His own eyes narrowed as Gillingham ran through the introductions. There was no doubt about it. The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society were not thrilled to see him. In fact, he could have sworn he saw annoyance and suspicion on their faces. One would almost think the good ladies of the society would prefer he not be there at all.

Gillingham quickly finished the formalities. "The Misses Inglebright, Miss Bracegirdle, Miss Hornsby, and Miss Ostly."

The women all responded politely, if unenthusiastically, to the introductions. There was no Miss Faringdon, Simon realized. He could not deny he was relieved but it also complicated the matter. He hoped she was merely late in arriving.

"Kind of you to join us today, my lord," Miss Bracegirdle, a tall, bony woman with a long face said quite coldly.

"Yes, indeed," the older of the two Inglebright sisters declared primly. She sounded as if she would much rather he had gone hunting instead. "How nice of you to take an interest in our little country society. I fear you will find us quite uninteresting, however. Not at all like the brilliant salons in London."

"No, no, not at all like London gatherings," Miss Ostly, plump and dowdy, chimed in quickly. "We're quite behind the times here, my lord."

"I have encountered no particularly brilliant literary salons in London," Simon said smoothly, curious at the reception he was receiving. Something was not as it should be here. "Merely a few groups of chattering ladies and dandies who prefer to discuss the latest scandals rather than the latest works of literature."

The five women glanced uneasily at each other. The younger Miss Inglebright cleared her throat. "As it happens, we occasionally slip into such silly talk ourselves, my lord. You know how it is in the country. We look to city folk for the best gossip."

"Then perhaps I will be able to provide you with some of the latest on dits," Simon retorted, half amused. They were not going to get rid of him that easily. He would leave when he chose.

The women glanced at each other, appearing more uncertain and annoyed than ever. At that moment the sound of a horse's hooves clattering down the lane caught everyone's attention.

"Oh, here comes Miss Faringdon now," Miss Hornsby said, showing signs of genuine excitement for the first time.

The elusive Miss Faringdon, at last Simon glanced over his shoulder to see a dappled gray mare cantering toward the small group. Something went taut in his gut.

The first thing he noticed was that the woman on the mare's back was riding astride rather than sidesaddle. The second thing he realized was that this was certainly no gilt-headed Faringdon. Bright red curls were flying about wildly beneath a jaunty straw bonnet.

Something sparkled on the lady's face. Simon was deeply intrigued. Emily Faringdon was wearing a pair of silver-framed spectacles. The sight of them held him riveted for a few seconds. No other woman of his acquaintance would have been caught dead wearing spectacles in public.

"Miss Emily Faringdon," Lord Gillingham confided in a low whisper. "Family's pleasant enough, I suppose, but they're all gamesters, the lot of 'em. Everyone calls 'em the Flighty, Feckless Faringdons, y'know. With the exception of Miss Emily, that is. Nice girl. Too bad about the Unfortunate Incident in her past."

"Ah, yes. The Incident." Simon recalled the gossip he had gently pried out of his hostess. It had been extremely useful information. Although he did not yet have all the details, he knew enough about Emily's past to know he had a powerful tactical advantage in the campaign he was about to launch.

He could not take his eyes off Emily Faringdon. He saw with amazement that there were a handful of freckles sprinkled across her small nose. And the eyes behind the sparkling lenses were quite green. Incredibly green.

Lord Gillingham coughed discreetly behind his hand. "Shouldn't have said anything," he muttered. "Happened when she was barely nineteen, poor chit. All in the past. No one mentions it, naturally. Trust you won't, either, sir."

"Of course not," Simon murmured.

Lord Gillingham straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled kindly at Emily. "Good afternoon, Miss Emily."

"Good afternoon, my lord. Lovely day, is it not?" Emily brought her mare to a halt and smiled warmly at Gillingham. "Are you joining us this afternoon?" She started to dismount without assistance.

"Allow me, Miss Faringdon." Simon was already out of the saddle, tossing the reins to Gillingham. His eyes skimmed quickly, assessingly over Emily as he strode forward. He was still having trouble believing he had run his quarry to earth at last. Every Faringdon he had ever seen had been tall, fair-haired, and inordinately handsome.

Looking at Emily now, Simon could only assume that some mischievous fairy had slipped a changeling into the Faringdon nursery twenty-four years ago. Emily even looked a bit like an elf. For starters, this particular Faringdon was no statuesque goddess. She was much too short, very slender, and had no bosom to speak of. Indeed, everything about her appeared to be slight and delicate, from her little tip-tilted nose to the gentle curve of her hip, which was nearly indiscernible beneath the heavy fabric of her old-fashioned, faded riding habit.

Sunlight glinted again on the lenses of Emily's spectacles as she turned her head to look down at Simon. He found himself pinned beneath that inquisitive green gaze. It was a gaze that fairly glittered with a curiously refreshing blend of lively intelligence and good-natured innocence.

Simon decided in that moment that Miss Emily Faringdon was going to prove anything but dull. A bit unfashionable, obviously, but definitely not dull. She was just like her letters, after all, he thought. The lady was an original.

Simon reached up, his hands closing about Emily's small waist. She felt lithe and supple under his fingers. Strong for her size, too. And full of feminine vitality.

Damnation. He was growing aroused just touching her. Simon frowned and instantly regained control of himself.

Gillingham started hasty introductions but Emily was not listening closely.

"Thank you, sir," she said a bit breathlessly as she started to slide down off the mare. Her attention was on her bulging reticule, which she had attached to the saddle. "Blade, did he say? Gracious, we are certainly not in the habit of entertaining earls on Thursday afternoon."

"My given name is Simon. Simon Augustus Traherne," Simon said deliberately. "I believe you know me as S. A. Traherne, Miss Faringdon."

Emily Faringdon's mouth dropped open in shock and her large eyes widened in obvious horror behind the lenses of her spectacles.

"S. A. Traherne? No, you cannot possibly be Mr. Traherne." She jerked backward out of his grasp as if burned.

"Have a care, Miss Faringdon," Simon snapped as he saw the mare's head come up in sudden alarm.

But his warning came too late. Emily's booted foot accidentally struck the rounded belly of the mare. The poor animal took offense at such ill treatment and danced sideways with a nervous movement. The reticule banged against the mare's flanks.

Emily's spectacles started to slide off her nose. She tried to push them back in place and struggled to control her mount at the same time. But she was already halfway off the horse and when the mare snorted again and made another abrupt, sidling movement, Emily began to slide inevitably downward.

"Good heavens," shrieked Miss Bracegirdle, "she's falling off the horse."

"I say," Lord Gillingham began in obvious concern.

One of the Misses Inglebright rushed forward to make a wild grab for the mare's bridle.

It was the last straw as far as the mare was concerned. The animal heaved its front half upward, pawing at the air with her hooves.

"Bloody hell," Emily muttered as she lost her balance completely and fell straight into Simon's waiting arms.

Chapter 2

Emily wished the floor of Rose Cottage would open up beneath her chair and swallow her whole. She was mortified. She was humiliated. She was in the throes of excruciating emotional anguish. She would have given anything to be able to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Unfortunately, her sensibilities were not quite that delicate.

Above all, she was furious. It was absolutely intolerable that the great love of her life should have snuck up on her and caught her so woefully unprepared for such a momentous occasion.

She took a sip of tea to calm her nerves, listening as the ladies of the local literary society made a desultory effort to discuss the latest articles in a recent edition of the Edinburgh Review. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm attached to the project.

The cup rattled in the saucer when Emily replaced it. The sound made her realize how strained her nerves were. At this rate it was just a matter of time before she spilled tea all over the carpet.

"I suppose I should not have been surprised by the review of Southey's latest effort." Simon's cool, deep voice cut through a fluttering conversation on John MacDonald's

rather tedious work, A Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire. "As usual, the editors are entirely off the mark in their comments. They simply do not know how to take Southey. Of course, they do not seem to know how to take Wordsworth or Coleridge, either, do they? One would think they had a vendetta against the Lake poets."

The weak discussion, which had had a difficult time getting started in the first place, promptly ground to a complete halt. Again.