Miles's first assumption, based largely on the sight of a silver-headed cane plowing towards his head, had been that his attacker was Vaughn. But Geoff, confronted at Pinchingdale House at an ungodly hour of the morning (before noon, at any rate), had decisively denied that possibility. Several times. With increasing emphasis. No, he hadn't let Vaughn out of his sight. No, he was really quite sure. No, Vaughn couldn't have left the room without his knowing. Would Miles like him to find a Bible somewhere to swear on?

Miles had politely turned down the offer of a Bible. Really, Geoff was dashed touchy these days.

Geoff had also mentioned, as proof of his complete concentration on the movements of Vaughn, that Vaughn had indeed approached Henrietta, solicited her hand for a dance, and reiterated his hopes that she would grace his humble abode that evening.

Too many bloody men were showing interest in Henrietta. First Frobisher, now Vaughn. If Miles had known that keeping her out of the arms of her amorous suitors was going to be a full-time job, he would have told Richard to keep an eye on her himself. All that was needed was for Prinny to take an interest in Hen, and then they'd really be in for it.

Could she just try to be a little less attractive?

For a start, she could pull her hair back more sternly. Those little wisps at the nape of her neck practically invited caresses. Then there were her gowns. The gowns definitely had to go. Miles jerked harder than he'd intended on the reins. Not like that. The gowns definitely had to stay on. There would be no mental removing of clothing. None at all. He'd just pretend that little thought sequence hadn't happened. What he meant was the gowns needed to be replaced, preferably with something of a thick, heavy material that wouldn't cling to her legs when she walked. And whatever it was, it had better bloody well button straight up to the neck. Dammit all, what was Lady Uppington thinking, letting Hen go around half-exposed like that?

Miles tugged at his cravat.

"Unseasonably warm day for May, isn't it?" he said to the marquise.

At least, that's what he opened his mouth to say to the marquise. Miles's mouth remained open, but no sound came out. As he'd turned to look at his companion, his eye caught a glimpse of a very familiar forehead.

Good God, was that… Henrietta? Miles blinked a few times, wondering if there was any truth to the old wives' tale that if you thought about a person hard enough they'd appear. She certainly looked pretty solid for a figment of his imagination. And green. Very green.

As Miles tried to puzzle that one out, Henrietta's eyes met his. Her hazel eyes widened, and an expression of indescribable horror flashed across her face. Before he could lift his hand in greeting, Henrietta's forehead disappeared. Just like that. One minute it was there, the next minute it wasn't.

Pulling back on the reins, Miles drew his team to an expert stop.

“Is something wrong?” enquired the marquise, with just a bit of an edge to her voice.

Miles didn’t answer right away. He was too busy leaning as far as he could over the edge of the phaeton without tipping the whole contraption over. He had seen Henrietta, hadn’t he? At least, a small piece of Henrietta, poking over the edge of that bush. Miles peered more closely. Now, the bush just looked like… a bush. Green. Bushy. In fact, it bore a remarkable resemblance to that prickly thing he’d tumbled into last night. It didn’t in the least bit resemble Henrietta.

Miles frowned. Had he descended to imagining things? True, he wasn’t his usual well-rested and collected self — Miles ignored the little voice in his head that snorted at the latter half of that statement; it was bad enough to conjure Hen up behind bushes without her voice joining in, too — but, seeing people who weren’t there? Maybe he should cut back on the claret.

Just as Miles was about to consign himself to a dark little hole in Bedlam, he saw it. A shape that could not possibly belong to shrubbery. In fact, it looked remarkably like a well-rounded derriere.

The possessor of the attribute in question hunched facedown behind the hedge, clinging desperately to the timeless delusion that if she couldn’t see anyone, no one could see her.

“I,” muttered Henrietta through a mouthful of grass, “am an idiot. I am a great big idiot.”

She spat out a small bug that had ventured into her mouth, and continued her litany of misery in tight-lipped silence. Maybe, she told her self, maybe, if she was truly fortunate, Miles hadn’t seen her after all. Maybe, she thought, on a tide of rising optimism, he had been too pre occupied with the horses to notice. Maybe, even if he had noticed, he would convince himself he had imagined it. People were, after all, very good at not seeing what they didn’t expect to see, and goodness only knew Miles wouldn’t expect to find her crouching behind a bush. Maybe…

Two sets of hooves clomped to a halt right in front of Henrietta’s hedge.

Maybe she should emigrate to Australia under an assumed name. Preferably within the next five seconds.

“Why, Mr. Dorrington!” the marquise exclaimed in tones of alarm ing sweetness, “Isn’t that your little friend behind that hedge?”

Someone groaned. Henrietta realized it had been her.

Further down the hedge, loyal Charlotte had already popped up, and was saying brightly, “Hello, Mr. Dorrington! How lovely, and, um, unexpected to see you.”

Henrietta tentatively tilted her head. With the one eye that wasn’t buried in the grass, Hen could see Charlotte’s hand, under cover of the foliage, making little flapping motions, urging her to stay down. Seeking reinforcements, Charlotte dragged Penelope up by the arm.

“Penelope and I were just… um…“

Henrietta couldn’t see what was going on in the curricle, but just picturing it made her wince. The marquise’s brows arched in an expres sion of supercilious disbelief. Miles, half amused, half confused. Penelope and Charlotte standing there behind the hedge like a leprechaun honor guard.

“Would you be so kind as to tell Henrietta I’m here?” Miles was saying politely.

Oh, blast. Blast, blast, blast.

Henrietta rose very slowly, brushing grass and dirt and debris off her knees, fervently hoping she didn’t have any twigs in her hair, or dirt smudges on her cheeks, just to make her humiliation complete

“Hello,” she said hopelessly. It was just as she’d imagined; the marquise in all her perfection eyeing her as she would an oversized insect, and Miles, blast him, with a look of barely contained amusement pasted all over his transparent face. “We were..

“I know,” Miles helpfully filled in for her. “Just, um. Charlotte told me. By the way, you have a twig in your hair”

“How unique,” contributed the marquise.

Henrietta lifted her chin. The twig came unmoored and bobbed distractingly against her cheek. “We were just on a nature walk,” she said brightly, brushing away the twig “To look at…um…”

“Nature!” finished Charlotte.

Penelope, the traitor, snickered into her green lace handkerchief

Hmph. If Henrietta didn't know better, she might have suspected Penelope of setting up the entire humiliating fiasco as a means of making sure that Miles couldn't see her without doubling over in laughter. Being discovered upside down behind a bush was not exactly conducive to inspiring burning passion. But Penelope wasn't capable of anything that devious. Was she?

"Nature," repeated the marquise, who had clearly not had any truck with that particular commodity. Her eye dwelled tellingly on the green smears marring Henrietta's kid gloves.

Taking a deep breath and gritting her teeth, Henrietta patted the side of the hedge, and said in her best governess voice, "Did you know that this is an exceedingly rare species of bush?"

Miles looked quizzically at the prickly green mass. "Really?"

"Yes! It's called, um…"

"Shrubbus verdantusl" supplied Charlotte eagerly. "Is it any relation to Hedgus pricklianus?" inquired Miles. "Don't be silly," said Henrietta loftily. "There's no such thing as Hedgus pricklianus."

"Right." Miles nodded very solemnly, but Henrietta could see his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Not like Shrubbus — what was it again? — victorious? that well-known botanical wonder."

Would it be an impediment to their future married bliss if she clouted him over the head with a fallen tree branch?

Miles was starting to make little snorting noises, like a dragon about to blow. "How" — sputter — "clever of you to disguise yourselves so that you don't scare away the shrubbery."

"Touchy things, hedges," agreed Henrietta.

The snorts and sputters took over. Even the horses joined in, bucking and snorting, until Miles recovered enough to grab for the reins, still clutching his ribs with his spare hand. Henrietta caught Miles's eye as he rolled with mirth, and reluctantly grinned back. Oh, fine, so it was funny.

Penelope gave her a "This is what you want to fall in love with you?" look.

"What in the blazes are you really doing out here?" asked Miles, when he'd calmed the horses. "Aren't you supposed to be having a voice lesson?"

"Oh, no." Henrietta fell back a step, one grass-stained hand to her lips like an actress in a bad melodrama. "What time is it?"

Penelope fished the pretty enamel watch she wore on a chain around her neck out of her bodice and flicked it open. "Six-fifteen."

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," repeated Henrietta. She looked frantically from side to side, as though a magic carpet might suddenly appear out of the air and whisk her back to Uppington House. "I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago."