Under normal circumstances, Heath would have enjoyed a balmy afternoon at the Vauxhall pleasure gardens. The Turkish Tent and the House of Mirrors were both charming, and the Rotunda was a particular favorite.

Today, however, he had not paid for admission merely to join the well-heeled throngs taking in the fresh air along the Spring Gardens. He was not even primarily here to act as escort to his mother and sisters. Not only did the women of his family not require a male gaze hovering about, the task was itself impossible. The moment their half-booted feet stepped free of the family coach, all four women immediately dispersed in opposite directions, leaving Heath standing alone amid the sculpted gardens.

Momentarily alone, that was.

This afternoon’s purported goal was to take his duty to select a bride more seriously. While this direction was new for Heath, the idea of becoming someone’s bride was the obvious intent behind the sea of bright-eyed debutantes throwing themselves into his path, as if sheer proximity would be enough to secure his heart.

Heath’s heart, however, had precious little to do with the matter. He had no wish to be swept away by passion. His reputation, his status, his livelihood, his very future depended upon careful selection of the right woman.

Wealth did not signify. Looks did not signify. The one thing that mattered was strict adherence to unwaveringly proper comportment at all times.

What the determined debutantes with their rouged lips and artfully dropped handkerchiefs didn’t realize was that the very act of brazen flirtation took them quite out of the running. He was the gentleman who quashed gossip and vanquished scandals. He would never align himself with someone likely to become fodder.

Which mayhap explained why Heath was still unwed. Thus far, he had been perfectly content to enjoy his bachelorhood until he met someone who could change his mind. The only woman to interest him had turned out to be a paid companion. But he had sworn never to settle, much less disgrace his family with scandal.

Unbidden, the memory of the pretty, red-haired young lady from the other day sprang to his mind. Miss Eleanora Winfield. She of the flying lemonade and beautiful smile.

Last night, lying alone in his bed, Heath’s thoughts had not been filled with images of pale, insipid debutantes, but rather of sparkling blue eyes and shining red curls. The strict societal rules prohibiting him from asking her to dance had unfortunately done nothing to rid him of the desire. If anything, the thought crept into his mind more and more.

No matter how hard he tried to focus on propriety and duty, the strains of the orchestra would whisper from his memory and suddenly Heath would be right back at the refreshment table.

In the make-believe version of events, he would not have been in such a godawful hurry to sweep someone else onto the dance floor that he nearly mowed down the rosy vision in pink and red. In this version, his time would not be promised anywhere at all. He could spend the next half hour—nay, the rest of the night!—getting to know Miss Winfield. Perhaps coax her into his arms for a moonlit waltz…

“Looking for someone special?” came an unsubtle female whisper at his shoulder.

Heath cleared his throat to hide his preoccupation and offered his elbow to his mother. “There you are! I wondered where you’d got off to. Shall we take a turn about the gardens before the sun sets?”

“Not me.” She folded her arms rather than accept his proffered elbow, and narrowed her eyes. “You promised. Not half an hour ago, you said the very words. ‘Yes, Mother, this year I’ll take a bride.’ All three of your sisters heard you.”

Heath bit back a sigh. As soon as the words had tumbled from his mouth, he’d known they were a mistake. But today’s carriage ride to the gardens had been claustrophobic with his mother’s unremitting despair about her recalcitrant daughters’ embarrassingly unwed states, all of whom cast beseeching eyes at Heath, imploring him to distract their mother before one of the younger two took matters into her own hands. The next thing Heath knew—

“I did indeed promise,” he agreed firmly, as he placed his mother’s gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. “What I did not imply was that the selection would take place this very day in the middle of a pleasure garden. Surely a son can spare a brief moment from intense bride-hunting to promenade a yard or two with his own mother.”

“You’ve already spared two-and-thirty years,” Mother rebuked him without hesitation. “If you would choose from the hundred or so suitable ladies present, we could finally have done.”

Heath clenched his jaw. “I’ve no wish to ‘have done’ by wedding the first young woman I stumble into.”

Although, the other night, stumbling into a woman had been the highlight of the evening. His far-too-brief conversations with Miss Winfield had been well worth the price of a lemonade-soaked elbow. She hadn’t thrown herself at him, flirting outrageously in the hopes of landing a future title. Miss Winfield had been open, honest, sweet. A refreshing change of pace.

“You’ve no wish to wed any eligible young lady.” Mother pursed her lips in pique. “You’re as wretched as your sisters. How did this happen? Camellia is too quiet, Bryony too loud, Dahlia too headstrong, and you are too choosy. Go ahead and take your pick of any of the girls who have been presented to Court. What difference is there between any of them?”

“Have you considered that perhaps I might wish to be able to distinguish my wife from all the other women?” he asked dryly. “A novel thought, to be sure.”

“Enough to make me tear my hair out,” Mother agreed with vehemence. “It’s absurd. You won’t take a wife because these debutantes are all the same, yet no gentleman will wed any of your sisters because they’re far too different. What am I to do with you?”

“Take a curtsey?” Heath suggested. “You’ve raised four children who know who they are, and what they want of life. Is that not the sign of a successful parent?”

“A successful mother is one who manages to marry off her brood,” she answered with a sniff. “I shall have to console myself with holding you to your word. This Season is the Season you take a bride. You said so this very morning.”

“Those are indeed the words I said.” Heath regretted them more with every passing moment.

Mother wrinkled her nose. “It cannot take long. If witless seventeen-year-olds can manage to make a match during the course of a single Season, certainly the heir to a barony can do no worse.”

Heath slanted her a sharp look. “You are not expecting me to wed a witless seventeen-year-old, are you?”

“As long as she has good bones and is from good blood, what should I care?” Mother’s sharp eyes gazed out across the forest of pastel gowns and fluttering fans. “Are you certain today isn’t the day?”

“The day for what?” asked a soft voice from behind his other shoulder.

Camellia, the eldest of Heath’s three younger sisters. He nearly melted in relief. Of his three siblings, stalwart Camellia was the reliable pillar who could be counted upon never to upset their mother.

“The day your brother selects his future baroness.” Mother narrowed her eyes toward the flocks of well-heeled passers-by. “It cannot be difficult. Half these girls would kill for a title.”

“Perhaps he would prefer one more interested in him,” Camellia suggested softly.

Mother stared at her in bafflement. “Of course the title is most important. Once any young lady discards all the unsuitable suitors from the chaff, she then turns her head to the most eligible of whatever is left.”

“First I’m ‘chaff,’ then I’m ‘whatever is left.’” Heath offered his elbow to his sister. “This is quite a motivational speech, Mother.”

“Meant to instruct me as much as you, I suspect,” Camellia said as she took his arm.

“There is no excuse for you staying on the shelf as if you wish to remain a spinster,” Mother chastised her tartly. “Regardless of your own desires, it’s rude to your sisters. You know the eldest must be the first to marry. If you do not bring an appropriate gentleman up to scratch in the next few weeks, your father intends to select a husband for you.”

Camellia blanched. “Can we please go back to picking apart Heath’s life choices?”

“Lovely,” he murmured to her beneath his breath. “Selflessly done.”

Mother sighed. “Heath knows his duty. When the time comes, he shan’t disappoint. Neither will you. It’s your sisters I’m most concerned about. Dahlia has all but ruined her reputation with that preposterous boarding school in the middle of a godforsaken rookery, and Bryony… I don’t even know where to begin with that child.”

“Nobody does,” Heath assured her. “Recall that she’s last in line. By the time it’s her turn to worry about settling down, her wild ways will have softened.”

“Now is the time to worry. It has been so since the moment each of you had your first Seasons.” Mother’s face went alarmingly purple. “Settling down is the entire purpose!”

“I promised to look for a bride,” he reminded her in soothing tones. “I meant every word. You’re right: a garden as beautiful as this might just be the place to find her. But it will never do to have one’s mother squinting sourly in one’s direction whilst one attempts to woo a fair maiden. I shall make my rounds in search of perfection, if you promise to try to enjoy the afternoon.”

Camellia dropped her hand to link arms with their mother. “Heath’s right, you know.”

“He’s not right,” Mother grumbled. “A lady does not squint, sourly or otherwise.”

“I meant that we should enjoy the afternoon while the sun still shines. A miracle at this time of year, is it not?” Camellia gave her a gentle tug toward one of the many long, sweeping avenues dividing the formal gardens. “A relaxing stroll can work wonders on one’s constitution.”

“Very well.” Mother frowned. “But I expect a daughter-in-law by the Season’s end.”

“Look, isn’t that Lady Jersey?” Camellia made a covert shooing motion at Heath as she herded their mother toward a wall of Society dames. “I’ll wager she’ll be delighted to see you.”

“A lady never wagers,” Mother said sharply, but already her attention was focused on Lady Jersey rather than rebuking her children.

“Thank you,” Heath mouthed to his grinning sister, and turned his boots toward the piazzas before his Mother could change her mind.

Perhaps this would be the day he met his future bride. Why not? The afternoon was unseasonably balmy, the sun uncommonly bright, the bustling crowd lively and cheerful. What better omen could a wife-hunting gentleman desire?

Unfortunately, Heath did not feel like a wife-hunting gentleman. He felt like an utter fool whose mind had never left the Carlisles’ ballroom.

From the very first, he had felt a strange sort of connection with Miss Winfield. Yet he had not hesitated to part company the moment she’d made her circumstances clear.

Heath had regretted that haste every moment since.

Perhaps he should not have been so quick to excuse himself from her company. Just because she was not a potential bride did not mean a gentleman must retreat from an innocent conversation. The moment Miss Winfield had walked away, Heath wished she had not.

What if there had been a connection between them? He wasn’t thinking of an attachment, of course, but the dozens of wallflowers and other women he’d befriended over the Seasons. He could have spared Miss Winfield another moment or two, at least. Given himself a chance to discover what that spark might have meant. What if they never chanced to meet again?

“How do you do, Mr. Grenville?” came a quiet baritone from the edge of the throngs.

Startled, Heath blinked and broke into a grin. “Parson! How splendid to see you in Town. And you, Mrs. Blaylock. Is that a new bonnet? I must confess you’ve never looked finer.”

“Oh, you.” She fanned her cheeks. “You make all the old women feel like it’s their first Season.”

“Old women?” Heath shook his finger. “I have yet to lay eyes on one. I daresay you danced more sets than I at the Carlisle ball, young lady.”

Mrs. Blaylock laughed and shooed him with her painted fan. “Off with you, Mr. Grenville. Go find a proper young lady to flatter. Heaven knows you set all their hearts a-flutter.”

“Second only to the Lord of Pleasure,” put in a nasally voice with haughty accents from just behind Heath. “If the penny caricatures are to be believed.”

With a barely restrained sigh, Heath turned to face Phineas Mapleton, the ton’s most dedicated gossip. “The earl’s name is Lord Wainwright, not whatever moniker some petty cartoonist decides to label him. I do hope you don’t give credence to such rubbish?”

“I may be a stallion among pups, but even I have seen Wainwright’s curious effect on women,” Mapleton said with a careless flit to his wrist. “I’ve no need to wait for a Sunday sketch to see debutantes swoon into each other like drunken bowling pins.”

With a mumbled excuse, Mrs. Blaylock and the parson slipped back into the crowd.

Heath wished he could do the same. Unfortunately, his reputation depended upon avoiding scandal at all cost. Rumor of a public disagreement with Phineas Mapleton would sweep through the crowd in a trice. Particularly with Mapleton himself helping the gossip along.

“Come now,” Heath said, keeping his voice pleasant. “Surely we’ve better topics of conversation than idle talk. Did you see how they’ve improved the Rotunda?”

“Actually…” Mapleton lowered his voice with great portent as he cast the least subtle glance over each of his shoulders that Heath had ever witnessed. “I do wish to speak to you about a matter pertaining to gossip. You are the keeper of all of London’s secrets, are you not?”

Heath took a half-step backward. “A gross exaggeration, I’m afraid.”

“Not at all!” Mapleton leaned in. “You helped Kingsley and Turner, and of course there was the dust-up with Quinton and Whitfield, and then absolutely everyone saw you bow heads together with Wellington one week and Underhill the next. You cannot deny your involvement. Everybody knows who to call upon if a scandal needs to disappear.”

Heath narrowed his eyes. “If I were to have represented the private interests of any of the individuals you mentioned, it would only have happened under complete confidentiality. I cannot say more.”

“Precisely what they want. And what they’re willing to pay handsomely for, am I right?” Mapleton’s eyes glittered. “What if we could earn double that amount? Triple. Quadruple.”

Heath’s hackles rose. “There is no ‘we’ in this topic. Nor is it any of our business how others save or spend their pennies.”

“But it could be,” Mapleton insisted. “And I’m not talking about pennies. There is no limit to what we could earn. All you have to do is suggest that the payments rendered were the first in an… installment plan, if you will. To maintain your silence. If they balk, that’s where I come in. While you’re off in a visible, public place, I’ll—”

“Are you suggesting we embark on extortion schemes?” Heath asked in horror. He’d known Mapleton was a shameless gossip, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of darkness in his soul. Nor could Heath imagine why on earth the daft man would believe anyone in their right mind would agree to such a heinous plot.

“Not extortion,” Mapleton said hurriedly. “Scheduled installment payments. Think about it: you already charge a fee for your services. Your clients pay eagerly and happily. I’m simply proposing the possibility of turning that revenue into a river, rather than an isolated drop.”

“You are literally proposing blackmail, Mapleton. Blackmail.” Heath seethed at the thought. “My clients’ money isn’t for me to guard my tongue, but to solve a problem. Not to cause them new ones. The answer is no.” Disgust curled his lip. “And if I discover you’ve continued in this vein for even a moment—”

Mapleton lifted his palms and affected a wounded expression. “At ease, Grenville. I was speaking in jest, of course. Testing your loyalty. After all, I might require your services one day. I wouldn’t wish to place my trust in the wrong person.”

Heath tightened his jaw. He had no doubt that Mapleton would someday embroil himself in a scandal so deep, he’d have no hope of crawling back out. Heath would not be offering his services. He doubted very much that Mapleton’s alleged “test” had been complete fiction. The man was obsessed with gossip, and openly convinced of his superiority over his peers. Yet this was far from someone’s first attempt to devise some twisted game to test Heath’s integrity.

He always passed, of course. Heath’s word was more than his bond—it was his very identity. Honesty and confidentiality weren’t incidental occupational skills required by his job. Integrity was something he required of himself, as a gentleman. As a person. He expected no less from his family and friends.

Which was why men like Phineas Mapleton did not count among that number.

“In case it was unclear, I am both professionally and morally opposed to any uninvited third party exploiting someone else’s private pain for their personal profit,” Heath said, his voice cold. “Money cannot tempt me. Now you know. And if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to the supper tables.”

“Of course, of course. Everyone knows you’ve made your name by keeping secrets, not spreading them.” Mapleton fell back. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment. Just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Do enjoy your supper.”

With that, Mapleton swept an exaggerated bow.

Heath refrained from responding in kind. He simply inclined his head and stalked away from Mapleton before the gossip could come up with any more so-called jests.

He swept his gaze along the long rectangular canal leading from the gardens to the supper tables. Sunlight sparkled in the water, dancing with the reflected blue of the sky and the bright colors of the piazzas. Heath’s jauntiness returned. He would not allow his distasteful encounter with Phineas Mapleton to destroy his good mood.

After all, his future bride was waiting to be discovered.

The Italian-styled piazzas overflowed with familiar, smiling faces. Heath traded quips with friends, bowed to matrons and dowagers, and managed to exchange the usual light banter with young ladies he’d danced or conversed with at this ball or that.

Thanks to his mother, however, he could not completely tamp the sudden misgiving that perhaps the most blatant of the flirtatious bunch were more interested in becoming a baroness than being his wife.

Heath’s muscles tightened. Now that he, too, was considering each lash-fluttering debutante with an eye for marriage, he could not deny what he had long suspected to be true. These were not the debs he was looking for. His search would not be easy, if indeed a perfect match existed.

From across the crowded piazza, a flash of color caught his eye. The jewel-red ringlets shimmering in the sunlight belonged to none other than Miss Winfield, the delightful young lady he definitely should not still have on his mind.

He stared in helpless fascination as she tucked an errant tendril behind her ear and nodded at someone he could not yet determine.

Heath couldn’t help but feel Miss Winfield was rather like a painting.

She wasn’t portrait-perfect in a ton kind of way, with regal dress and colorless blonde tendrils, as befitted a classic English rose. She was far more interesting. The salmon pink of her gown brought out the bright red of her hair, and vice versa. She wasn’t understated. She was stunning.

Nor did Heath believe the color choice was an accident.

Miss Winfield had been wearing pink the last time he saw her. It was her look. Her signature. Although she made every other attempt to blend into the background, the eye-catching pink-and-red combination meant she wasn’t afraid to stand out, to try something new, to do things differently.

He watched with interest as a footman rolled a wheeled chair to the bench near Miss Winfield. Of course. Lady Roundtree’s broken leg. Miss Winfield had said she was a companion. The baroness must then be her patroness. He wondered how that was going.

Many people claimed they could withstand little more than afternoon tea in Lady Roundtree’s company. Not only was the baroness often excitable and dramatic, she was niece to Lady Pettibone, a formidable society matron referred to as the “old dragon” exclusively in hushed whispers.

Lady Pettibone was the Duke of Courteland’s highest-ranking relative, and ruled a great swath of the ton with her sharp tongue and iron will. For that reason, many peers feared that idle words spoken around Lady Roundtree could reach Lady Pettibone’s ear and ruin their standing forever.

Heath and his siblings had no such concerns. As the elder of the four, his and Camellia’s comportment were famously impeccable. The youngest, Bryony, was an unrepentant free spirit who didn’t give a button what anyone said about her behind her back, or even in front of her face.

Their middle sister, Dahlia, had once been as faultless as her elder siblings. Now that she’d begun a charity school in a poor neighborhood and actively sought donations from those with deep pockets, the poverty of the orphans she was attempting to save had begun to taint her own reputation.

Like Bryony before her, Dahlia had simply decided not to care. She did not seek to keep her standing, but to raise the fortunes of others.

Heath found her priorities commendable. Their mother despaired of Dahlia’s ever finding a match.

Marriage. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about. Conversing with potential brides, not keeping beneath the shade of a sycamore tree in order to watch an intriguing companion coddle an excitable, chair-bound baroness as if she were the next Queen of England.

Yet he could not look away. Rather than treat Lady Roundtree’s sometimes-difficult personality as a bore, or as a job to suffer through with a healthy amount of eye-rolling, Miss Winfield’s manner was unflinchingly warm, her expression relentlessly kind.

He tilted his head as she lifted a wicker basket to her lap. Curious. Guests of Lady Roundtree’s class were far more likely to purchase their repast here than pack their own picnic. Whatever the reason, Lady Roundtree appeared pleased with the arrangement—a miracle unto itself. Heath smiled. Miss Winfield must be an exemplary companion.

He pointed his feet in her direction.

When he was within a half-dozen yards of her, the lid to the wicker basket popped open and a flurry of fur shot out with the speed of a cannon, aiming straight for Heath.

He froze in surprise, then grinned at the idea that either Miss Winfield or Lady Roundtree—or both—could not conscience an outing in Vauxhall Gardens without allowing their puppy to enjoy the fine weather as well.

Before he could kneel in preparation for greeting the excitedly yipping pug, Miss Winfield fairly flew across the lawn. She scooped up the puppy and popped him back inside the swinging basket before Heath had a chance to so much as rub behind the pug’s ears.

A charming blush heated the apples of her cheeks. She lay a hand atop the wicker lid to keep its contents corralled inside. “Mr. Grenville! I just… I’m so sorry he got away from me.”

“I’m not,” Heath replied honestly. “I wondered if we would chance to meet again, and your puppy has answered the question.”

“Oh, he is not mine, much as I love him. He’s Lady Roundtree’s dog.” Miss Winfield glanced over her shoulder at her patroness.

Heath followed her gaze. He could not imagine Lady Roundtree doting on a pet, but he was pleased to be proven wrong. That was, if one could consider paying an assistant to keep one’s pet contained out of sight in a basket “doting.”

“Do you come to Vauxhall often?” he asked Miss Winfield, and grimaced.

’Twas precisely the sort of opening gambit rakes poked fun at other gentlemen for using. But if the lady had tired of hearing endless variations of the same question, she gave no sign.

“It’s actually my first time,” she admitted, eyes bright and sparkling. “I had seen a few prints in Lady Roundtree’s collection, but nothing compares to the actual experience.”

Heath could not help an odd pleasure at simply being present to witness her first time among the gardens. Her obvious delight was infectious.

He stepped closer. “What do you like best?”

“I cannot decide,” she said with a happy laugh. “The grounds are enormous. Everywhere I turn, there’s more. The trees, the flowers, the architecture… An artist could paint a thousand color prints and not capture it all.”

“Do you like art?” He hoped his voice did not betray his eagerness.

Although he had no talent for producing anything worth viewing, art had always been Heath’s secret passion. Until now, no one had truly shared his enthusiasm.

Many people claimed to like art, when what they meant was they enjoyed boasting about having glimpsed a famous sculpture, or that they never missed an opportunity to purchase a penny caricature. He was suddenly very interested in learning Miss Winfield’s thoughts on the matter.

“I…” Shadows warred in her eyes, as if his innocent question had stirred up memories she would much rather keep forgotten.

“Forgive me.” He wished he had not asked. “I did not mean to pry.”

“Of course you are not prying.” Her blush deepened. “I do appreciate beauty. Nature’s glory, fanciful architecture, all these endless rows of perfectly pruned flowers. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

“I wish it were,” he said with a wry chuckle. “You and I may be two of the few who paid our shilling in order to see the gardens, rather than to gawk at other people.”

Her eyes widened. “Truly?”

“Unfortunately.” He raised his brows. “I imagine the prints you’ve seen of Vauxhall feature its clientele more prominently than its gardenias.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I daresay you are right. I am glad I did not rely on prints alone to inform my opinion about the gardens. I would have missed out.”

As would Heath. Something wistful curled in his chest. He often wished someone would come along and paint London’s most picturesque locations without including a flock of onlookers. Then again, who but dreamers like him would purchase such a thing? An artist would starve if he failed to include vignettes of London’s elite.

“I am pleased to hear Vauxhall exceeded your expectations,” he said with a smile.

Miss Winfield gazed up at him shyly. “Everything in Town has so far. I’m certain pleasure gardens are only one of the many things I’ll miss dreadfully when I return home.”

Heath frowned. “And when is that unhappy day? Do you live so far away as to make a visit to London impossible?”

He realized the impropriety of his questions too late to recall them. If inquiring about her interest in art had been prying, demanding to know her travel schedule and the location of her home was unforgivable.

“The West Midlands,” Miss Winfield said without hesitation. “As soon as Lady Roundtree can walk about without my aid, I’ll return to my farm.” She sighed pensively. “I miss it very much.”

Heath stared back at her, nonplussed.

She lived on a farm.

And missed it.

He could not have asked for a better reminder of why their lives had never been destined to intersect.

And yet he could not help a small pang of irrational disappointment upon learning that her post was temporary. That she would soon quit London permanently, with no plan to return.

A small yip escaped the wicker basket in Miss Winfield’s arms, and her eyes widened.

“Please pardon my haste, Mr. Grenville. I must get back to Lady Roundtree while I’ve still a post to return to. But it was lovely talking with you.” She hesitated. “You seem more…”

Although he leaned forward with interest, he did not learn in what way he was more than the others.

Miss Winfield dipped a rushed curtsey and dashed back to her patroness before Heath could so much as bid her goodbye.

When she disappeared from view, he forced himself to stroll in the opposite direction. Toward giggling flocks of proper, eligible debutantes. The young ladies he was meant to be courting.

He rubbed his face in disbelief of his predicament. He was supposed to be hunting for a suitable wife, and thus far the only woman to catch his interest for more than a moment was someone else’s paid servant.

Heath squared his shoulders. He would simply have to put Miss Winfield out of his mind for good. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, soon she would be returning to a farm in the West Midlands. By then, he was bound to have found a proper baroness.

Even if she were someone…

Less.