He’d seen her before. Each time, the easy smile in her large gray eyes, fringed with thick lashes, and the sense of calm confidence surrounding her caught at him, stirring something deep inside. As he watched, the cool spring breeze plucked one of her soft brown curls loose and twitched it across her lovely face. She laughed, tucking it back under the brim of her bonnet as she walked. Everyone around her faded into unimportance.

“I’m going to marry that woman,” John Archer stated matter-of-factly as he let his gaze linger on the slim figure of the elegant young woman strolling through Hyde Park. The statement held a deep sense of rightness.

Several of the duke’s other sons were already married, after all. They were busy setting up their homes and forming their own families, so why shouldn’t he do the same?

He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh April air laced with the green scent of new growth, along with the earthier fragrance of horses. Pausing in his own perambulations, John waved at an acquaintance driving by in a green-paneled curricle drawn by a beautiful, high-stepping pair of bay horses.

“What woman?” Toby Wickson asked, holding an utterly unnecessary monocle up to his left eye to focus on the pedestrians walking on a path that threatened to converge upon their own walkway within a mere fifty yards. His perfect vision disrupted by the device, he sighed, lowered it, and blinked rapidly as he swung the monocle by its black ribbon off one pudgy finger. “Surely not that horse-faced creature in the puce pelisse?”

“An unfortunate choice of color, yes, but a vicious and untrue description of the lady wearing it.” John took a deep breath, smiled, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Nonetheless, yes. She is the one.” He kept his gaze fixed on the woman walking arm-in-arm with an older lady, no doubt her mother, as there was a marked similarity in their delicately narrow, thoroughly aristocratic faces.

Not horse-faced—never that—just finely-honed features framed by the loveliest pale brown curls that made him long to thread his fingers through them. A hint of delicate rose tinted her cheeks from the brisk breeze tugging at her skirt, revealing tantalizing glimpses of beautifully well-turned ankles and small feet. Something about her drew him and resonated deep within him, like the mellow knell of a church bell. He could not take his eyes off her. Yes, indeed. She was most definitely the one for him.

The feeling only grew stronger each time he saw her, and his first, immediate sense of a situation was usually correct. He’d certainly relied upon his instincts more than once to his betterment, and to his credit—or occasional downfall—he never dithered or later regretted any quick decision.

Others might complain that he was a loose screw and a reckless gambler, but if nothing else, at least he was decisive. One could not fault him for woolliness.

Wickson laughed and snorted into a large blue handkerchief adorned with large yellow polka dots. “Do you know who that is?”

“No, but that can be easily remedied.” John eyed the round face of his merry companion briefly. “By you, if I am not mistaken.”

“The chit is Lady Victoria, the daughter of the Marquess of Longmoor.” He blew his red-tipped nose into his handkerchief, folded it to wipe his brow, and then tucked it back into his bulging pocket. With an adept movement that spoke of long practice, he withdrew a sweet from the same pocket and popped it into his mouth. Shifting the confection to the side of his mouth, he said, “Bit above your touch, my lad, ain’t she?”

“Not at all. The son of a duke may certainly look as high—or higher.”

“Perhaps the son of a duke might. But you ain’t, being born on the wrong side of the blanket, as it happens.” Wickson crunched the sweet between his teeth and backed up a step, his eyes fixed on John’s hand as it tightened around his walking stick. A sword was concealed within the lacquered wood, and Wickson showed no desire to introduce himself to the point of it. He took a hasty breath and rushed on to distract his longtime friend. “I’ll wager a hundred pounds you won’t even manage an introduction, much less an engagement.”

“Which shall it be, then?”

Wickson stared at him, his protuberant blue eyes giving him the startled appearance of a fish yanked out of the water by an experienced fisherman. “Which what?”

“Introduction or engagement?”

“There’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip.” Wickson smiled and rocked back on his heels, his teeth crushing the last of the sweet. “Marriage, I should say. No mistaking that—not once the papers are signed.”

“Done!” John grabbed his friend’s plump hand and pumped it. “Marriage it shall be then!”

“What? What?” Goggle-eyed, Wickson stared at him. He cleared his throat. “Not serious, Archer.” He frowned, his hand fumbling around in his bulging pocket again. “Bad taste.” Another sweet disappeared between his lips.

“Nonsense.” John’s gaze followed the two ladies. “Nothing could be more romantic—she’ll be entranced. Love at first sight. Romeo and Juliet. All in the very best English tradition.”

Wickson snorted, but went along willingly enough when John grabbed his arm and set a brisk pace designed to intercept the two ladies when their path merged with their own. As they neared the women, John elbowed his friend and jerked his chin at the pair.

Clearing his throat, Wickson stepped forward to block the way. “Lady Longmoor, good afternoon!” He bowed with a flourish only slightly ruined by the rattle of the hard sweet against his teeth. “And Lady Victoria—what a pleasant surprise.”

From Lady Longmoor’s raised brows and widened eyes, it was clear that she was indeed surprised though not, perhaps, pleasantly. “Mr. Wickson,” she said. Her tone was civil, but heavily weighted toward the chilly side.

Lady Victoria caught John’s stare and blushed before gazing down at the brown toes of her delicate walking boots. He smiled when she finally glanced up again to look at him shyly through her thick lashes.

“May I introduce Mr. Archer, Lady Longmoor?” Wickson continued, bowing again and gesturing to John. “Good friend, you know. Same schools—grew up together, one could say. Childhood friends.”

Lady Longmoor’s gray eyes, so similar to her daughter’s, rested on John for a moment. “Archer… Are you a relation of His Grace, the Duke of Peckham?”

Aye, there was the rub. John noted Wickson’s slight flinch, but maintained a confident smile. Best to be vague and avoid the question of legitimate or illegitimate relationships altogether.

“We are quite close,” he murmured with a vague wave of his hand.

Lady Longmoor’s expression grew even more remote, but she had the grace to avoid the possible embarrassment of more specific questioning. She had undoubtedly noted his lack of a title.

Risking another glance at Lady Victoria, he was pleased to see her gray eyes alight with interest and a smile curving her pale pink lips. A frisson of excitement ran down his back. He grinned back before she dropped her gaze again.

Most definitely the one. He’d never seen more lovely gray eyes.

“Fine weather, eh?” Wickson blurted out in a loud voice. He nervously crushed the hard candy between his teeth. “Beautiful day for a walk.”

“Yes,” Lady Longmoor replied. “And we should resume ours, if you don’t mind?”

“Eh? Uh…” Wickson glanced from Lady Longmoor to John. “We would be delighted to escort you, Lady Longmoor.”

John held out his arm to Lady Victoria. She dropped her mother’s arm and stepped closer to him, only to have her mother slip a forceful hand around her elbow and drag her back.

“Lady Victoria,” Lady Longmoor murmured in a low, warning tone. She nodded sharply to John, clearly dismissing him. “Quite unnecessary. We are going in the opposite direction, and there is no need to take you so completely out of your way, Mr. Wickson. Though we appreciate the offer.” She gave her daughter’s arm a barely perceptible shake.

“Oh, yes.” Lady Victoria glanced from her mother’s face to John’s. A small, perplexed frown drew the corners of her mouth down. “It is very kind of you, but Papa will have the carriage waiting at Grosvenor Gate.”

“And we must hurry if we are not to be late. You know how your father dislikes tardiness, my dear.” Lady Longmoor smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Wickson.” She nodded again and pulled her daughter away, striding quickly in the direction of the gate before John or his friend could say anything else.

“Well, there you are, Archer,” Wickson said, watching the ladies move away with such rapidity that their skirts flapped around their ankles.

They almost appeared to be running.

The wide, pale blue silk ribbons of Lady Victoria’s bonnet fluttered over her shoulder as John studied her retreating form. “Yes,” he said.

Wickson shook his head. “I’d recommend you reconsider that wager, except I could use the one hundred pounds. Lady Longmoor has taken against you, if I don’t miss my guess. Didn’t take her long, either, to guess there was something off about you.”

“Forbidden fruit.” John chuckled and gave Wickson’s plump shoulder a punch. “Couldn’t have asked for a better introduction. Lady Victoria’ll be twice as interested, now.”

“Don’t know about that, my fine lad.” Wickson shook his head. “Parents have the last word, at least in my experience. But I won’t complain.” He patted his side. “My wallet won’t complain, either, when it swallows the fruits of your wager.”

Laughing, John led the way back in the direction of the shallow Serpentine before turning left to the Stanhope Gate. A little opposition didn’t frighten him. It only added spice to the rescue of the fair maiden from the clutches of her disapproving family.

After gazing into her brilliant gray eyes, he’d felt only the briefest moment of doubt.

No, no. There could be no doubt. He would win her over. He was nearly sure of it.