“Of course it has,” she assured him. “I like all your relatives, Kit. I like their company.”

“But it has not been the sort of memorable stuff I promised you.” He grinned at her. “We will pass sedately through that gate into the pasture, and then we will see.”

“Kit!” she protested. “Please don’t get any ideas. I am quite perfectly happy as I am.”

But he would only chuckle.

“Now.” He closed the gate behind them a couple of minutes later and gazed off into the distance—it seemed a vast expanse of distance. “There is another gate at the other side, which you may remember even though it is not visible over that slight rise in the land. We will race to it.”

“Kit!”

“And this time,” he said, “we will agree upon a prize in advance. A kiss if I win. And— what if you win?”

“There is not even any point in naming anything,” she said indignantly. “ Of course you will win, or would if I were to be foolish enough to accept your challenge. I never race, Kit. I never take a horse to a gallop.”

“Then it is time you did,” he said. “I will be sporting about it, though. I will give you an early start. I’ll count slowly to ten.”

“Ki-it!”

“One.”

“I will not do it.”

“Two.”

“You will not be satisfied until I have broken my neck, I suppose.”

“Three.”

She took off.

She knew her horse could gallop at least twice as fast as it did. She did not by any means give it its head. Even so, it felt to her as if the ground were flying by beneath its hooves, as if the wind would whip off her hat despite the pins, as if she had never done anything nearly as dangerous or exhilarating in her life before.

He did not pass her. It was quite a while before she realized that he was just behind her left shoulder—in position to catch her if she fell? She started to laugh.

By the time the gate came into sight—reassuringly close once they had topped the rise—she was laughing helplessly, and she could hear Kit laughing behind her.

“I am going to beat you,” she shrieked with just a few yards to go. “I am going to—”

He went past her as if her horse were standing still.

She bent forward until her nose almost touched the horse’s neck. She could not seem to stop laughing.

“If you would just raise your head,” he said at last, “I could claim my prize.”

“Unfair!” she said, straightening up. “You were just toying with me. I should be the one putting a bullet between your eyes. Oh, Kit, that was such fun!”

“I always thought,” he said, riding up alongside her until one of her knees was pressed against his thigh, “nothing could be lovelier than your eyes. But they can be lovelier than themselves when they sparkle, as they do now.”

“Oh, foolish,” she said at the silly flattery, warmed through to the very center of her heart by it.

And then his mouth was on hers, firm, warm, his lips parted. He took his prize with slow thoroughness while she thought again of the loveliness of last night and realized in some shock that she was in danger of coming to care rather too much for comfort.

“There!” she said briskly when he had finished. “The debt is paid, you foolish man.”

She expected him to grin. He smiled softly instead.

“Foolish,” he murmured. “Yes, I suppose I am that.”

She was in grave danger indeed.


The family gathering in the drawing room that evening was a merry one. Two tables of cards had been set up for the older people. Several of the younger people took their turn at the pianoforte while others gathered around the instrument to listen, to sing, to joke, and to laugh. Still others stood or sat in groups, sipping their tea, catching up on family news and other assorted gossip.

Kit’s grandmother was at the heart of it all, in her chair beside the fire, nodding and contented despite the fact that she had used to enjoy playing cards. Lauren sat on a stool beside her, massaging her bad hand, as had become her daily custom. She was a pretty child, the old lady told her, not for the first time.

“Hardly a child, ma’am,” Lauren said in her usual quiet, matter-of-fact way. “I am six and twenty.”

“But very definitely pretty, Grandmama,” Kit said from his standing position before the fireplace. “I am in full agreement with you on that point. Not on the other, though. What, might I ask, would I want with a child bride?”

His grandmother chuckled. She had become deeply attached to Lauren already, he knew.

Baron Galton was at one of the card tables, partnered by Kit’s mother, while the Dowager Lady Kilbourne and Uncle Melvin Clifford pitted their skills against them. Lady Muir was conversing with Sydnam in the window embrasure, his usual spot in the evenings.

Kit dared to feel contentment. Lauren’s family fit in well with his. He liked all three of them who were here, and they all appeared to approve of him. None of them had spent any time in London during the past year, of course, to have had their opinions tainted by the reputation he had courted there. Kit smiled as he remembered the interview Baron Galton had requested on the day of his arrival. He had subjected Kit to a far more thorough grilling than Portfrey had, asking about his military credentials, his present aspirations, and his future prospects. Kit had even found himself—rather foolishly, under the circumstances—asking the old man formally for Lauren’s hand. Just as formally Baron Galton had granted it.

She really would be a perfect wife for him, a perfect countess, a perfect member of his family. He had become convinced during the past few days that he could find contentment with her. As for passion—well, passion had never worked for him. At best, it had never lasted longer than a week or two; at worst, it had caused him intense misery. He would be able to trust contentment, relax into it, grow old with it. With her. If only he could persuade her during the next week or so . . .

But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of young Marianne’s voice, demanding everyone’s attention. They simply must have dancing, she declared, her hands clasped to her bosom, her pleading gaze directed at Kit. The other young cousins gathered about the pianoforte murmured their support and also gazed hopefully at Kit.

“Dancing? A splendid idea.” He grinned and strode forward. “Why has no one thought of it before tonight? We do not have to wait for the birthday ball, do we? We will have the carpet rolled back immediately.”

The murmur rose to a faint cheer, and his grandmother smiled and nodded.

While Kit supervised two footmen in the task of rolling back the Persian carpet, Marianne wound her arms about her mother’s neck and wheedled her shamelessly into providing the music.

Eight of the cousins began the dancing with a vigorous jig, which aroused much laughter among them and applause from the spectators. The next dance was to be a Roger de Coverly, Aunt Honoria announced from the pianoforte. Kit extended a hand for Lauren’s and winked at his grandmother.

“Come and dance with me, Lauren,” he said. “We will show these young sprigs a thing or two.”

They led off the set, which boasted six couples this time. He had only ever waltzed with Lauren before. But she was an accomplished country dancer too, he soon discovered. She smiled and her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled as they moved down between the lines, she along the gentlemen’s side, he along the ladies’, twirling each member of the line about alternately with each other. It was only after they had led the lines around the outside of the set and had formed an arch with their hands for everyone else to pass beneath that he realized all other activity in the room had been suspended—the card games and the conversations. Everyone was watching, not just the dancers in general, but him and Lauren in particular. The newly betrothed couple. Kit with his beautiful bride-to-be.

He sensed approval and affection emanating from them. And he felt something a little warmer than contentment as he remembered her helpless laughter, her flushed cheeks, and her bright eyes this afternoon—and her softly acquiescent kiss.

He really must prevent her from breaking off their betrothal.

They were at the far end of the line again when the dance ended, close to the windows. Young Crispin Butler, fresh down from Oxford and fancying himself an experienced man-about-town, was already demanding a waltz tune of his mother, and the dancers were eagerly taking new partners.

“Miss Edgeworth?” Sir Jeremy Brightman, Doris’s betrothed, took her hand to lead her into the dance.

“Lady Muir?” Kit bowed to Lauren’s cousin, who was still sitting on the window seat. Too late he remembered her limp and hoped he had not just embarrassed her unpardonably. But she smiled and rose to her feet and set her hand in his.

And then Cousin Catherine came dashing up, all bubbling energy.

“Sydnam,” she demanded, grabbing his hand with both of hers, “do come and dance with me. You surely cannot intend to sit there all night.”

Kit froze. Catherine had never been known for tact or tender sensibilities, but even for her this was a howler.

“I beg to decline, Catherine,” Syd replied. “Ask Lawrence. He needs the exercise.”

“I can dance with my husband any night of the year,” she said. “I want you. You were always a divine dancer, I remember. Do come—”

“Catherine!” Kit spoke far more sharply than he had intended, unconsciously addressing her as he might have addressed a recalcitrant private in his regiment. “Can you not take a civil no for an answer? Syd cannot dance. He—”