Georgie had spent four years waiting for confirmation of Hubert’s death. She had perfected waiting. But today’s waiting was quite different. Things were happening too quickly, the seconds galloping past. She wanted to slow everything down. She cupped her hands and shouted to the girl: “Someone’s coming to help you,” then turned to the boy. “It’s going to be all right.” She snatched a glance at Vickery, already beginning his descent, then climbed to her feet and ran across to her father, pale-faced and agitated by the carriages. Her explanation was hasty, the words tumbling over one another. He caught her arm when she turned to go, his grip almost frantic. “Don’t go near the edge.”

Georgie looked up at his face and saw that he was as scared for her as she was for Vickery. She detached his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I’m not going to fall. I promise.”

Vickery’s words, those. I’m not going to fall.

Georgie caught up her skirts and ran back to where the boy knelt. Time continued to speed past too fast. She saw things in snatches: Vickery scrambling down the slope, moving lightly and without hesitation, making it look easy; the girl clinging to the cliff, strands of hair dancing about her face; a seagull swooping close, feathers ruffled, bright eyes curious. She glanced behind her. Both teams of horses were unharnessed, the coachmen and footmen working feverishly, laying the long reins out on the road, knotting them together.

She looked back at Vickery. He was no longer scrambling down the slope, but moving sideways, careful and purposeful, thirty feet above the waves.

He halted and discarded his boots.

Someone gave a faint, anguished moan alongside her. Vickery’s valet, Fletcher. “Not the ones by Hoby,” he muttered.

Vickery peeled off his stockings, rolled up his sleeves, and began climbing upwards, not rushing, choosing each handhold with care. The wind ruffled his shirt, ruffled his hair, dashed the waves against the rocks below, but he wasn’t afraid. She could see it in his body, in the way he moved, the sureness, the confidence.

Georgie found that she couldn’t watch. She focused on the girl instead. “Hold tight,” she cried. “He’s coming.”

Someone nearby was praying, the words too low to hear clearly. She glanced around and found her maid, Geddes, crouched there. When she looked back down, Vickery had almost reached the girl.

Georgie held her breath, unable to inhale, unable to exhale. All she could do was watch in an agony of hope and fear.

“Miss, I got the reins.”

Georgie moved hastily aside. Greenlow crouched where she’d been.

“Are you certain they’re safe?” she said.

“Your father checked them, miss. They’ll hold.”

Time sped up again, moving too fast. Greenlow fed the reins down the cliff. Vickery clung to the rocks with one hand and fastened the reins around the girl with the other. He was talking. The wind brought her snatches of his voice, low and calm and steady. Time moved forward again. The reins pulled taut. Georgie heard the coachmen and the footmen grunt with effort, heard a child’s high, thin wail of terror—and then suddenly the girl was on the road, thrashing like a landed fish, shrieking and sobbing.

“Look after her,” Georgie told her maid, not tearing her gaze from Vickery. She stared down at him, ignoring the babble of voices. He grinned up at her, fearless, and shouted something. The wind whipped the words from his mouth. “—go back—way I came—”

Someone crouched alongside her with a clink of buckles. Greenlow, with the reins.

“He’s going to climb down,” Georgie told him.

Greenlow grunted. “Best he do that. He’s a heavy one, our duke.” He climbed to his feet again, taking the reins with him.

Vickery moved more slowly on his descent and Georgie remembered what he’d said earlier: it was easier to climb up than down. She watched with her heart in her mouth, barely breathing, noting each pause, each grip, each step. The seagull watched, too, its wings outspread, swooping and soaring in the wind currents. So did Vickery’s valet, kneeling alongside her.

Vickery finally reached his boots. He tugged them on, looked up and waved, and began scrambling up the slope. Beside her, his valet blew out a deep breath. “Thank the Lord.”

Georgie watched until Vickery was nearly at the road again, then climbed to her feet and looked around. The coachmen and the footmen were harnessing the horses to the carriages. Her maid and her father’s valet were fussing over the two children. Only one person was standing motionless: her father, watching her, his face taut.

“Vic’s fine, Papa,” Georgie said, going to him and hugging him tightly. “Come with me.” She took his hand and tugged him with her, almost running.

Ahead, Vickery clambered onto the road. He paused for a moment, hands on his knees, catching his breath, and then straightened, sweating and wind-tousled.

Georgie released her father’s hand and ran to him. Vickery caught her up in his arms, lifting her off her feet, swinging her around. “Told you not to worry,” he said, grinning. He set her back on her feet, but didn’t release her. Instead he kissed her. He tasted of salt spray. Then he lifted his head and looked at her father. “You should know that Georgie and I are getting married.”

“I should bloody well hope so after a display like that,” her father said. He looked as if he was struggling between heartfelt relief that Vickery was alive and an equally heartfelt desire to yell at him for kissing his daughter on a public road. Vickery’s valet, his arms full of his master’s clothes, was discreetly studying the toes of his shoes.

Vickery released her hastily. “Sir—”

“Damn fool boy,” her father said, and strode across and hugged Vickery roughly. “You took ten years off my life. Now put some bloody clothes on. You’re half-naked.”