed she was indeed about to forgive me. There was something about her expression, an openness I saw but rarely in another person. 

Then her hand froze on the back of her head, where the rest of her hair hung limply from its pins, bedraggled and decorated with stray leaves. “Dash it all,” she said unexpectedly.

Was she upset her hair was ruined? But then she strode to the edge of the lake and peered into the murky water as though in search of something. I followed. “Did you lose something?”

“My hat,” she said shortly. “I daresay it is at the bottom of the lake by now.”

“Oh.” I grimaced. “I am sorry for that as well. Perhaps you’ll allow me to replace it.”

She pressed her lips together, as if she had not even heard my words. Then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, as if in panic. What on earth? But she only desperately dug her hand into her pocket, pulling it out to reveal a clod of white pulp—what I could only assume had been paper before her foray into the lake. Miss Rowley’s face was aghast as she stared at her hand, and I let out a sigh.

“Is it too much for me to hope that this wasn’t terribly important to you?” I asked.

She glared at me. “No, of course not. I am mourning the loss of my shopping list.”

If the situation had been slightly less serious, I might have laughed at that. She was quick-witted, that much was clear. But as it was, I forced an expression of regret to my face. “Ah. It was something important.”

“Irreplaceable.” She threw what I assumed were the remains of a letter into the lake and spun, marching across the pebbled shore to where the golden mare waited patiently, chewing on grass. I went after her; I had to do something to repair what had assuredly been the worst first meeting we could have had.

“Please,” I said as she stopped beside her horse, “let me assist you up—”

My voice cut out. The mare’s back was bare, no blanket or saddle, not even reins or a bridle about her head. What— “Do you not have a saddle?” Perhaps it had somehow fallen off in her rescue of Olivia. But that made no sense. The horse had not gone near the water.

Miss Rowley did not move for a long moment, then she cleared her throat. “I do not need a saddle,” she said as though there was nothing odd in the idea of a young lady riding without one. “But thank you all the same.”

She grasped the horse’s mane and stepped back. Was she truly going to mount now, with no saddle or block to stand on?

She certainly made a valiant attempt, but as she began to pull herself up, her horse took a quick step forward. Miss Rowley stumbled back to the grass, steadying herself against the horse’s shoulder.

Now I could not help the smile that claimed my mouth, nor the chuckle that escaped my chest. I coughed as a cover. “Are you certain you do not need help?”

“Quite certain, thank you,” she said tightly, still not facing me. She said something in a low hiss to her horse, and though I could not make out the precise words, I could imagine it was nothing particularly pleasant.

Miss Rowley again took up her mounting position and this time, her leg at least made it over her mare’s back. Unfortunately, the restriction of her wet riding habit did not allow any ease of movement, and she was forced to wriggle herself upright, not at all the dignified mount she had undoubtedly been hoping for. But she only kept her chin raised as she straightened her skirts and sent me a look that dared me to mock her.

Which I never would have done, even though the situation was so absurd there was no possibility of hiding my amusement. I tried nonetheless, crossing my arms and pressing my lips together. I tried to think of what to say—because, really, what did one say at a time like this?—but she spoke before I had the chance.

“Good day, Lieutenant Avery,” she said briskly, then kicked her mount’s flanks, and she bounded away without a backward glance. I took a step after her, shaking my head as I watched her disappear into the trees, her skirts and loose curls flying teasingly behind her. Who was this woman who rode bareback and rescued young girls from drowning? My circle of female acquaintances was admittedly small, but even I knew those were not conventional activities for a Society lady. But then it was quite clear even after our short meeting Miss Rowley was not conventional in any way.

I took one last look around the lake—my eyes searched for a hat in the water, but to no avail—and then I walked back to my horse. Olivia was likely nearly home by now, and as much as I wished to escape on a bruising ride, I had responsibilities. Even if I wasn’t her father, I was her guardian. She needed to learn respect—though how I would manage to teach her that was still a mystery.

Mounting and turning my horse back to Linwood Hall, I allowed myself a glance back in the direction Miss Rowley had ridden. Bareback. Again, my lips turned upward. Apparently I would be surrounded by strong-willed young women here in Millbury.

But even strong-willed women had their weaknesses, and perhaps I’d discovered Miss Rowley’s—it seemed a visit to the milliner’s was in order. Because it was just occurring to me that I’d never actually thanked her for rescuing Olivia, and neither had my weak apology been particularly well-received. I was not so eloquent as to hope I might earn her forgiveness with words alone, but perhaps a new hat might do the trick. Women liked gifts, did they not?

Although, if my first meeting with Miss Rowley was anything to go by, I could not depend on what I thought I knew about women. It was quite clear now that my knowledge was rather lacking in that area.

But something about Miss Rowley’s bright eyes and sharp tongue made me want to change that.  

I shook my head and kicked my mount into a gallop. I would replace her hat and express my thanks for her help—my stomach still twisted at the memory of Olivia in Miss Rowley’s arms—but I needn’t further our acquaintance more than that. I hardly wanted any more complications in my life at the moment, not when all I wanted was to return to the sea.

Soon, I told myself. Soon I would find Olivia a governess and I would receive a new assignment. I simply had to bide my time until then and hope that no other obstacle would find their way between me and my goal.

Especially not one so pretty as my confounding new neighbor.
​

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​

Chapter One
​
Hertfordshire, 1822
Of the many things that could be depended upon to make a young lady swoon, a love letter certainly made the list.
     I perched on a low rock in the center of the quiet meadow, one knee tucked to my chest, the skirts of my riding habit spread about me. The sun shone fiercely against the cloud-strewn sky, as if demanding my attention, but not even the brilliance of the sun could steal my focus from the letter in my hands, though I’d read it a dozen times or more.

     My dearest Rebecca,
How is it that I can miss you before you have even left Brighton? I know I will see you tonight, but already, I ache to let you go, not knowing when we will see each other again.

     I sighed aloud. Stella snorted from where she grazed a few paces away, as if mocking me.
     “Oh, hush,” I said. “You cannot judge me. You’ve never been in love.”
     My horse did not offer a response, which was just as well. I’d heard that love could cause madness, and a talking horse would surely be an alarming symptom.
​

     I read the rest of the letter once more and then touched where the writer had signed his name. Edward Bainbridge. He’d slipped it to me on our last night together in Brighton. A smile climbed my lips at the memory, and I made no effort to restrain it. After all, as my dear friend Marjorie had said, if a recently engaged young woman did not wish to smile all the day long, she had no business being engaged.
     But then my smile faltered, as it always did. I could not ignore the larger problems that Edward and I faced. I folded the letter and stashed it in my pocket as I tried to keep my uncertainty and lurking questions at bay. I’d left Edward in Brighton only two days ago, arriving again in Hertfordshire yesterday. There was plenty of time yet to put my plan into motion.
     Stella’s not-so-gentle nudge all but knocked me to the grassy field. “All right, all right,” I said with a laugh. “You’ve gotten bossier, you know. Let us hope you haven’t also gotten lazy. ”
      I gave the meadow a quick perusal as I stood. Empty, of course. I’d never seen anyone here in all my rides, as the neighboring estate, Linwood Hall, had stood vacant for years. I quickly unbuckled Stella’s saddle and heaved it over a nearby log, her bridle and reins soon following. Stella pranced as I returned to her, and her anticipation was contagious.
     “Ready, girl?” I spoke quietly as I moved to her left side, facing her shoulder and gripping her mane with both hands. I could not hesitate, or I’d never make it up. With a quick breath, I took a running step and threw my right leg over her back, my arms pulling me up with every bit of their strength. Stella started a bit but did not run off as she had the first time I’d attempted it.
     “There we go.” I tried not to feel too pleased with myself. Despite not riding in over a month, my body had remembered how to execute that rather inelegant mount. I wouldn’t even have had the slightest idea how to do it if Mama and I hadn’t visited Astley’s Royal Amphitheater multiple times in London. I’d stared open-mouthed as the bareback trick riders had done the impossible again and again: headstands, flips, balancing with one foot while playing a pipe. All riding bareback, and all breathtaking.
     “Did you miss me?” I whispered to Stella as I stroked her neck, her golden coat smooth beneath my fingertips. Her only answer was a flick of her ears, but I fancied she had missed me a little.
     I glanced around again, checking once more for unexpected visitors because the most difficult part of riding bareback was not mounting or keeping my balance. It was ensuring no one discovered I rode bareback at all.
     Satisfied the meadow was secluded, I nudged Stella into a walk. It had taken me a year of practice for this to feel natural, the uneven ridges of her spine and the pull of her muscles beneath me. Her shoulders tensed as if she were tempted to throw me from her back, but slowly she began to relax. I allowed her stride to lengthen into a smooth canter as I led her in a long oval, using the signals we’d developed in lieu of reins: small nudges with my heels and short clicks of my tongue. We followed the natural shape of the meadow, similar to the ring at Astley’s. Perhaps one day we’d advance to the stunts the trick riders performed with such ease.
     Except, try as I might, I could never entirely shake the shadow of memory from five summers ago. The emptying, rushing air. The cold, hard earth. And the pain—the splintering, twisting pain.
     I pushed away the darkness and called above the thundering hooves. “All right, Stella girl. Let us see how far the wind takes us.”
     She leaped into a gallop, her front legs reaching hungrily for the earth. My stomach gave that familiar, dizzying lurch, and I gave an unladylike whoop. Oh, I had missed this freedom, this exhilaration. The countryside streaked past us, the bright greens and pinks and yellows of summer painting a blurred landscape at the edges of my vision. I grinned wildly and leaned low beside Stella’s lunging neck as her hooves drove into the wet grass. The wind rushed over me, throwing my skirts behind me and threatening to take my hat with it. I pushed my hat more firmly onto my head and pressed on.
     We reached the end of the empty meadow, and I urged Stella around the curve, faster, faster as I closed my eyes, trusting her instincts. I was not a girl on a horse. I was a bird. A swift-winged sparrow alone in the endless expanse of the azure sky. I gripped Stella’s mane in one hand and reached out my other to drift through a cloud as the summer breeze pulled against the sleeve of my habit.
     Then I heard something above the steady thump of Stella’s hooves. I pulled her to a stop, and she gave a snort, her hooves pawing the grass as I glanced around. All was quiet, save for the birdsong and breeze.
     Likely, it was simply my fears at play. I’d long worried a tenant farmer would come across my little meadow, see me acting the barbarian atop my bareback horse, and spread embarrassing—if true—rumors about me. Or worse, that they would tell Mama and William.
     But the meadow was still. My secret was safe. I gently nudged Stella forward again.
     A scream pierced the calm summer air.
     I froze, my spine stiff as the scream faded into the wind. What on earth?
    The cry came again, shrill and panicked, echoing through the trees like a ghostly wail. My head whipped to the left. It came from the lake.
     I kicked Stella, and she leaped forward. I gripped her sides with my knees, clinging to her mane as she dodged the trees separating my meadow from the lake. The wind stole my breath, and a suffocating weight grasped at my lungs.
     Grass turned to pebbles beneath us, and Stella’s hooves clattered over the loose stones as she broke through the last stand of trees. I yanked her to a halt, too hard. She tossed her head in protest, but I didn’t have time to apologize. My gaze jumped frantically over the familiar scene. Enormous willow trees, their branches reaching out over the water. The shore, edged with trees and rocks. The lake, a vastness of blue-green.
     But the lake was not its usual smooth mirror. Ripples spread ten yards from the shore to my left. I gaped. A long branch, thick with summer’s leaves, floated in the water, and a small hand fumbled over the wet bark. A face emerged, a young girl, gasping and choking, before disappearing once again.
     I threw myself off Stella’s back, stumbled across the rocky shore, and splashed into the shallow water, kicking up mud in great clouds that rolled through the clear lake. But my focus was on the branch, the hand. The girl hadn’t surfaced again.
     I sloshed forward, the skirts of my habit dragging behind me. When the water reached my waist—too slow, too slow!—I dove forward. The icy water enveloped me, and I inhaled a mouthful of bubbles. How was it still so cold in August? I kicked, breaking the surface and pushing myself forward. I was not a particularly good swimmer, and now I wished I’d spent more time in the lake. My boots clung like anchors to my feet, but there was no time to kick them free.
     I threw my arms out again and again until my hands knocked into the leafy twigs of the branch. I grabbed the rough bark and pulled myself toward the spot where I’d seen the girl. Merciful heavens, she’d found the surface again, her face pale and her wet hair splayed across her cheeks. The poor girl could not have been more than eight or nine years old. She coughed, and the sound sent hot relief through my entire body.
     “Help!” She hadn’t seen me, her cry pitiful. And then she went under, her hair floating to the surface.
     Why could she not stay above the surface? I kicked again and grabbed her arm. She froze and then lashed out, her boot colliding with my left calf. Pain shot through me, but I tried to ignore it as I dove under the surface, peering through the murky water. There it was—her skirts caught on a sharp offshoot of the branch. As I watched, the whole branch shifted and she was able to rise and gulp another breath before the unsteady motion of the limb dragged her back under.
     I yanked on her skirt, hard, harder, until the fabric ripped in my hands. I grabbed her around the waist, and we broke the surface together. The girl flailed about, her hand smacking the side of my head.
     “Calm down!” I ordered. “I’m here. I’ll help.”
     She did not hear me with all her splashing and wailing. My weak legs couldn’t hold us above anymore, and we went under, bubbles and arms and legs crowding my vision. Blast and bother. This child would not be the death of us both, and she certainly wouldn’t keep me from marrying Edward. I kicked my legs, straining with the effort, and heaved her to air once more.
     “Stop moving!” I shouted. “Let me help you.”
     Her thrashing calmed somewhat, and I slipped one arm across her chest, cursing my long skirts as I began awkwardly stroking toward the nearest shore. The girl gasped for air, unable to speak, coughing more often than not.
     “It’s all right,” I assured her. “You’re all right. We’re nearly there.”
     Were we? We seemed to sink lower into the water with every inch I moved. I hefted the girl up higher. Even her skinny frame was a challenge to keep afloat considering my inadequacy in swimming. My skirts tangled about my legs, trapping them into the barest of movements. I gave another desperate kick, and my feet met slippery mud.
     Thank the heavens. Thank the earth too, for that matter.
     I managed to get my feet under me, my head just above the surface. The girl spun in the water and threw her arms around me, clinging like a leech.
     “You’re safe,” I wheezed as I staggered farther up the shore. “We made it.”
     She did not answer, her face buried in my shoulder, her dripping hair plastered across my chest and face.
     “Olivia!”
     My head jerked up at the voice, and I stumbled, going down to one knee in the shallows. The girl in my arms gave a whimper as I focused on the man splashing toward us through the water.


Chapter Two

     He was tall, too tall, but that was likely because I was crouching like a toad in the water. He reached us in a second and pulled the girl—Olivia, was my very astute guess—from my arms.
     “What happened?” he demanded.
     Was he speaking to me or Olivia? I did not much care for the sharpness of his voice either way.
     Then he reached a hand down to me, and as my arms and legs were shaking from exhaustion, I didn’t have much choice. I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet before turning and wading back to the rocky shore, carrying Olivia in his arms. I staggered after him and collapsed onto a mossy log beyond the reach of the water. My dripping habit clung to me, every inch of my skin covered with soaked fabric. Even with the hot summer sun overhead, I shivered.
     The man perched Olivia on a nearby flat rock. He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it around her shaking shoulders, rubbing her arms as if that would make any difference. She was a skinny thing, and the weight of the jacket made her slump. Stella remained where I’d left her, though her hooves danced in clear unease, and an unfamiliar bay hunter snorted a short distance away.
     The man turned to face me, his eyes intensely green, narrowed, and not at all pleasant.
     “What happened?” he demanded once again.
     Did he think I had something to do with the girl nearly drowning? I’d never seen either of them before in my life. Olivia sat silently, mouth squeezed shut. Why did she not say anything?
     Well, if she wouldn’t, I would. I scrutinized our surroundings. Beyond where the man knelt, an enormous willow tree reached out over the lake. One branch had a jagged edge, hovering directly over where I’d first seen the girl.
     “I could venture a guess,” I said, probably a bit rudely. I didn’t care. “Your daughter fancied a climb, and the tree branch went too far over the lake.”
     “She’s not my daughter.” His words were distracted as he followed my gaze to the broken tree branch and frowned. He knew I was right. “Olivia,” he growled.
     “You only said not to go in the lake.” Olivia’s face pinched, her cheeks and nose sharp angles. If he wasn’t her father, they had to be related somehow. They had the same light hair and green eyes.
     “Yet, that is exactly where you ended up.” He blew air from his mouth and pushed himself to his feet, pacing away with hands at his waist. Olivia glared at his back. They were quite a disagreeable pair. Clearly, the man was an incompetent guardian, whoever he was. Why would he allow a young child, who he must have known could not swim, to wander unaccompanied to the lake?
     And though I’d never thought of myself as self-important, the fact that neither of them had thanked me for stepping in—or rather, diving in—to save her life was somewhat irritating.
     “Pardon me,” I said stiffly as I stood, crossing my arms over my shivering body. The man turned suddenly, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “But delightful as it has been to make your acquaintance, I’m afraid I will be going now. I wasn’t anticipating a swim today.”
     The man stared at me, taking in my soaked habit and dripping curls. “Curse it. I am sorry. I am being terribly rude.”
     He was certainly correct about that.
     He faced me fully for the first time. His broad face was tan, his eyes crowded by lines, as if he’d spent his childhood staring too long at the sun. “Please forgive me, Miss . . . ?”
     “Rowley,” I supplied with some reluctance.
     He squinted. “Rowley, you say? Related to a Mr. William Rowley?”
     “Yes. William is my brother.” How did this man know William? I really shouldn’t even be speaking to him without a proper introduction, but we were far past that now. “And you are?”
     “Avery,” he said. “Nicholas Avery.” I’d never heard of him. He waved at Olivia, still shivering and still scowling. “This is my sister, Olivia Avery,” he said, grimacing as if he’d sipped particularly sour lemonade.
      “Half-sister,” she muttered.
      Half-siblings, then. That explained their similar coloring and strange interactions, not to mention their age difference. Mr. Avery had to be nearly two decades older than his sister, though he wasyounger than I’d first thought. Even with the lines around his eyes, I placed him near to five and twenty years. Likely, he spent a great deal of time out of doors—with wild animals, judging by the angry white scar running down his left cheek and disappearing beneath his cravat. His clothing was soaked from carrying Olivia, and his white shirtsleeves and fawn waistcoat clung to his rather well-built arms and chest.
     He looked up and caught me staring. My face heated, and I said the first thing that rattled through my head. “Am I correct in my assumption that you are rather new to the neighborhood, Mr. Avery?”
     “Lieutenant,” he said immediately.
     “Pardon?”
     He cleared his throat. “That is, you may call me Lieutenant Avery, as I’m still on half-pay.”
     Lud, a military man. No wonder he had such an air of authority, even with a woman he’d barely met who had saved his ungrateful sister from a horrible death.
     “And yes,” he went on, “we’ve just arrived in Millbury. I’ve let Linwood Hall for the time being.”
     Unwelcome news, indeed. Was my quiet, secluded meadow part of Linwood’s estate? I did not know the boundaries well enough to guess.
     “Will your sister often be wandering without proper supervision?” I asked in a clipped tone. “I cannot be rescuing her every time I ride.”
     The lines around his eyes tightened. “Olivia is eleven years old. She hardly needs constant observation.”
     Eleven? She couldn’t be. She was such a tiny thing. But Olivia raised her chin as if daring me to question her age.
     “I would say she very plainly needs supervision,” I said. “Or have you forgotten why we are all so wet?”
     “An accident.” He brushed me off with a wave of his hand. “And in any case, I was following her and was not a minute behind you.”
     “You were following me?” Olivia stood, red climbing her pale cheeks.
     A muscle ticked in Lieutenant Avery’s jaw. “I wanted to ensure you would obey my instructions, which you obviously did not.”
     Olivia glared at him and then shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the mud. “You are not my father. You are barely my brother. I needn’t obey you.” She darted off, the loose ribbons in her hair dangling behind her as she disappeared into the trees.
     “Olivia!” Lieutenant Avery shouted after her, and his booming voice carried easily. Obviously he had a great deal of experience barking orders. “Come back here!” But his only answer was the rustling trees and lapping water.
     “I do not think she is coming back,” I said dryly.
     He turned back to me, staring as if I were a tenacious weed that had sprouted in his perfect garden.
     “Well, this has been just lovely,” I said, not particularly keen to prolong our conversation. The Prussian blue linen of my habit stuck to my legs and arms like the stubborn mussels I’d seen on the rocks at Brighton. “I do hope we meet again on slightly better terms.” Or never, if I could manage it.
      I stepped back, but he stepped forward. “Miss Rowley, please wait.”
      I paused as he scrubbed a hand over his face. The fellow looked exhausted. Not surprising, really, with such a shrew for a sister. “I am sorry for all that happened and for the way I acted. I hope you will forgive me.”
      It was not a particularly eloquent apology. Not to mention he still hadn’t thanked me for saving his sister’s life. Although, perhaps he wasn’tgrateful I’d saved her, if she was always this awful.
     I sighed. Now who was the shrew? I ought to forgive him and put this whole mess behind us. I brushed a damp lock of hair from my face. My hand froze. My head was bare. “Dash it all.” I stalked to the edge of the lake in the vain hope that my hat would be floating conveniently within reach. But I saw no sign of black wool or ostrich feathers. Botheration. It had taken the milliner ages to get my hat fitted exactly right and had cost me a good deal of pin money besides. Mama had urged me to use a hat pin or ribbon to keep my hat in place, but I hated the feeling of securing it to my head. I wanted to be free of restraint, especially when riding. She would undoubtedly laugh at me now.
     “Did you lose something?” Lieutenant Avery joined me at the water’s edge.
     “My hat,” I said, my words curt. “I daresay it is at the bottom of the lake by now.”
     “Oh.” He winced. “I am sorry for that as well. Perhaps you’ll allow me to replace it.”
     Now he decided to try to act the gentleman. Edward would never have treated me such. He was all that was chivalrous and attentive, and I could easily imagine myself tucked into his warm jacket, his blue eyes filled with concern. Lieutenant Avery would do well to take a page out of his book.
     Then my breath choked in my throat. My letter! I clawed at my pocket, though I already knew it was hopeless. I pulled out a wad of soaked mush, ink disappearing as it dripped onto the muddy rocks below. Edward’s words—his sweet, romantic words. Gone.
     “Is it too much for me to hope that this wasn’t terribly important to you?”
     I glared at him. “No, of course not. I am mourning the loss of my shopping list.”
     “Ah,” he mused. “It was something important.”
     “Irreplaceable.” I tossed the sodden lump into the lake and spun, marching to where Stella waited for me as she chewed absently on a mound of grass.
     The dratted lieutenant followed me. “Please, let me assist you up—” He stopped when he caught sight of Stella completely bare. “Do you . . . not have a saddle?”
     There went my long-kept secret. Months of careful practice wasted. Mama would likely never let me ride again once she heard. And William . . . I’d rather hide in the hayloft than face him.
     Perhaps if I acted as though this were the most natural thing in the world, Lieutenant Avery would think nothing of it. Perhaps he would assume this was how girls rode horses in Millbury.
     “I do not need a saddle.” I moved to Stella’s side. “But thank you all the same.” I hoped my hard tone revealed how very unthankful Iwas.
     I’d mounted only a half hour before, so I did not hesitate as I gripped Stella’s mane. Unfortunately, that practice reminded Stella of her favorite joke to play on me. As I began to throw my leg over her back, she jolted forward a quick step. I slid off her like rain on a duck’s feather, barely managing to keep my feet beneath me.
     “Stella,” I hissed as I resisted the urge to smack her shoulder.
     A soft cough came from behind me, a sad attempt to hide his chuckle. “Are you certain you do not need help?”
     “Quite certain, thank you,” I said through gritted teeth. Then I lowered my voice and leaned toward Stella’s ear. “If you move again, I’ll not ride you for a week. A week, I swear.”
     I reassumed my mounting position, and this time when I pulled myself up, Stella did not move a hoof. However, I had underestimated the difficulty of mounting in a wet habit. I somehow managed to get my ankle over Stella’s back, but the soaked fabric of my skirts restricted my movement. Awkwardly—oh, so awkwardly—I wriggled and pulled until I sat myself upright. I arranged my wet skirts over my boots and sent the lieutenant a superior look. He watched me with crossed arms and a badly concealed grin.
     “Good day, Lieutenant Avery,” I said. Then I kicked Stella’s flanks, and we bounded away without a backward glance.

*****

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​Stowaway sensed the coming storm long before I did. He tossed his head and pulled against his bridle, startling me from my thoughts to notice the uptick in the wind, the black clouds pooling on the horizon.

I rubbed his neck to calm his agitation, but he only let out an uneasy snort. 

“All right, we’ll head back,” I muttered to him, turning him to face the oncoming tempest. Lady Rowley and the rest of the family would surely have left for their dinner party by now, so I would be safe from discovery. 

I dug my heels into Stowaway’s flanks, and he leaped into a gallop, dashing across the wooded hill on the western edge of the estate. The howling wind whipped past me, but I paid it no mind. I grinned into the gale, urging my mount faster, faster. Stowaway responded with a burst of speed, hooves barreling into the grass at a furious pace, kicking up clods of dirt that soon turned to mud as the rain descended upon us. 

We emerged from the trees, Havenfield looming before us. Even through the wind and rain and clouds, the estate still inspired awe: gray stones stained with moisture, slick green ivy climbing the walls. The windows, normally brightly lit, were murky in the descending darkness. No doubt the servants had already retreated below stairs, taking advantage of their well-deserved evening off. ​
​

The deluge from the skies left no part of me dry. My sodden riding jacket snapped in the wind behind me, my hair whipping into my eyes. As we approached the stable, I reined in Stowaway, slowing him to a trot as we entered the open stable door. 

I dismounted, dropping to my feet with a squelch of boots, and turned to lead Stowaway to his stall.

I stopped short, staring at the opposite end of the stable. In the doorway, a woman stood—no, stooped, was a better word. Her back was to me as she dragged something behind her. She was wet to the bone, her bonnet flapping in the squall. She stumbled into the shelter of the stable as she yanked what I could now see was a sizeable leather trunk. She dropped it with a crash, startling the horses in their stalls. Not seeming to notice, she ran back to the open doors and wrenched them shut against the storm.

What on earth? She was clearly not one of the house servants, as I would recognize any of them on sight. Her dress was plain, worn. Was she a tenant’s daughter, then, caught in the storm? But why in the blazes did she have such an enormous trunk with her?

The woman leaned against the closed door with her hands, her shoulders slumped and shaking. Was she hurt? I stepped forward, intent on calling out to her, when she whirled and marched to her trunk. She kicked it once, twice, and then—

What emerged from her lips next stunned me into silence. Never in all my time aboard my ships, or in any gentlemen’s club in London, or even after a losing race in Newmarket, had I ever heard such a line of cursing. She threw her profanities at the trunk, hands balled into fists, the slightest hint of hysterics coloring her words.

She finished, breathing hard, glaring at her trunk. My eyebrows were raised nearly to the wooden beams above us. Any concern I had for a supposed injury had vanished as soon as she started speaking. She was obviously unharmed, and fully capable of stringing together quite the impressive sentence. 

“Well, that was most unexpected.”

The words sprung from my mouth before I had a chance to think them over. The poor woman jumped, wheeling about to gape at me, her soaked dress swinging about her boots. Stowaway whinnied, nervous in the presence of a stranger. I led him deeper into the stable.

“Might I inquire as to what offense your unfortunate trunk has committed?” I asked.

She stood just beyond the reach of the lantern light, her face nearly obscured in the oncoming twilight. She uttered not a sound, staring at me in . . . Dread? Anger? I couldn’t say. I continued to move towards the warm light encircling the lantern, intent on getting a better look at my unexpected visitor.

She finally spoke, ignoring my question. “You frightened me.”

“I do apologize. Though in my defense, I was not expecting to find anyone here when I returned, let alone—“ I waved a hand towards her. “Might I ask, what are you doing here?”

The woman dropped her gaze, fidgeting with her sleeve. “I . . . I was caught in the rain, and needed shelter.”

As I drew nearer, she backed away, skirting behind her trunk. Clearly she had not been lying when she said I frightened her. I stopped my approach. She was as skittish as a fox on the hunt. 

“You were caught in the rain . . . with a trunk?” 

She still stared at her feet, and I used the opportunity to examine her closer. She wore a dark dress, blackened further by the dampness of the rain, a limp bonnet hanging from her neck. Her hair splayed across her cheeks and forehead, water dripping from her curled locks. 

“Yes,” she said, in a tone that dared me to argue with her. I furrowed my brow. There was something familiar about her voice. Where had I heard it before?

She finally forced her eyes up and I found myself staring into a pair of deep brown eyes, narrow and indignant. It all came together in an instant: our sudden collision, her panic at her lost coins, her harsh words.

“I know you,” I said, stepping closer. “From London. We bumped into one another.” 

I peered at her, utterly bewildered. I’d thought about our exasperating encounter a number of times over the last few days, but never once had I imagined I would ever meet her again, let alone in my own stable, a full day’s journey from London. 

It was clear she recognized me as well. She froze, eyes fixed on mine, and the emotions of our previous confrontation flared within me. I had aided her as any gentleman would, and she had flung my kindness back at me with unaccountable rudeness.

“Rather,” I said, irritation finding its way into my words, “you knocked into me, spilled your coins, and then shouted at me when I offered to replace them.”

“I did not shout,” she said.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t a ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

She did not have a response to that, from which I took a small amount of pleasure. She ought to feel some remorse for her ill-mannered words.

I stepped forward once again, utilizing the voice I normally reserved for idle sailors under my command. “Now, who are you? A name, please.”

A flash of fire crossed her eyes, and her chin jutted up. “My name is Juliana Ashbourne, and I must say—“

“You are Miss Ashbourne?” I could not even begin to conceal the shock in my voice. I gaped at her. 

“I am,” she said, jaw tight, eyes squinting.

My mind struggled to connect the pieces of our fragmented association. This woman, the woman I had met in London, was Lady Rowley’s wayward granddaughter? But why had she—no, it made perfect sense now why she had been on Kemble Street. She must have been to see Mr. Finch. Though that did nothing to explain her extreme agitation that day. If she had just learned of her enormous inheritance, I would have expected a bit more elation.

I refocused my attention on her, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath my persistent gaze. 

“This is a strange coincidence indeed,” I said, shaking my head and holding tight to Stowaway’s reins as his hooves danced. “I knew Lady Rowley had written to you, but she never received a response, as far as I was aware.”

If Mr. Finch had delivered Lady Rowley’s letter to this young woman over a week ago, why had she not written to warn of her impending arrival? The post from London generally only required a day or two at most for delivery. That she should appear on the estate without warning, open invitation notwithstanding, was rather impolite.

“I did write, and the postmaster assured me that my note would arrive two days ago, though, clearly, it did not.” Though she met my eyes without flinching, there was uncertainty and anxiety in the way she clasped her arms about her slim waist. She continued on, voice wavering slightly. “Would you—if you could—be so kind as to help me into the house? I’m afraid no one answered my knock.”

I frowned. Mr. Banfield would surely be mortified to have missed the arrival of his mistress’s granddaughter. “No, I would imagine not. The family is dining out, and the servants were given the evening off.” 

Stowaway still pranced restlessly beside me. He was unused to waiting for his usual rub down, and in the rain and chill of the evening, he surely was freezing. I hated to make Miss Ashbourne wait, but my mount needed immediate care. I nodded towards my horse. “I apologize. I must be so presumptuous as to beg a few minutes. I need to dry him off.”

“Could you not send out another stable hand to do that?”

I had already begun moving towards Stowaway’s stall, but paused at her question. “I beg your pardon?”

She brushed back a wet strand of hair from her cheeks. “Is there not another who can cover for you?”

Understanding was quick to dawn in my mind. In my surprise at learning her identity, I had made the nearly unforgiveable error of not making myself known to her. Though there was hardly a society-approved set of rules regarding proper introductions in a stable during a rainstorm, the fault was still entirely my own. And yet . . .

“I am terribly sorry, but I must ask. Who do you think I am?”  I couldn’t stop myself from posing the question. I wanted to be certain of my suspicion. 

“Are you not a stable hand?” But her voice wavered, even as her eyes raked over my clothes, from my ratty riding jacket to my mud-splattered boots. 

She thought me a stable hand. There was no deceit in her face; she had not any idea I was her grandfather’s heir.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Oh, it was simply too perfect. Mother would never allow me to forget this, once she heard the story.

“I am glad you find my confusion so amusing,” Miss Ashbourne said, glowering at me.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Oh, it’s not you. Well, it is, but only partly.” 

No doubt she thought me soft in the head. I was making not the slightest bit of sense. I attempted to explain.

“Just last week my mother was harping on me to purchase a new riding outfit, claiming she could hardly distinguish me from the servants.”

In fact, Mother had threatened to raid my rooms and toss out my jacket, at which I had grinned and asked her to take my evening jackets with her, so I might have the excuse of having nothing appropriate to wear the next time I was invited to a social engagement. She had rapped me on the shoulder, though her eyes twinkled.

Miss Ashbourne’s features tightened, her mouth parting slightly. It was unkind of me to prolong her ignorance. I moved forward and bowed.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I’m William Rowley.”

A red flush stole over Miss Ashbourne’s face with alarming speed.“I did not mean to . . . That is, I just assumed—“

Though I was normally not one to find pleasure in another person’s distress, it did not escape me that this was something of an apt penance for Miss Ashbourne’s treatment of me in London. I had been nothing but kind to her, and yet she had rejected my offer of help with such vehemence one would have thought I was Lucifer in disguise.

“Why did you not say anything?” Her voice shook with the force of her restrained anger. Was she truly angry with me? It was she who had turned up so unexpectedly in my stable, and who had treated me with such disdain at our first meeting. 

I forced down my own irritation, determined to act the part of a gentlemen whether she appreciated it or not. “You hardly gave me the chance. I was not intentionally deceitful.” 

A gust of wind swept into the stable from behind me, swirling the dirt around our feet. Miss Ashbourne shivered, wrapping her arms more tightly about her middle.

Blast it all. Here I was thinking myself quite the image of chivalry for keeping my tone civil, when a young lady stood before me, soaked and freezing and entirely at my mercy. No matter Miss Ashbourne’s treatment of me, my mother had raised me to be a gentleman.

A saddle blanket hung over a nearby stall. Leaving Stowaway’s reins to hang loose, knowing he would never bolt from the warmth of the stable, I grabbed the blanket and approached Miss Ashbourne. “Here, take this. You’re cold.”

She avoided my gaze, regarding the blanket as though I offered her a bucket of manure. But before I had to force it into her hands, she snatched from me, wrapping it about her with obvious relief. I tramped to the open doors, banging wildly in the gale, and forced them closed. Returning to Stowaway, I took his reins once again. “I’d suggest we wait a few minutes before going in. These storms blow over quickly, and I need to rub him down before he grows chilled.”

At her brief nod, I led Stowaway to his stall near the center of the stable, my feet sloshing within my boots. I thought vaguely that I ought to be cold as well, waterlogged as I was. Instead, a strange edginess permeated my body, and it had little to do with my current state of dampness, and everything to do with the young woman standing not ten paces away.

I unstrapped my saddle and lifted it from Stowaway’s back, the leather slippery as I hefted it to its place, then began rubbing my horse down with a blanket. My hands were glad of the familiar work; it settled my whirling thoughts. As I labored, I stole glances at my unexpected visitor. She seated herself on the ancient, splintery bench across from Stowaway’s stall, removing her bonnet from where it hung uselessly from her neck. Pushing back the locks of hair that clung stubbornly to her face, she tucked them back into her knot as best she could, though the mess of dark waves refused to be tamed entirely. 

She rubbed a hand across her forehead, sighing wearily. Guilt bit at me; so far I had not been terribly kind in my reception of Sir Charles’s granddaughter. I hated to imagine what he would think of how I’d welcomed her to his home. The poor girl was clearly exhausted, no doubt from a day spent traveling from London, and then to have her arrival at Havenfield be completely unexpected . . . 

The tension around my eyes softened the longer I regarded her. From what I gathered from the family, Juliana Ashbourne was very nearly alone in life, her mother having passed several years previously and her father working as a ship captain, no doubt away from her for months or years at a time. She had no siblings, and no close relations, save for Lady Rowley and the Woodwards.

From simply observing her, I would never have guessed her to be related to them. She had none of the fair features or golden locks of the Rowley women. Instead, her white face stood in stark contrast with her brown waves, dark eyes, and reserved dress. I recalled her comment from London, when I had expressed concern over her pale complexion—That is not unusual, I assure you.

I finished drying Stowaway, and laid a fresh blanket upon his back as he released a content whinny. I led him to his trough and left him with a gentle pat.

As I closed the stall door, Miss Ashbourne watched me, her features guarded and tight. I crossed my arms and leaned back against the door, meeting her gaze. 

She surprised me by speaking first. “I feel I ought to offer you and apology.”

Whatever I might have expected from her, it certainly was not that. “And what would that be for?” I asked.

She inhaled before she spoke. “For my treatment of you when we met in London. I was not myself that day and beg your pardon.”

I tipped my head to one side, examining her closer. Did she mean her words, or was this simply her attempt to smooth any ruffled feathers? “I appreciate your apology and will accept it, but only if you would be so kind as to answer a question for me. That day in London, what was it that upset you so very much?”

Now that I knew her identity, my lingering confusion from our first meeting only rankled me more. If Mr. Finch had indeed informed her that day of the ten thousand pounds that awaited her, why had she been so distraught?

Her expression did not change, save for a tightening about her eyes. “It was nothing.”

“I sincerely doubt that. You were out of sorts about something.”

Her eyes hardened, and I regretted my words almost immediately. If I was attempting to make her feel more comfortable, I was doing a deucedly terrible job of it. 

“Even if I had,” she snapped, “I would not likely tell you.”

She broke our gaze and stared resolutely at the stable doors. I was making a real mess of this. I needed to try a different tactic. 

“Lady Rowley has been most anxious to hear from you,” I said.

“I did write.” 

I nodded, focusing on the dirt floor that stretched between us.  “She wanted to go see you in London herself, once Mr. Finch had located you. But we—that is to say, myself and Mrs. Woodward—“

“My aunt.”

“Yes. We thought it best to try a letter first. Perhaps a bit less shocking?”

If I hoped for any sort of revelation on how Lady Rowley’s letter had been received, I was sorely disappointed. Miss Ashbourne only adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and made no effort to respond.

“She’s been quite restless these past weeks. She will be pleased you decided to come.” That much was true, although Lady Rowley would surely be mortified over the welcome—or lack thereof—that Miss Ashbourne had received.

She nodded, offering nothing more, and I gave up my attempt at conversation, allowing us to fall into a weighty silence. I could not begin to guess the thoughts that ran through her mind, no matter how much I wished to know them. Lady Rowley had, in her letter, offered her granddaughter the use of a coach, if she decided to come to Havenfield. Why then had Miss Ashbourne taken it upon herself to arrange her own transportation? 

My concern only continued to grow the longer we sat in silence. From my few interactions with her, I could well guess that Miss Ashbourne had very little desire to be at Havenfield. And from what I knew of her mother’s past, she had every right to be reluctant and wary. But the lure of ten thousand pounds . . . I knew not a soul who would turn away that sum of money, and she had clearly decided the money was worth the price of a visit to Havenfield. 

I couldn’t begrudge her that. I would have made the same decision, in her shoes. But my fingers twitched against my arms, still crossed against my chest. Lady Rowley had been hoping for weeks, months now, that her granddaughter would first be located and then that she would consequently decide to visit the family estate. How would she feel when it became clear her granddaughter had only come to secure her inheritance?
I exhaled. Lady Rowley would need to sort that out on her own. It was a problem twenty years in the making, and I had neither the knowledge nor desire to interfere.

The rain soon slowed, until only a random patter of raindrops fell on the stable roof, falling from the tree branches above. Miss Ashbourne had not moved one inch from her seat on the bench, shoulders stiff, blanket still clutched about her.

“Shall we?” I asked, pushing myself away from the stall. She nodded and stood, then looked to her trunk, lying all but forgotten by the stable door. She grimaced, clearly remembering the effort it had taken for her to get it there.

Well, I could help her in that, at least. I strode to the trunk and lifted it into my arms. It was much heavier than I’d expected, and I shifted it, trying to find the best position to carry it.

“You needn’t have brought the candlesticks,” I said, endeavoring to introduce a bit of lightness to our exchange.

“It’s books.”

My eyebrows lifted of their own accord. “Books?”

She did not comment further, pressing her lips together in a thin line. What sort of young woman touted about a trunk full of books, especially to a country estate? 

She is a governess, I reminded myself. Though I did not seem to recall Rachel or Rebecca’s governess having any significant collection of books.

I shook my head. Miss Ashbourne’s reading habits were hardly of importance at the moment. I needed to get her inside, warmed, and dried.

She opened the door for me as we left the shelter of the stable. Clouds still hung low in the sky, but the rain had cleared almost entirely. Miss Ashbourne followed closely on my heels as I led her around the western wing of the house.

“We’ll go through the servant’s entrance,” I explained, adjusting my grip on the trunk. “Since the family is not expected until late, no one was keeping watch at the front entrance.”

“Clearly.” I barely made out her response, but her tone made me hide a smile. She spoke again, surprising me. “And why did you not join the family?”

The family. Not her family or mine. Her word choice revealed more about her than anything she’d said so far tonight.

“I am afraid I do not care for social calls,” I said. “Though if anyone inquires, I was buried in work and could not spare the time.”

We made our way through the dark, thankfully arriving at the servant’s entrance after only a minute.

“If you would?” I nodded at the door and Miss Ashbourne hurried to comply. I edged inside, the trunk growing heavy in my arms. Exactly how many books did she have stashed away inside?

We walked down the hallway toward the servant’s hall. Their evening had only just begun, and the sound of laughter found its way to us. I wished to allow them their time, but Miss Ashbourne was a more pressing matter.

As I stepped into the brightly lit hall, all sound ceased as the servants caught sight of me. They had gathered about the long table, dishes and mugs scattered along its length, and their smiles froze on their faces. Almost as one, they jumped to their feet, staring at me in consternation.

I forced back a sigh. No matter how I tried, I could not seem to convince my staff to treat me with anything less than the utmost respect and deference. Not that I minded their politeness, but a bit less bowing and scraping would have been a welcome change.

“Mr. Rowley!” Mr. Banfield exclaimed from the head of the table.

“Do sit down, everyone. I apologize for interrupting.” I set Miss Ashbourne’s trunk against the wall as the woman herself skirted into the room behind me. I was almost relieved when the attention of every person in the hall immediately switched to her. Mr. Banfield signaled the staff to sit, and they did, though whispers broke out as they watched Miss Ashbourne with unconcealed curiosity. I could only imagine the gossip that would erupt within the next hour, though I could do nothing to help either of our appearances.

I went directly to Mr. Banfield, and the butler stepped away from the table for privacy. I motioned at Mrs. Pike to join us. As housekeeper, she would need to know the details.

“I have some . . . interesting news,” I murmured as they leaned their heads towards me. “I had the unexpected privilege of coming across Miss Ashbourne, Lady Rowley’s granddaughter, in the stable tonight.”

They both gaped at me. 

“In the stable?” Mr. Banfield asked, incredulous.

“Indeed,” I said in a wry voice. “Apparently she took it upon herself to travel to Havenfield without our knowledge, and arrived just as the storm began. She found shelter in the stable.”

We all three turned to look at Miss Ashbourne. She hadn’t moved from her position by the entrance, hair still an unruly tangle, staring at her boots. My sympathy for her only grew. No matter her motivation in coming to Havenfield, she deserved a much better reception than this.

“The poor dear,” Mrs. Pike said. “I’ll have a room and meal prepared immediately, and a bath.”

“My thoughts precisely,” I said. She hurried away, waving a maid to her side. I gestured for Mr. Banfield to follow me, and we made our way back to Miss Ashbourne. She jerked up her head at our approach, jaw set.

“Miss Ashbourne, this is Mr. Banfield, the butler,” I said.

“Miss Ashbourne, do allow me to apologize most profusely,” Mr. Banfield said. “I am terribly embarrassed you arrived without our knowledge, and just as the storm began. I hope this will not have a lasting impression on your visit here.”

“Thank you,” she managed with a nod.

Mrs. Pike joined us in the next moment, and I introduced her as well.

“I’m having a room prepared for you as we speak,” she said, addressing Miss Ashbourne. “I’ll take you there myself, and we’ll have a footman bring round your trunk.” She glanced at the trunk resting on the floor where I’d left it. “Where are the rest of your things?”

“It’s just the one trunk,” Miss Ashbourne mumbled. 

“Oh.” Mrs. Pike tilted her head to the side, peering at her with interest. I was similarly curious. Rebecca never traveled with fewer than three trunks packed to the brim. “No matter. Let me arrange something for you to eat, and then I’ll take you upstairs.”

Mrs. Pike and Mr. Banfield excused themselves, barking orders at the rest of the staff. Miss Ashbourne removed the blanket from around her shoulders, draping it over one arm. Her hands shook, and her eyes flitted around the room, wide and unsure.

I stared at her. How had I not noticed before? She was absolutely terrified. It was obvious, now that I saw it. Her strong words and jutted chin were but a facade. She had traveled far from her home to stay at a strange estate with a family she had never met. Of course she was terrified. 

“I will be sure to inform your grandmother of your arrival when she returns,” I said, hoping to alleviate at least a portion of her nerves. Instead, her eyes closed for the briefest moment, and she looked about ready to collapse. That clearly had not been the right thing to say. Miss Ashbourne needed a hot meal and rest, not a dreaded confrontation with her estranged grandmother. I hurried to correct my mistake. “And I will make certain you are not disturbed tonight.”

She blinked up at me, and my mind went curiously blank as she caught me in her dark eyes, deep pools reflecting the shimmering candlelight.

“Thank you,” she said, perhaps a bit reluctantly. 

I shook myself from my reverie. “Try and rest. You’ll have quite a few people eager to meet you in the morning.” As it was, I knew it would take all my efforts to convince Lady Rowley to leave her granddaughter be until morning. I couldn’t postpone their meeting any longer than that. Though, if my experience with Miss Ashbourne was any indication, Lady Rowley might soon wish she had not so eagerly anticipated her granddaughter’s arrival. Miss Ashbourne possessed a sharp tongue and an even sharper temper.

I couldn’t help one last comment, a smile tugging at my lips. “And do try not to wander off. I shall have to be on my guard if our meetings are always to be so eventful.”

She glared at me, but it was worth it for the blush that crept over her cheeks. Her looks were much improved with a bit of color, I thought. I stifled a laugh and offered her a short bow in recompense.

“Good night, Miss Ashbourne.”
​
And with that, I left her in the care of Mrs. Pike, and went in search of my own quarters. I was certain I had not seen the last of Miss Ashbourne’s temper. It promised to be an entertaining month.

***

I hope you enjoyed this fun little excerpt! If you want to read the whole story from Juliana's point of view, you can grab The Truth about Miss Ashbourne on Amazon.

Secrets and Suitors - My newest release! A friends to more romance with unrequited love, the London season, Vauxhall pleasure gardens, and maybe even a duel :) I think you'll love it, but don't take my word for it. Publisher's Weekly called it "elegant and thoroughly gratifying" (a Starred Review!)

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Beauty and the Baron: This novella is the PERFECT stocking stuffer! This is my Regency retelling of Beauty and the Beast, and is my best-selling story! Find out why it has almost 250 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ reviews on Goodreads!

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The Truth about Miss Ashbourne - This is my debut novel and my book baby! Still probably my personal favorite of my books (but don't tell the others). A governess needs to spend one month with her estranged family in order to collect her inheritance, but the handsome—and irritating—new heir to the estate is making things much harder than necessary.

Where to buy it: The paperback is only $9.99 at Seagull book right now! Again, I'm not sure how long this sale will last. The Kindle version is $7.99 on Amazon.

All Hearts Come Home for Christmas - If you read one Christmas book this year, make it this one! I got to combine forces with Sarah M. Eden, Anita Stansfield, and Esther Hatch, and let me tell you, this collection of novellas combines humor, sweetness, romance, and Christmas spirit like none I've ever read before.

Where to buy it: No sales on this one right now, unfortunately. But you can grab it on Amazon in paperback or Kindle!

*****

My wandering eyes found Mother across the room, standing amongst a group of older matrons. She nodded along with something being said, but her gaze darted away every few seconds, narrowed in focus. My absence had not gone unnoticed.

I leaned back, close to the wall. I did not wish to be discovered at present, not even by my mother. I may have inherited her blue eyes and soft curls, but I unfortunately had not received her graceful movements or effortless skills at conversation. She never suffered the paralyzing nerves that were my constant companions at such events, and it was an exhausting business.

Perhaps in another twenty minutes, I might recover enough to join the party.

Perhaps.
               
Another familiar figure moved across my limited view of the ballroom. Father. He strolled slowly, stopping to greet those he considered friends, ignoring those he thought beneath him. The Baron Denford wore no smile, though that was hardly unusual. Father liked country balls even less than I did; his attendance tonight was almost as rare as a smile would have been.
              
 “There you are, Nora.”
               
My head jolted as Mother appeared beside me, scrutinizing me from behind her fluttering fan.
              
 “How long did you imagine you might go unseen?” She fixed me with a stern look, though her cheek twitched in an effort to conceal a smile. “It is a potted plant, my dear, not a wall.”
               
I sighed. She always found me. “The veranda was unavailable.”
               
“I should say.” She snapped closed her fan. “You would have frozen in a minute.”
               
Winter still held a firm grasp upon the hills of Hampshire, though I could not help but think a minute of solitude would have been quite worth the January cold. I did not voice my opinion.
              
 “I think you’ve had plenty of recuperation,” she said briskly. “Mr. Weston has been looking for you.”
               
“Mr. Weston?” I paused in the midst of tugging up my gloves. “He cannot be wanting another dance, can he? I’ve already danced two with him.”
               
“Of course not.” Mother frowned. “He would never risk your reputation.”
               
“No, he would not.” Mr. Weston would never do anything to upset the careful propriety that ruled our worlds. In fact, he never did anything I would categorize as risky or uncertain.
               
“I’m sure he simply wishes to talk, Nora,” she said. “Now come, let us take a turn about the room.”
               
She did not realize talking with Mr. Weston was nearly as wearying as dancing with him. But I forced a nod and she slipped her arm into mine as she led me from my safe haven.
               
Then again, how could I blame Mr. Weston for his reserved nature? Was I not the one hiding away in the corner? But perhaps that was the problem: entering into a conversation in which both participants were reticent. Someone was needed to guide the conversation, ask questions, and incite interest in a topic.
               
Someone like James.
               
I swallowed, turning my head from Mother. If only James were here. He would not have dragged me from my corner. He would have joined me, laughing quietly as we made whispered observations about the amount of frills on Miss Densley’s dress or the vivid color of Mr. Samson’s waistcoat.
               
I took a steadying breath. I could not think about James now. Memories of him only brought an aching pain to my chest. He was not here because he did not want to be. He had made that perfectly clear six months ago. Now he was an ocean away, far beyond the reach of my wistful thoughts. Missing him would not help anything, especially when I still had hours of socializing to endure tonight.
               
We moved about the outskirts of the room, watching the lines of dancers. As we neared the orchestra, a group of young ladies caught my attention. They were smiling, chattering amongst themselves as they cast flirtatious glances at passing young men. They were all near to my own age of one and twenty, but that was likely the only commonality we shared. One of the ladies—Miss Blythe—turned as we moved behind them. Her eyes glinted at the sight of me, not unlike a cat stalking a mouse.
               
“Oh, good evening, Miss Hamilton,” she said in her high, breathy voice. “Do come join us.”
               
If I was trying to avoid Mr. Weston, then joining his cousin was likely the worst choice I could make. I was already inventing an excuse when Mother spoke. “Of course. Go and be with your friends, Nora.”
               
She knew very well I did not have any friends. Well, any friends here.

I withheld a sigh and instead managed a nod. Mother gave my hand a pat as she left. It was not reassuring.

I faced the group of young ladies, all watching me with careful calculation. They curtsied deeply to me, and I returned their movements before Miss Blythe stepped forward to claim my attention. She was something of the leader amongst the younger set here in Larkwood and had taken it upon herself to claim me, rather like one might collect a doll. As the eldest daughter of the Baron Denford, the only member of the peerage in the surrounding area, I was the crown jewel in her collection.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Hamilton?” Miss Blythe asked.

I cleared my throat. “Very much.”

“Your gown is lovely.” She eyed me from the ribbons in my hair to my lace-trimmed hem, no doubt calculating how much my father had paid for such an ensemble.

I glanced down at my gown to avoid her scrutiny and slid my gloved hands over the pale silk. Though it was cut in the latest fashion, I disliked pink. It clashed horridly with the red tones in my blonde hair, but Mother had insisted I looked lovely. “Thank you.”
               
I knew I ought to return the compliment or make an observation about the dance. But my mouth refused to cooperate, and I kept my gaze on the tips of my dancing slippers. Miss Blythe watched me, though she did not press me.
               
The conversation moved on, and I was grateful to take up the role of passive listener. I smiled and nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself. It had always been like this. I knew they likely thought me snobbish or aloof, but I simply did not know how to overcome my shyness. And in truth, I wasn’t particularly keen on having more “friends” like Miss Blythe. It was easier to keep to myself.
               
“Miss Hamilton.”
               
I turned at the sound of my name and immediately wished I hadn’t. Mr. Weston had found me again. He watched me with that careful expression he always wore, as if worried someone would scold him for smiling.
               
“I hoped I might have a word with you,” he said, extending his arm.
               
There was little I could do, and yet I wished I could do it. I wished I could pretend I had not heard him. I wished I could say no, that I preferred not to. I wished I could go back to my lovely quiet spot behind the fern.
               
But I did not. I coaxed a smile to my face and took his arm. “Of course, Mr. Weston.”
               
He led me away as Miss Blythe sent me a knowing look I did not understand in the slightest. I was already dreading this conversation. Mr. Weston tended to speak with such dull, measured assurance, one would think he did not speak at all until his mind was thoroughly convinced his words could not possibly offend or cause outcry. That made for tedious conversation indeed.

Perhaps he simply wished to say goodbye since he departed for his home in Shropshire in two days’ time. The Blythes had thrown this ball as a farewell, no doubt to pry their way into his good graces. The man was to inherit a barony from his father, after all. It was certainly why Father liked him so much, though I could not claim a similar fondness. I had been counting down the days to his departure, wishing for a few weeks of normalcy before we left for the Season in London.

We walked out into the hallway and down a ways, stopping before an alcove. A few other guests gossiped down the hall, but we were as alone as we possibly could be. An ice-frosted window displayed the lovely winter scene outside: the snow-covered lawn, the bare branches of trees twisting in the wind.
               
Mr. Weston turned to face me.
               
“Miss Hamilton,” he began. “I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed the last few weeks, especially since I have been fortunate enough to spend much of them in your company.”
               
Far too much of them, in my opinion. He had accompanied his cousin whenever she paid a visit to me, and since Miss Blythe insisted in coming to Denford House at least weekly, I had seen quite a bit more of Mr. Weston than I should have liked.
               
“We shall be sad to see you return to your home,” I said, hoping to lead him into his words of farewell.
               
But then he stepped closer and my pulse quickened, and not in a particularly pleasant way. He took my hand and raised it between us, his thumb moving in an uncomfortable circle on the back of my hand. What on earth was he doing?
              
 “My dear Miss Hamilton,” he murmured, his gaze riveted to mine. “I know we have not known each other long, but I have come to regard you most highly.”
               
He had? I would not have guessed that in the least. But the way he was staring at me now made me realize how very blind I had been. Thoughts connected with astounding force inside my head: the hothouse flowers he had brought me last week, his constant stares from across whatever room we were in.

Suddenly Miss Blythe’s knowing look and Father’s willingness to come to the ball tonight all made a frightful amount of sense.
               
“Mr. We-Weston,” I said, choking on his name in my hurry. “I was unaware—”
               
My voice cut out completely. What could I say? Father would be furious if I refused Mr. Weston, and yet every inch of me begged to do just that.
               
Mr. Weston peered at me. “You were unaware of what?”
               
I stared at his cravat, perfectly starched and tied. Is that what my life would be like now, as stiff and lifeless as that length of fabric?
               
But then a voice--his voice—spoke from behind me. “She was unaware that her closest friend had returned home.”
               
I froze as his words sank in to me. His warm, comfortable, playful words. I spun and found him standing in the middle of the hallway with that familiar tilt of his head, his blue eyes bright with amusement.
               
The air in the hall was much too thin. That was the only reason I could think of for my sudden lightheadedness. My hands pressed into my stomach, and I whispered his name, my voice shaking.
              
 “James.”
 

​
I wanted nothing more than to run and throw my arms around him, prove to myself he was real, solid, and whole. But my feet would not move, trapped as they were in shock.

James’s eyes flicked to Mr. Weston and then back to me, a grin teasing his lips. “You do not seem very pleased to see me, Nora. Have I interrupted something? Perhaps I should come back at a more convenient time.”

That was when I knew it was really him and not some imagination of my mind. Only James would say something so audacious. But how was he here? I’d thought he would be gone for months yet. I hadn’t allowed myself to hope to see him so soon—or to prepare myself for the sight of him.

I hadn’t breathed since he had appeared. I inhaled a gulp of air, unable to look away from him, as if he might vanish if I were to blink.

“Miss Hamilton and I were talking,” Mr. Weston said from behind me. A note of irritation found its way into his voice, the most emotion I’d ever heard from him.

“Oh, I do apologize,” James said, adopting such a contrite tone I almost thought him sincere. He moved forward and offered a bow. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

There was a moment of silence before I realized that was my responsibility. I gave a small cough. “Mr. Weston, this is Mr. James Allen. He is a neighbor of my father’s and a good friend of mine.”

“The best of friends,” James inserted. “Why, I’ve known Miss Hamilton here since she was eight years old and thought it prudent to sail a raft down the stream. It required no small effort on my behalf to rescue her, I’ll have you know.”

I shot him a glare, though the corners of my mouth fought a smile. I was torn between mortification and laughter. Oh, I had missed him.

“Hush now,” I said. “Mr. Weston will think me peculiar.”

James raised an eyebrow, asking me a question, but it was not one I wished to answer at present. I flushed and turned away, determined to finish the introduction.

“Mr. Weston is Miss Blythe’s cousin, come to visit the family for a few weeks.” I forced a smile at Mr. Weston.

Mr. Weston was a difficult man to read; his face was all that was polite. Only his eyes, slightly narrowed, gave any indication he was less than pleased as he offered a curt nod as a greeting.

“How good to meet you,” James said. “Now, I know I am being terribly rude, but after six months abroad, I am longing for a dance with my oldest friend. If you are not opposed, Mr. Weston?”

Longing. I bit my lip at James’s choice of words. If only that were true.

Mr. Weston’s mouth parted, but no words escaped. Finally, he closed his mouth and shook his head, though it looked as though he would rather have spent an hour on the frozen veranda than let James take me away.

“I am sorry, Mr. Weston,” I said as I took James’s arm. “Perhaps we might talk later in the evening?”

He had no opportunity to respond as James guided me back down the hall. Mr. Weston’s footsteps sounded as he strode off in the other direction. Was he angry? There would be repercussions, I was sure. But for the moment I simply allowed a breath of air to escape my mouth. Whatever Mr. Weston had planned to say to me, I at least had this reprieve.

James and I walked in silence as the sounds of the ball filled the hallway around us once again. My mind was still racing to catch up, entirely too aware of his arm in mine, and trying desperately notto think of the last time we had stood this close.

“Did I surprise you, Nora?” James spoke in a quiet voice, almost apologetic.

I shook my head. “You know the answer to that. Your father said he did not expect you for another two months at best.”

He gave a little smile. “He was not mistaken. I’d thought to stay at the plantation far longer, but an opportunity presented itself and I left on the next available ship. I traveled as fast as any letter might have.”

I glanced sideways at him, examining the lines of his face. He kept his brown hair longer now, and it had begun to curl about his ears. His skin was darker, no doubt from spending months under the unrelenting sun, both on a ship and on his family’s sugar plantation in Jamaica. But those were not the only changes. His shoulders were broader and stronger, and he moved differently. He’d always been confident, so it wasn’t that. It was more his gait, an odd rhythm to his steps.

“Have you gone to see your poor father, or did you come to tease me straightaway?” I asked. “I would not be surprised if it was the latter.”

“Of course I saw my father,” he said with a laugh. “Though I must admit a bath was a bit of a higher priority than asking you for the first dance.”

He was teasing me, I knew, but that fact did not stop a stab of hurt inside me. I glanced away.

“What is it?” he said immediately, pulling me to a stop. “What have I said?”

I’d nearly forgotten how perceptive he was. It sometimes seemed he knew me better than even I did, and certainly better than anyone else, including my younger sister, Susanna.

“Nothing,” I said. We were alone in the corridor, though the doors to the ballroom stood open not five paces away, music and laughter spilling out.

He gave me that look, the one that told me he did not believe me. He had grown quite good at it over the years.

“Tell me,” he said. “No secrets, remember?”

No secrets. Our childhood pact had been made in such innocence, with no foresight into what complications would soon arise.

I swallowed. “It is nothing, I promise. I am only taken aback at seeing you.”

He tipped his head, examining me. “Taken aback? I admit I am disappointed. I’d hoped for a much stronger reaction. Words of elation, at least—perhaps even fainting at the sight of me.”

That drew a short laugh from me, no matter my tangled emotions.

He gave a dramatic sigh. “It appears absence has not made the heart grow fonder in this case.”

How very false that was. Had there been a day—or even an hour—during James’s absence that my mind hadn’t turned to him?

I immediately reprimanded myself. I was no longer allowed to think about such things, and I was determined to follow through. I attempted a lighthearted tone. “I might be fonder of you if you’d bothered to give me a proper farewell before you left.”

He sobered and glanced away for the first time. “I am sorry. You deserved far more than a letter. I wanted so badly to tell you in person, but circumstances did not allow it.”

Air hitched in my throat. Circumstances? Did he mean . . . ?

But I tore my thoughts from traveling that road to the garden party last summer. Because thoughts of that night would make me wish to run away, and I could hardly do that.

I swallowed, attempting to calm the turmoil inside me. No matter what had happened that night, we were the closest of friends. I had deserved a better farewell than the briefest of notes.

“I should have liked to say goodbye.” My voice was thin as lace, fraying at the edges. I took my hand from his arm in the pretense of fixing a hairpin; I could not bear his warmth reaching through my gloves.

But he did not allow me to retreat. He caught my hand, holding it between us. My heart stumbled at his touch, and I met his steady gaze.

“I am sorry,” he said as his eyes moved between mine. “I would do it differently if I could. I swear.”

I forced myself to breathe evenly, to keep my expression from giving away all that I felt. I knew I could hardly have expected him to wake our entire household just to bid me farewell, but I wished he had all the same. He’d set sail for his plantation before I’d realized he was gone, and it had hurt me. Shattered me. But I could not let him know that. I could not let him see how much his absence had affected me.

“You might have written while you were gone.” I forced a stern tone to my voice.

He squinted at me. “Ah yes, I’m sure your father would have liked that.”

He had a point. Father had never strictly forbidden my friendship with James. It would have been difficult, considering we were neighbors and the Allen family was well respected in Larkwood. But Father would not have liked James writing me, and neither was it proper for him to do so now that we were grown. The unforgiving rules of Society did not care that we’d been friends since childhood.

“I cannot stand to have you upset with me.” James tucked my hand against his arm once again. “What can I do to make things right? Perhaps a waltz would be a good start?”

I hesitated, but in the end did not pull away. “Do you think my dances have not already been claimed? You cannot show up in the middle of a ball and expect me to have no obligations.”

“Forgive my doubt,” he said dryly, “or have things changed so drastically since I left? Because if I do not miss my mark, you have been hiding away for the majority of the dances.”

I fought hard, but my lips twitched. “Only the last two.”

He chuckled. “Thank heavens. I was worried you might have changed while I was away.” His smile faded, and his gaze moved over me—my hair, my face, my dress. “It is good to see you, Nora.” His voice was quiet, soft as a shadow. “I have missed you.”

I wanted to respond, to say how much I had missed him as well. But footsteps sounded behind us, and I turned. Father stood in the doorway to the ballroom, his hair precisely arranged, his cravat stiff and jacket perfectly tailored. But his expression was not nearly as controlled. He stared at the two of us with a deep line furrowed into his brow, his mouth set in a scowl.

“Nora,” he said in a commanding voice. “Get your things. We are leaving.”

“Leaving?” I repeated. “But—”

“Now.” His tone left no room for argument, though I wanted so badly to protest. He knew I had not seen James in months. I wanted my dance with James and the conversations I had dreamed up during his long absence.

I opened my mouth to argue, and Father’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Why was he reacting so strongly? Father had always disliked James, no doubt because they were as opposite as two men could be. But he had never acted like this before, deliberately keeping us apart. What could have happened?

But I bit back my pleas. It would be no use, and I hated to make a scene.

I looked back at James. I’m sorry, I mouthed, and he gave a curt nod.

“Perhaps next time, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “Good evening.”

He bowed, and I curtsied. Then I followed after my father, glancing back once. James watched me with an unreadable expression before he turned and disappeared back down the dark hallway.
 
* * *
 
The coach ride home was silent. Even with my fur-lined cloak surrounding me, there was a chill inside our carriage, and not because of the January cold outside. Father sat across from me and did not speak one word as he glared out the window.
               
Mother sat quietly beside him. She did not speak either, but she sent me a sympathetic glance every few minutes. I hardly knew how to interpret either response. Surely James’s reappearance was not enough to elicit such anger from Father. It was as though I had missed a vital piece of information that everyone else was aware of, and it bothered me, like the buzzing of a persistent fly.

When we arrived at Denford House, Father immediately disappeared into his study, leaving me and Mother to ascend the sweeping staircase alone. I made certain Father was gone and then hurried a few steps to catch Mother.

“What has happened?” I whispered urgently. “Why is Father acting so strangely?”

Mother shook her head. “You know he is not overly fond of Mr. Allen.”

“It is more than that though. Why should he be so angry?” Our steps echoed in the quiet of the house; only a few servants were awake at this late hour. And Susanna, of course. She always waited up for me.

“Your father does not need much cause to be angry.” Mother spoke softly, but the tension in her voice was unmistakable.

“There is something you are not telling me.” I matched her low tone.

She gave a sad smile as we reached the top of the stairs. “Oh, there are many things I do not tell you, my dear.”

Before I could question her further, she departed down the hallway to her room. I sighed. Mother was nearly as frustrating as Father. She was not an unkind mother, by any means. She at least showed an interest in me most days. But never did she challenge Father, even for something so little as confiding in me about why he was angry.

I stood in the stillness of the hall, finally alone, my mind working in a fruitless attempt to unravel all the strange happenings of the night. I had not thought for one second that I might see James tonight, and the taste of it had been almost more torturous than not seeing him at all. I pressed a hand to my throat. Oh, but it had been so good to see him.

Taking a steadying breath, I went to my room, slipping inside and closing the door behind me. Susanna sat up in my bed, her red hair in a tight braid over her shoulder.

“You are home early,” she said, setting her book on my night table.

I gave a little laugh. “It is nearly midnight.”

“Yes, and I did not expect you for hours yet.” She cast me a suspicious look. “Did you pretend an illness again?”

“I have never done that.”

“Of course not,” she said conspiratorially.

“I haven’t,” I protested. “I am far too terrified of making a fuss. Now, come and help me out of this gown so I needn’t call up Margaret.”

After changing, I sat at the vanity and removed the pins from my hair, allowing my coppery blonde locks to fall around my shoulders. Susanna reclaimed her place on the bed and rested her head against the bedpost. I eyed her in the mirror, watching the firelight play against the curls about her face. She always bemoaned her hair, but I thought the color lovely. She would not be Susanna without her fiery red tresses.

“Do not leave me in suspense any longer,” she said. “Was it wonderful? Did you dance with many gentlemen?”

I began brushing my hair in long strokes. “I danced with several, though none particularly stand out in my mind.”

She frowned. “You must give me more details than that. Tell me about the ladies’ dresses and whom you danced with. I must know everything.”

​I resisted a sigh as I tugged my brush through a tangle. She deserved every detail she wanted. Susanna was uncommonly patient with me, seeing as I'd already had two Seasons and she was nearing eighteen. Most girls her age had been out in Society for a year or two already, but Father would not hear of her debuting until I was married. Susanna never hurried me, however. “It will happen in due time,” she always said.

I set down my brush and turned in my chair to face her. “Something did happen tonight.”

She straightened, clasping her hands in front of her. “This sounds intriguing. Go on.”

I took a deep breath. “James returned home.”

She gave a little gasp and leaned forward. “Truly?”

“He arrived today and came late to the ball. In fact, he actually interrupted—”

I stopped. I didn’t know precisely how to describe what James had interrupted. Had Mr. Weston been about to propose? That was the only conclusion I could draw, and yet I could not account for why he would propose to me, of all people.

“He interrupted what?” Susanna prompted.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “Mr. Weston had pulled me aside to speak, and—”

“Oh! He was proposing!”

I shot her a sharp look and glanced at the door. I did not know why, since the household was quiet, but her voice was overly loud for my taste.

“I think he was, though I am not certain,” I said in a near-whisper. “It is not as though I have any experience in such matters. Even if he was, it hardly matters, because James interrupted us before Mr. Weston had spoken more than two sentences.”

She stared at me. “James interrupted Mr. Weston proposing to you?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

She laughed. “I cannot believe it. Of all the nights for him to have returned . . .”

“Believe me, I am well aware of the unlikely odds,” I said dryly, turning back to my mirror and beginning to braid my hair into a tight plait.

“Was it terribly awkward?”

“Of course it was; it was James. He enjoys creating horribly awkward situations.” Though I hadn’t minded tonight. I had been too stunned at his appearance and far too grateful he’d provided an escape from Mr. Weston.

She shook her head. “Poor Mr. Weston. But why is James back so soon? With such a journey as he had, I imagined he would be gone for a long time yet.”

“You are not alone in that,” I said. “But he said he returned for business.”

She examined me in the mirror. “And how did James look?”

I bit my lip, focusing on my braid. I did not want to admit to anyone, even my sister, how very well James had looked. “He looked well enough.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well enough?”

My fingers paused for only a moment before continuing in their task. “Stop it, Susie.”

“I simply find it difficult to believe you do not think of him in that way.”

“He is my closest friend,” I said, my voice steady. I was quite accustomed to defending my relationship with James. “I can certainly admit he is handsome, but that does not mean I’ve set my cap for him.”

“I know,” she said, her voice sobering. “And I suppose even if you had, Father would not allow it.”

I should have been used to hearing such words, considering how accustomed I was to Father’s strictness. But tonight, with Mr. Weston’s near-proposal, James’s sudden reappearance, and Father’s hasty insistence that we leave the ball, her statement itched inside me. Father would not allow it.

“No,” I said, my voice thick. “No, he would not.”

We were quiet while I finished braiding my hair. As I tied off the end, Susanna moved to the edge of the bed.

“What would you have said?” she asked, tugging on the sleeve of her dressing gown. “To Mr. Weston, I mean, if James had not come?”

I leaned my forearms against the polished wood of my vanity, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. Amidst all the tumult of the evening, I had not allowed myself to properly examine what I might have said. Mr. Weston was all that Father wished for me and yet nothing I wished for myself.

​“I do not know,” I said softly. “I simply do not know.”
​

*****
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