The traveling party-minus the dowager, to everyone’s relief-met up in the inn’s dining room for breakfast. Jack knew he’d been unable to keep his heart from his eyes when he saw Grace enter the room. Would it always be this way, he wondered. Would he see her and feel this indescribable, overwhelming rush of feeling?

It wasn’t even desire. It was far more than that.

It was love.

Love. With a capital L and swirly script and hearts and flowers and whatever else the angels-and yes, all those annoying little cupids-wished to use for embellishment.

Love. It could be nothing else. He saw Grace and he felt joy. Not just his joy, but everyone’s. The stranger seated behind him. The acquaintance across the room. He saw it all. He felt it all.

It was amazing. Humbling. Grace looked at him, and he was a better man.

And she thought he would allow anyone to keep them apart.

It would not happen. He would not let it happen.

Throughout breakfast she did not precisely avoid him-there were far too many shared glances and secret smiles for that. But she had been careful not to seek him out, and indeed, he’d not had an opportunity to speak with her even once. He probably wouldn’t have been able to do so even if Grace was not so inclined to be circumspect; Amelia slipped her hand in Grace’s right after breakfast and did not let go.

Safety in numbers, Jack decided. The two ladies were stuck in the coach all day with the dowager. He would have been blindly reaching for a hand if forced to endure the same.

The three gentlemen rode on horseback, taking advantage of the fine weather. Lord Crowland decided to take a seat in the carriage after their first stop to water the horses, but thirty minutes later he was staggering back out, declaring the ride far less exhausting than the dowager.

“You would abandon your daughter to the dowager’s venom?” Jack asked mildly.

Crowland did not even try to make excuses. “I did not say I was proud of myself.”

“The Outer Hebrides,” Thomas said, trotting by. “I’m telling you, Audley, it’s the key to your happiness. The Outer Hebrides.”

“The Outer Hebrides?” Crowland echoed, looking from man to man for explanation.

“Almost as far as the Orkneys,” Thomas said cheerfully. “And much more fun to say.”

“Have you holdings there?” Crowland asked.

“Not yet,” Thomas replied. He looked over at Jack. “Perhaps you can restore a nunnery. Something with insurmountable walls.”

Jack found himself enjoying the mental picture. “How have you lived with her for so long?” he asked.

Thomas shook his head. “I have no idea.”

They were talking as if it were already decided, Jack realized. They were talking as if he had already been named the duke. And Thomas did not seem to mind. If anything, he appeared to be looking forward to his imminent dispossession.

Jack looked back at the carriage. Grace had insisted that she could not marry him if he was the duke. And yet, he could not imagine doing it without her. He was unprepared for the duties that came with the title. Astoundingly so. But she knew what to do, didn’t she? She’d lived at Belgrave for five years. She had to know how the place was run. She knew the name of every last servant, and as far as he could tell, their birthdays, too.

She was kind. She was gracious. She was innately fair, of impeccable judgment, and far more intelligent than he.

He could not imagine a more perfect duchess.

But he did not want to be the duke.

He truly didn’t.

He’d gone over it in his mind countless times, reminding himself of all of the reasons why he’d make a very bad Duke of Wyndham, but had he ever actually come out and said it plainly?

He did not want to be the duke.

He looked over at Thomas, who was looking up at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand.

“It must be past noon,” Lord Crowland said. “Shall we stop for lunch?”

Jack shrugged. It did not matter to him.

“For the sake of the ladies,” Crowland said.

As one, they turned and looked over their shoulders toward the carriage.

Jack thought he saw Crowland cringe. “It’s not pretty in there,” he said in a low voice.

Jack quirked a brow.

“The dowager,” Crowland said, shuddering. “Amelia begged me to let her ride after we watered the horses.”

“That would be too cruel to Grace,” Jack said.

“That’s what I told Amelia.”

“As you were fleeing the carriage,” Thomas murmured, smiling just a little.

Crowland cocked his head. “I would never claim otherwise.”

“And I would never chastise you for it.”

Jack listened to the exchange with little interest. By his estimation, they were about halfway to Butlersbridge, and it was growing increasingly difficult to find humor in the inane. “There is a clearing a mile or so ahead,” he said. “I’ve stopped there before. It’s suitable for a picnic.”

The two other men nodded their agreement, and about five minutes later they’d found the spot. Jack dismounted and went immediately to the carriage. A groom was helping the ladies down, but as Grace would be the last to alight, it was easy enough for him to position himself so he might take her hand when she emerged.

“Mr. Audley,” Grace said. She was nothing but polite, but her eyes shone with a secret warmth.

“Miss Eversleigh.” He looked down at her mouth. The corners were moving slightly…very slightly. She wanted to smile. He could see it.

He could feel it.

“I will eat in the carriage,” the dowager announced sharply. “Only heathens eat on the ground.”

Jack tapped his chest and grinned. “Proud to be a heathen.” He quirked his head toward Grace. “And you?”

“Very proud.”

The dowager marched once around the perimeter of the field-to stretch her legs, she said-and then disappeared back inside the carriage.

“That must have been very difficult for her,” Jack commented, watching her go.

Grace had been examining the contents of a picnic basket, but at that she looked up. “Difficult?”

“There is no one to harass in the carriage,” he explained.

“I think she feels that we have all ganged up upon her.”

“We have.”

Grace looked conflicted. “Yes, but-”

Oh…no. He was not going to listen to her make excuses for the dowager. “Don’t tell me that you harbor any sympathy toward her.”

“No.” Grace shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that, but-”

“You are far too softhearted.”

At that she smiled. Sheepishly. “Perhaps.”

Once the blankets were laid out, Jack maneuvered them so they were seated a bit apart from the others. It was not very difficult-or very obvious-to do so; Amelia had sat down next to her father, who appeared to be delivering some sort of lecture, and Thomas had wandered off, probably in search of a tree that needed watering.

“Is this the road you traveled when you went to school in Dublin?” Grace asked, reaching for a slice of bread and cheese.

“Yes.”

He’d tried to keep the tightness out of his voice, but he must not have succeeded, because when he looked at her, she was regarding him in that unsettling way of hers. “Why don’t you want to go home?” she asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that her imagination was too active, or, since he really ought to be reverting to form, something clever and grandiose, involving sunshine, twittering birds, and milk of human kindness.

Statements like that had got him out of far more delicate situations than this.

But he hadn’t the energy just now, nor the will.

And, anyway, Grace knew better. She knew him better. He could be his usual flip and funny self, and most of the time-he hoped-she would love him for it. But not when he was trying to hide the truth.

Or hide from the truth.

“It’s complicated,” he said, because at least that wasn’t a lie.

She nodded and turned to her lunch. He waited for another question, but none were forthcoming. So he picked up an apple.

He looked over. She was cutting into a slice of roast chicken, her eyes on her utensils. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided not to, then brought the apple to his mouth.

Then didn’t bite into it.

“It’s been over five years,” he blurted out.

She looked up. “Since you’ve been home?”

He nodded.

“That’s a long time.”

“Very long.”

“Too long?”

His fingers tightened around the apple. “No.”

She took a few bites of her meal, then looked up. “Would you like me to slice that apple for you?”

He handed it over, mostly because he’d forgotten he was holding it. “I had a cousin, you know.” Bloody hell, where had that come from? He hadn’t meant to say anything about Arthur. He’d spent the last five years trying not to think about him, trying to make sure that Arthur’s was not the last face he saw before he fell asleep at night.

“I thought you’d said you had three cousins,” Grace said. She wasn’t looking at him; she gave every sign of giving her complete focus to the apple and knife in her hands.

“Only two now.”

She looked up, her eyes large with sympathy. “I am sorry.”

“Arthur died in France.” The words sounded rusty. He realized it had been a long time since he’d said Arthur’s name aloud. Five years, probably.

“With you?” Grace asked softly.

He nodded.

She looked down at the apple slices, now neatly arranged on a plate. She didn’t seem to know what to do with them.

“You’re not going to say that it wasn’t my fault?” he said, and he hated the sound of his voice. It was hollow, and pained, and sarcastic, and desperate, and he couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“I wasn’t there,” she said.

His eyes flew to her face.

“I can’t imagine how it would have been your fault, but I wasn’t there.” She reached across the food and laid her hand briefly atop his. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”