From age six, Kit had lived at Cranmer, after her parents, Spencer’s son Christopher and his French emigrée wife, had died in a carriage accident. Spencer’s gaze dwelled on the long lines of Kit’s figure, outlined by her green traveling dress. She carried herself gracefully even now as she resumed her angry pacing. He stirred. “God, Kit. Do you realize we’ve lost six years?”

Kit’s smile was dazzling, resurrecting memories of the tomboy, the hoyden, the devil in her blood. “I’m back now, Gran’pa, and I mean to stay.”

Spencer leaned back, well pleased with her declaration. He waved at her. “Well, miss-let me see how you’ve turned out.”

With a chuckle, Kit curtsied. “Not too deep, for after all, you are just a baron.” The twinkle in her eye suggested he was the prince of her heart. Spencer snorted. Kit rose and dutifully pirouetted, arms gracefully extended as if she were dancing.

Spencer slapped his knee. “Not bad, even if I say so myself.”

Kit laughed and returned to the chaise.“You’re prejudiced, Gran’pa. Now, tell me what’s happened here.”

To her relief, Spencer obliged. While he rattled on about fields and tenants, Kit listened with half an ear. Inside, she was still reeling. Six years of purgatory she’d spent in London, for no reason at all. The months of misery she’d endured, during which she’d had to come to grips with the loss of not only a beloved grandmother, but effectively of her grandfather as well, were burned into her soul. Why, oh why had she never swallowed her pride and written to Spencer, pleaded with him to allow her to come home? She’d almost done it on countless occasions but, deeply wounded by his apparent rejection of her, she’d always allowed her stubborn pride to intervene. Inherently truthful, she’d never dreamed her aunts had been so deceitful. Never again would she trust those who professed to have her welfare at heart. Henceforth, she silently vowed, she’d run her own life.

Gazing at her grandfather’s white mane, Kit nodded as he told her of their neighbors. The six years had wrought their inevitable changes in him, yet Spencer was still an impressive figure. Even now, with his shoulders slightly stooped, his height and strength made a definite impact. His patrician features, his hooked nose and piercing pale violet eyes shaded by overhanging brows, commanded attention; from his rambling discourse, she gathered he was still deeply involved with county matters, as influential as ever.

Inwardly, Kit sighed. She loved Spencer as she did no other on earth. And he loved her. Yet even he was demonstrably fallible, no real protection against the wolves of this world. No. If she was to come to grief, she’d rather it was self-inflicted. From now on, she’d make her own decisions, her own mistakes.

Later that night, finally alone in the bedroom that had been hers for as long as she could remember, Kit stood at the open window and gazed at the pale circle of the moon, suspended in night’s blackness over the deep. She’d never felt so alone. She’d never felt so free.

Kit was astonished at how easily she slipped back into her Cranmer routine. Rising early, she rode her mare, Delia, then breakfasted with Spencer before turning to whatever task she’d set herself for the day. The afternoon saw her riding again, before evening brought her back to her grandfather’s side. Over dinner, she’d listen to his account of his day, giving her opinions when asked, shrewdly interpolating comments when she wasn’t. Between them, the six years of separation were as though they’d never been.

From that, Kit took her direction. It was useless to wail and gnash her teeth over her aunts’ perfidy. She was free of them-free to forget them. Her grandfather was in good health and, she’d learned, would remain her legal guardian until she was twenty-five; there was no chance of her aunts interfering again. She would waste no more time on the past. Her life was hers-she would live it to the full.

Her daily tasks varied from helping Mrs. Fogg about the house, in the stillroom or the kitchen, to visiting her grandfather’s tenants, who were all delighted to welcome her home.

Home.

Her heart soared as she rode the far-flung acres, the sky wide and clear above her, the wind tugging at her curls. Delia, a purebred black Arab, had been a gift from Spencer on Kit’s eighteenth birthday. Since he’d taught her to ride and had always taken enormous pride in her horsemanship, she hadn’t placed any undue emphasis on the gift. Now, she saw it as a call from a lonely and aching heart, a call she had not, in her innocence, recognized. It only made her love Delia more. Together, they thundered over the sands, Delia’s hooves glistening with wave foam. The sharp cries of gulls came keening on the currents high above; the boom of the surf rumbled in the salt-laden air.

Word of her return spread quickly. She dutifully sustained visits from the rector’s wife and from Lady Dersingham, the wife of a neighboring landowner. Kit’s tonnish grace impressed both ladies. Her manner was assured, her deportment perfection. In the faraway capital she might hold herself insultingly aloof, but at Cranmer, she was Spencer’s granddaughter.

Chapter 2

On the afternoon of her third day of freedom, Kit donned her green-velvet riding habit and asked for a sidesaddle to be put on Delia. When with Spencer or alone, she’d taken to riding astride, scandalously dressed in breeches and coat. The clothes had been made for her years before; Elmina had let down the hems and remade the breeches to fit. The coat was an old one of her cousin Geoffrey’s, recut to her slighter frame but still loose enough to disguise her figure should the need arise. Now that her hair was cropped, leaving the flame-colored curls rioting about her head, she hardly needed the protection of the old tricorne that completed her highly irregular outfit. When garbed in her male attire, a hat shading her features, her sex was moot.

Today she was bound for Gresham Manor. Her closest friend, whom she hadn’t seen in years, lived quietly there with her parents. Amy had never had to go to London. She’d contracted a suitable alliance with a local gentleman of acceptable birth and reasonable fortune; that much, Kit knew from her letters. Amy’s gentleman was with Wellington’s forces in the Peninsula; their wedding would take place once he returned.

Kit rode up the long drive of Gresham Manor and directly around to the stables.

“Miss Cranmer!” The groom came running to take her horse’s bridle. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute there, miss. Back from London town, are ye?”

“That’s right, Jeffries.” Kit smiled and slid from Delia’s back. “Is Miss Amy in?”

“Kit? It is you!”

Turning, Kit barely had time to verify that the figure descending on her was indeed Amy, golden hair in fashionable ringlets, peaches-and-cream complexion still perfect, before she was enveloped in a warm embrace.

“I saw you ride past the library windows and wondered if Mr. Woodley’s sermons had sent me to sleep, and I was dreaming.”

Kit laughed. “Goose! I’ve been back only a few days and couldn’t wait to see you and hear all your news. Is your fiancé back yet?”

“Yes! It’s the most wonderful thing!” Amy gripped Kit’s fingers, her eyes shining. “First him-now you. Clearly the gods have decided to be especially kind.”

Amy drew back, holding Kit at arm’s length to study her elegant attire, the short velvet coat, clasped with gold frogs, and the gracefully sweeping velvet skirts. Amy’s brown gaze returned to Kit bobbed curls, and she grimaced. “Drat! You make me feel positively dowdy. I don’t know whether I’ll introduce you to George after all.”

Kit laughed and drew Amy’s arm through hers. “Fear not. I’ve no designs on your fiance-very likely he’ll be either terrified or disapproving of my wild ways.” They started for the house.

“George,” Amy declared, “is utterly sensible. I’m sure you’ll approve of each other. But I’m dying of curiosity. Why are you back? And why didn’t you write and warn me?”

Kit smiled. “It’s a long story. Perhaps I should meet your mother first, then maybe we can find a nice quiet nook?”

Amy nodded; arm in arm, they entered the house. Lady Gresham, a motherly woman who ruled her household with a firm but benevolent hand, had always had a soft spot for Kit. She insisted the girls take tea with her but, beyond extracting the information that Kit was still unbetrothed, made no effort to learn more of her recent past.

Eventually released, Amy and Kit took refuge in Amy’s bedchamber. Settled in the billows of the bed, Kit smiled. She and Amy had been closer than sisters since the age of six; six years’ separation, bridged by letters, hadn’t dinted their easy familiarity.

At Amy’s prompting, Kit recounted the tale of her aunts’ machinations and how they’d contrived to hold her for six long years. “If it hadn’t been for my cousins, I’m sure their persuasions to marry would have been a great deal more drastic. Once, they locked me in my room for two days, until Geoffrey appeared on the doorstep and insisted on seeing me.” Kit grimaced. “After that, they were reduced to nagging. But when they wheeled in the earl of Roberts, I decided enough was enough. The man was old enough to be my father!” Kit frowned. “And he was altogether…not nice,” she ended lamely. “After that, my aunts finally conceded defeat and declared me unmarriageable. So I was allowed to come home-I knew Gran’pa would at least give me houseroom.”

Amy sent her a stern look. “He was heartbroken when you left. I did tell you.”

Kit’s eyes clouded, violet hazed with grey. “I know, but my aunts were very clever.” A short silence fell; Kit broke it with a sigh. “So now I’m finished with London and with men. I can live very happily without either.”