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I will kill Walter Leggett.

Lily played endless rounds of catch while both girls stood between the adults and tried to snatch the ball, and the earl ensured they occasionally could.

While Lily smiled, laughed, and hid a growing sense of despair. Hessian Kettering had been sorely betrayed by a woman’s deceptions before. Now Lily was inveigling herself into his good graces, and he probably thought her very brave and forthright for disclosing Uncle’s agenda.

She was a lying coward, and that had never bothered her as much as it did now.

Daisy made a great leap for the ball, missed, and collapsed in a heap.

“You nearly got it!” Grampion called, though his good cheer had no effect.

Daisy sat in the grass sniffling, Bronwyn standing over her worriedly. “Did you break your ankle, Daze? Maybe you broke your leg, or your ankle and your leg.”

Grampion knelt in the grass. “I doubt it’s broken. Daisy is a robustly healthy young lady, with strong bones and nimble reflexes.”

He passed Daisy a handkerchief and unlaced her little half boot. “There, you see? A perfectly whole, pretty little foot.”

“And a stocking,” Bronwyn said, crouching. “Does it hurt like blazes, Daisy?”

“Y-yes, and I fell.”

“You took a graceful tumble,” Grampion retorted. “Can you wiggle your toes?”

She wiggled them.

“Can you wiggle your foot?”

Another wiggle.

He held his palm near her sole. “Can you kick my hand?” He made a production out of flinging his hand back when Daisy kicked his palm. “We have a mere field injury, which should come right with rest and a little cosseting. As it happens, Miss Ferguson has brought lemonade and cakes, also a storybook.” He scooped Daisy up and got her situated piggyback. “Shall we to the blanket, Miss Ferguson?”

Lily’s middle felt funny, and her heart was thumping against her ribs. She’d once wrenched her ankle badly when bringing the milk in from the dairy. She’d spilled one bucket and saved the other. Her foot had hurt for days, but all she’d got for her trouble was a thrashing and a week without supper.

 “You’re sure Daisy doesn’t need a physician?”

“My Daisy is made of stern stuff. She’ll come right, you’ll see.”

“I’m made of stern stuff too,” Bronwyn announced. “But I would like some tea cakes.”

Lily took Bronwyn’s hand, though tea cakes wouldn’t help what ailed her. She liked Grampion, she respected him, she was attracted to him, and every time she told herself that such nonsense could go nowhere, he did something honorable or dear and wrecked her intentions all to flinders.

This would not do.

Grampion read the fable about the crow who was clever enough to raise the water level in a pitcher by dropping rocks into it, while the girls devoured tea cakes and tossed crumbs to presuming pigeons. All too soon, the outing came to an end, for it was the last outing Lily would permit herself with his lordship.

While the girls made a final inspection of the hedges for their rabbit friends, Grampion assisted Lily to fold up the blanket.

They started with a good shake, then stepped closer to match the corners. Grampion closed his fingers over Lily’s.

“Might you ride with me in the park tomorrow? Early, when it’s quiet and free of children.”

“My lord, I’ve confessed my uncle’s intention to turn your brother up sweet by inflicting my company upon you. You need not be gallant.”

He brushed a thumb over Lily’s knuckles, a small gesture that bespoke a great mistake in progress.

“Your uncle is an idiot, Lily Ferguson, if he thinks either Kettering brother can be swayed by a

pretty face and intelligent companionship. Won’t you please come riding with me?”

“That isn’t wise.”

Another subtle caress. “Haven’t you had enough of being unrelentingly wise and proper? I certainly have. Also enough of being lonely.”

More than enough. “You must not say such things.” But if he must say them, how delightful that he’d say them to Lily.

He tugged the blanket from her grasp and folded it in a few brisk moves. “I am not a callow swain, to be deterred by your uncle’s pawing and snorting, and you are not a mere girl, incapable of forming your own opinions. Won’t you please come riding with me?”

Had he insisted, commanded, or assumed, Lily might have stood a chance. He asked—sincerely and politely.

“A short hack only, and I’ll bring my groom.”

“Of course you will. Meet me at the gate at six o’clock, and we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“I’ll look forward to that, my lord.”

All the way home, Lily contemplated the folly of accepting Grampion’s invitation and decided that tomorrow’s outing with his lordship could be her last as easily as today’s.

What difference would one more gallop in the park make?

Lily returned Bronwyn to her parents and endured Miss Fotheringham’s lamentations about spring air and megrims. All the while, Lily considered a question: Uncle’s attempts to insinuate himself into the Kettering family’s good graces were no longer a secret, and yet, Grampion had asked for this outing in the park.

What had motivated Grampion’s invitation, and—novel, delicious, forbidden question—if he was intent on courting Lily, why shouldn’t she encourage his suit? Uncle wanted cordial relations with the Ketterings, and if Lily married the earl, Uncle would have exactly what he wanted.

As would—for once—Lily herself.

“You and I both prefer a certain order in life, a certain predictable progression of events,” Hessian said. “I’ve come to London to spend time with my family and to entertain the notion of remarrying, for example, as one does. Stop wringing your tail.”

Hammurabi left off whisking his tail around his quarters and instead hopped about on the alley’s cobbles. His idea of predictability was that a dawn ride meant a whacking great gallop. That he was still three streets away from Hyde Park, and might dash his rider’s brains out with his foolishness, apparently hadn’t penetrated his horsey awareness.

“Settle, you,” Hessian murmured. “We will soon be in the presence of ladies, and we both know better than to leap about and carry on at the mere prospect of female companionship.”

Ham’s restraint in this regard had been surgically enhanced, while all Hessian could call upon was years of self-discipline. 

He had hoped that his initial interest in Lily Ferguson would calm to a more mature regard—hoped that he and she might become cordially bored with each other, from which perspective, marriage might be rationally contemplated.

Hessian’s dreams were full of contemplations so far from rational where Lily Ferguson was concerned, he might have again been a lad of fifteen lusting after the scullery maid.

“Though the present situation differs from my youthful longings in several particulars. We’re not cantering, damn you.” Though Hessian permitted his horse a brisk—very brisk—trot.

“I am not fifteen, Lily Ferguson is not a menial about whom I must banish any wayward thoughts, and even as I enjoy the lady’s company—greatly enjoy the lady’s company—I can also admit that I’m being ridiculous.”

Ham gave an energetic double kick out behind, snorted at nothing, and subsided into a gentlemanly gait.

“Kicking in public. You should be ashamed, you naughty boy.” Though fresh morning air generally made Ham frisky.

Flower-girls wrapped in thick cloaks yawned as they set up their stalls. Link-boys, lanterns extinguished, wearily searched for a quiet place to rest from the night’s labors, and dairymaids paused to visit with one another in misty alleys.

All was not right with the world—the Braithwaite woman had to be dealt with, for example—but in Hessian’s world, all was moving in the loveliest of directions.

“I am so inspired by the pleasure of my next appointment that I can admit—only to you, my trusted friend—that Worth was right to bludgeon me into coming to London for the Season. Jacaranda doubtless put him up to it.”

The gates of Hyde Park emerged from the thin fog, and Hessian brought his horse to the walk. “One must cling to a modicum of dignity, horse.”

Though with Lily, Hessian was increasingly unconcerned with dignity or posturing of any kind. He could be honest with Lily Ferguson—about his frustration and challenges, even his fears—and he loved that she was honest with him.

Esteemed her forthright nature, rather.

Respected her pragmatism.

Bollocks. He was mad for her.

The lady herself was waiting just inside the gate. Hessian’s heart leaped—what a hopeless cliché. His heart hopped about like a March hare, he was so pleased.

Though he was equally displeased to see a weathered groom perched on a dappled cob five yards away. Hang the proprieties—Hessian’s intentions toward Miss Ferguson could not have been more respectable.

He tipped his hat. “Miss Ferguson, good day.”

She saluted with her whip. “Your lordship. I see I must add promptness to your list of virtues. Patience does not number among my mare’s attributes. Shall we be on our way?”

Miss Ferguson’s habit was several years out of date, but the color—a soft brown trimmed in red braid—flattered her, and she sat her chestnut mare well.

“Let’s be off,” Hessian said, turning Ham to the path along the Serpentine.

They cantered off the fidgets, and thank the kind powers, the park remained quiet. The mist was slow to lift, and thus sounds were muffled, the horses’ hoofbeats a quiet tattoo on a quieter morning. The trees were only beginning to leaf out, the daffodils not yet finished with their display, and the whole park had an enchanted, secluded feel.

“Shall we let the horses blow?” Miss Ferguson asked. “I confess my outings are usually more sedate.”

Hessian’s whole life was usually more sedate. “Shall I check your girths? Wouldn’t want the saddle to come loose.”

He swung off Ham and looped the reins around his wrist. Miss Ferguson’s girths were doubtless snug enough, but Hessian wanted to be useful… to be gallant, to use Miss Ferguson’s words. She swept her skirts aside while he tightened the buckle one hole.

“We’ve outpaced my groom,” Miss Ferguson said.

“Then you’d best kiss me now, lest I expire for want of same.” Oh, that was subtle, about as subtle as Hammurabi in pursuit of his carrots, or—

Miss Ferguson bent down and cupped Hessian’s cheek in a gloved hand, then kissed him with a lingering thoroughness. She tasted of peppermint, and the combination of soft lips on Hessian’s mouth, leather against his jaw, and his hat tumbling to the grass made the moment perfect.

The kiss ended too soon, and not soon enough, for Hessian’s self-restraint had gone tumbling as well. Desire stirred from one stolen kiss, and that would not do when the outing was to continue on horseback.

“We must talk,” Hessian said, taking half a step back.

“I prefer kissing you,” Miss Ferguson replied. “I like conversing with you too, particularly when we’re not plagued with demands for stories, games of catch, or tales of pirate treasure.”

Hessian assisted her to dismount, and when the groom came bouncing up on his cob, Hessian passed him the mare’s reins and Hammurabi’s.

“If you’d walk them both, please. A brisk canter works up a sweat when they’ve yet to lose all of their winter coats.”

The groom apparently saw the logic of Hessian’s request—or the threat of retribution in his eyes—for he collected the horses and wandered into the mist with them.

“Of what shall we talk?” Miss Ferguson asked.

Of passion, of intimacies beyond mere kisses, of vows spoken with joy and enthusiasm, and a wedding night that—

“The day looks as if it will remain overcast,” Hessian said, retrieving his hat and dusting off the brim. “I like the occasional cloudy day.”

“I should not have kissed you, but I’m glad I did.”

“I like your honesty—and kissing you. Like both rather a lot. One might even say…” Hessian took the lady by the hand and escorted her—he did not drag her—behind a lilac hedge weeks away from blooming.

This time, he took the initiative, bolting into the kiss with all the longing of a man who’d spent his nights dreaming of naked bodies, heated embraces, and long, long Cumbrian winter nights.

“The fashionable crowd gets it all wrong,” he murmured against Miss Ferguson’s lips. “They come to the Lakes in summer.”

She burrowed closer, gripping the lapel of Hessian’s riding jacket with one hand. “What are you going on about?”

“The Lakes show to best advantage in winter, when the nights never end.”

A riding habit had voluminous skirts that buttoned and stitched together in a complicated arrangement. The intention was to accommodate both modesty and freedom of movement, which features allowed Miss Ferguson to insinuate a leg between Hessian’s thighs.

He accepted that invitation and gloried in the feel of her—as enthusiastic as she was feminine—snuggled against him.

“Is this all you want from me, Miss Ferguson? Passionate kisses on a spring morning? I’m overjoyed to comply, but I also hope for more.”

“I hope you will one day call me Lily,” she said.

“Lily.” Holding her was delightful and improper, abundantly satisfying and inadequate. “You will call me Hessian. My maternal antecedents hailed from that corner of Germany. Worth calls me Hess.”

A silly little detail, but one a wife should know about her husband.

She nuzzled his cravat—he’d worn blonde lace for her this morning. “I don’t want to let you go, Hessian.”

That sentiment was quite mutual. “Might I hope that longing is metaphorical rather than merely a statement of present intent? For on my part, the same sentiment could be said to be both.”

She stepped back. “And you say I should be a barrister. We haven’t much time, sir. I’d ask for a translation of that last flight of verbosity.”

She asked for his heart or, at the least, for a display of courage. “I have come to London to seek a countess. I hope my search is over.”

Lily—he was to call her Lily—fluffed the crushed folds of his cravat. “When you make up your mind, be sure to drop me a note. I will rejoice at the lady’s good fortune.”

Hessian hadn’t spoken with her uncle yet, hadn’t asked permission to pay his addresses, hadn’t given Worth a chance to learn what was afoot with Leggett.

“Will the lady do me a similar courtesy when she’s made up her mind?” he asked.

A drop of condensation landed on Lily’s shoulder. Hessian brushed it away, then ran his thumb over the curve of her jaw.

“I am not young, my lord. I will be eight-and-twenty in less than a month, and my uncle’s wishes regarding my future must be considered.”

The conversation was not going as Hessian had planned, but then, he hadn’t planned much more than hasty grappling beneath the maples. Lily was owed much more, and fortunately for Hessian, courtships also unfolded in certain predictable stages.

“In the very near future, I will make a private appointment with your uncle. Will that suit?”

Her smile was troubled—perhaps by impatience or self-consciousness. Hessian was certainly impatient. He was not a blushing youth, and whatever Walter Leggett’s demands regarding Lily’s settlements, Leggett could hardly dismiss an earl of means and sterling reputation.

But then Hessian recalled Lily’s words about her uncle’s attitude regarding fortune hunters.

“He won’t run me off, Lily. My situation is sound and improving steadily. Worth has aided me in taking the earldom’s finances in hand, and Grampion prospers well beyond the ambitions my father had for it.”

Hoofbeats clip-clopped on the path.

Lily seized him in a brief, torrid kiss, and stepped back. “Don’t let me keep you from your appointments, my lord. I’ve enjoyed this outing exceedingly, but you’re right. The sun appears reluctant to grace us with his presence today.” She affixed herself to Hessian’s arm and tugged him back in the direction of the horses. “We’d best be getting home before the morning turns rainy.”

 “Sensible, as always,” Hessian said as the groom reappeared, the mare and gelding toddling along behind him. “I do so value your forthright nature, Miss Ferguson. You say what’s on your mind and have no use for polite dissembling.”

Hessian tightened Ham’s girth one hole, while Lily stroked the beast’s nose and ears. Ham lowered his head and whuffled like a shameless beggar.

Hessian glowered at the witless beast. “Have some dignity, horse.”

Lily kissed Ham’s nose. “I like a fellow who’s able to set aside his pretensions from time to time and enjoy a stolen kiss, but far be it from me to tell a belted earl how to conduct himself.”

“You’ll lead my horse astray with such talk,” Hessian retorted. “Let’s get you back into the saddle before the poor fellow attempts public indiscretions.”

The groom was busy checking his own girth while remaining in the saddle. That undertaking required focus, so Hessian boosted Lily onto her horse and took meticulous care to arrange her skirts over her boots.

Hammurabi waited at Hessian’s shoulder—right at his shoulder—as if longing for more kisses just as his owner was.

“My damned horse is smitten.”

Lily took up her reins and arranged her whip. “Perhaps the condition is contagious, for I adore a day that starts amid the fresh air and good company to be found on a morning hack.”

Hessian stroked her mare’s shoulder. “As do I. Perhaps we might share the same pleasure on Saturday, weather permitting?”

Lily gazed down at him. “With you, I’d ride in the rain, my lord. I’d ride anywhere, at any hour.” She urged her mare forward, and Hammurabi nudged Hessian’s backside.

Right. To horse. Assuming Hessian could endure the saddle in his present state. He kept Ham alongside Lily’s mare until they reached the gates of the park.

“Until Saturday?” he asked.

“I’m attending the Bascombes’ musicale tomorrow night,” Lily said. “You might catch a glimpse of me there.”

“I have always enjoyed good music. Thank you for an exceedingly pleasant hour, Miss Ferguson.”

She saluted with her whip and trotted off into streets that still had little traffic. Hessian admired her retreating form—she rode with a natural seat and had the true equestrienne’s ability to communicate with her mount in ways subtle and effective.

Though when had Lily Ferguson taken a liking to horses? As a child, she’d claimed to hate them because they invariably provoked her to sneezing and itching.