“Excuse me, Miss Eugenia.”

Eugenia looked up from the embroidery hoop that lay neglected in her lap; she’d been sitting staring at it for the past half hour. After saying she would sit quietly and embroider, she’d taken refuge in the morning room to escape the smothering attentions of Henry, his suddenly exceedingly polite and attentive friends, and every member of the household who could find a reason to be in her vicinity.

She was no wilting flower; a night of untrammeled sleep had restored her to her customary rude health. Clearly, her being carried inside unconscious the previous afternoon had shaken everyone, but their continued solicitousness was getting on her nerves.

And now here was Mountjoy, standing at the door and looking at her questioningly.

She inwardly sighed. “Yes, Mountjoy?”

“Lord Longfellow has called, miss. He asked how you were and inquired if you were well enough to speak with him.”

Would he fuss over her, too?

On the other hand, he was the one person whose concern over her well-being was warranted. Justified, even. He’d rescued her from certain death—that gave him a freedom she would extend to no other.

And the notion of him being worried enough to come and inquire didn’t irritate her at all.

“Thank you, Mountjoy.” She set aside the embroidery hoop, stood, and shook out her new teal kerseymere gown. “Did you put him in the drawing room?”

“Yes, miss.” Mountjoy hesitated. As she walked toward him and the door, he cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like me to summon Mrs. Woolsey, miss?”

Eugenia met Mountjoy’s eyes. “No, thank you.” Cousin Ermintrude had remained abed, insisting her nerves were too overset to permit her to venture downstairs. “I’m sure I’ll do better dealing with his lordship without unnecessary distraction.”

Mountjoy’s lips twitched, but he stilled them. “As you say, miss.”

He bowed her out of the room, then led her to the drawing room and opened the door.

She walked in to see Christian Longfellow dressed more formally than she’d previously seen him in a coat of Bath superfine that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, worn over buff breeches and highly polished Hessians.

He was standing at the wide bay window, looking out at the side garden. He heard the click of the latch as Mountjoy shut the door, glanced over his shoulder, then turned to face her.

His cravat was elegant, in keeping with the rest of his attire. His gaze remained steady on her face as she slowly crossed the room to him. With a little skip of her heart, she noticed he no longer ducked his head to the side to hide his scars.

Halting before him, she smiled warmly, dipped a curtsy, and held out her hand. “Good morning, Lord Longfellow.”

He took her fingers in his and bowed. “Miss Fitzgibbon.” With a hint of reluctance, he released her hand.

Still smiling, she captured his gaze. “Put simply, my lord, I cannot thank you enough for your rescue yesterday. Quite literally, you saved my life.” She spread her hands to either side. “I am forever in your debt.”

He studied her, her eyes, her face, for several seconds, then quietly said, “I would take it very kindly if you would call me Christian…and if you would promise me that you will set aside all notions of gratitude, of being in my debt or repaying me in any way whatever, for the duration of this visit.”

She frowned. “Why? You were the epitome of heroic—”

“Yes, well…” He paused, then with his eyes still on hers, he drew in a breath and declared, “I don’t want what happened yesterday to influence you.”

“Influence me in what?”

“In how you respond to what I wish to say to you.” Frustration sharpened his tone. His chin set, his lips fleetingly compressed to a thin line, then they eased. “Please—can you just listen to what I have to say and forget all the rest?”

She searched his eyes. A frisson of hope, of anticipation and expectation fizzed along her veins, but did he truly mean to ask…

With effort, she reined in her galloping imagination, refocused on his face, and considered his request—and his tone. He was used to commanding; every now and then, that shone through. Yet…he had said please. She nodded. “All right.” She folded her hands before her and looked at him steadily. “What do you wish to say to me?”

Christian had rehearsed all he wanted to say, but as for how to lead into that… He held her gaze, let himself sink into the summer blue, and allowed the words to flow. “I know some would say that this is too soon—that especially given the events of yesterday, I should hold back in case you feel obliged to agree—but I’m relying on your good sense to know I would never want you to feel compelled over anything and especially not over this.” He paused for breath, then doggedly went on, “I acknowledge that although we’ve been aware of each other’s existence for most of our lives, we haven’t really known each other in the true sense—as people, as individuals—for very long at all. Yet if my years in the Peninsula taught me anything, it’s that life is fragile, and it can be fleeting, and that we should seize whatever chance of happiness comes our way and not hang back thinking our eagerness not quite nice.”

She tipped her head, her eyes steady on his. “So far, I agree with everything you’ve said. Especially about seizing happiness when it offers. When I sank beneath the waters of the lake…that made a lot of things much clearer. What was important, truly important, and what was merely superficial and not really worthy of my time.”

He nodded. “Yes. Exactly. That moment when I saw you sink under the water the first time was bad enough. The second time…” He stared at her, then looked to the side. Then his chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, and he brought his eyes back to hers and simply said, “I’m a soldier. I’ve been largely absent from society for the past decade. I don’t know if my proposal is socially acceptable or not—if this is the right time or the right way. If this is what you want or would like.”

To his surprise, she stepped forward, into him, grasped his lapels and tried—unsuccessfully—to shake him. “Just tell me.”

His eyes locked with hers, he licked his lips. “I should go to one knee at least, but my injured leg makes that awkward…” He read her surging impatience in her glare and evenly, quietly, said, “I wanted to ask you if you would do me the inestimable honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

Eugenia stared into his hazel eyes, read the depth of his sincerity, saw the straightforward, honest, good man he truly was. And that good man wanted her as his partner in life. His helpmate. His wife.

Her gaze grew misty. Regardless, her voice low but clear, she replied, “I don’t care what anyone says now or later—that this is too quick, that I must have felt beholden—I don’t, and what do I care what people say or think? I know. I know to the bottom of my heart and my soul that you are the husband I never knew I wanted—never had time to think of or dream of. But you’re here now, and all I want to do is say yes. Yes, please—”

She didn’t manage to say anything more because Christian had swept her into his arms and slanted his lips over hers.

He kissed her as if she were precious, a gift from the gods. She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with fervor, as if he was and always had been the man of her dreams.

When he finally raised his head and looked down at her, a smile the like of which she hadn’t seen for more than a decade wreathed his face. Lighthearted, joyous, it was the smile of the devil-may-care, devilishly handsome young gentleman he had once been. Yet he was no longer that young man; the rough and pocked skin of his left cheek resting beneath her palm testified to that.

She saw in his eyes, now shining with simple happiness, the man he now was. A man who had walked through cannon fire and survived, who had, at last, found his way home.

As if to prove that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bedraggled sprig…

She stared, then laughed. “Mistletoe?”

“It is the season.” He held it up, over their heads. “It’s even got berries, so I can claim a kiss.” As he bent his head, he whispered, “We shouldn’t let our matchmaking crew’s efforts go entirely to waste.”

She was still laughing when his lips claimed hers.

She tightened her arms, sank against him, and let her heart and soul flow into the kiss—one of dreams undreamt, of passion yet to be spent, and an unwritten, unscripted promise for a shared future of laughter and tears, of children and home and family. Of a shared life they would both take delight in living.

Of a love still burgeoning, still growing and evolving—a reality they needed no more words to claim.

* * *

After the adventures of the previous afternoon, that morning, Therese found herself at something of a loss. Jamie and George had asked permission to go to the green and play with the other boys; she’d granted it, more than anything else to get them out from under her feet while keeping them appropriately occupied. With Lottie drawing by the fire, Therese tried to settle at her escritoire, but found the ink drying on her nib while her thoughts wandered.

She had, she suspected, done all she possibly could regarding Christian and Eugenia. Really, no one seeing the pair together—how each looked at the other—could fail to comprehend that they should carve out a life together, but how long it would take for one or the other to broach the subject was anyone’s guess.

With no further action pending on that front, there remained the vexing mystery of the missing geese. Earlier, Mrs. Haggerty had delivered the news that although Bilson had hoped to get in sufficient extra cuts of beef to tide the village over, he was no longer so sure he would be able to satisfy the unexpected demand.

Mrs. Haggerty was now conning her cookbooks, trying to find recipes that might serve to dress up the capon she had hanging in her larder. To Therese’s mind, and she felt sure everyone else’s, capon was a poor substitute for goose.

She frowned at the letter she’d started. She’d barely got past the salutation.

The clocks throughout the house chimed the hour—eleven o’clock.

As the peals and chimes faded, she realized another peal was ringing in the servants’ quarters, then she heard Crimmins’s measured tread cross the hall to the front door.

The clatter of footsteps and a medley of piping voices reached her. Lottie stopped her drawing and looked up, then she picked up her paper and crayon and came to Therese’s side.

The door opened, and Crimmins looked in. “Lord James, Mr. George, and some of their young friends, my lady.”

Therese raised her brows, then Jamie and George were leading a small band of village boys into Therese’s sanctum. She made a mental note to explain to Jamie and George what the word “sanctum” meant.

Then she took in her grandsons’ faces and instantly came alert. Both Jamie and George looked…transformed. Eager and urgent and not at all like the halfway-bored boys who had trooped out to play. “What is it?” she asked.

Jamie and George came to stand beside her. Jamie made the introductions. “This is Johnny Tooks.” He gestured to each boy in turn. “And Roger and Willie Milsom, and Ben Butts, and Will Foley.”

As Jamie said his name, each boy performed what was doubtless his best bow.

Therese nodded at them all. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, my lady,” they chorused, and all of them bowed again.

Therese glanced at Jamie. “And…?”

Jamie all but puffed out his chest. “And Johnny has something to say.”

“Oh?” She focused on Johnny and did her best not to look intimidating but merely interested.

She must have succeeded, because Johnny solemnly nodded and said, “The day the geese went missing, Dad went off to market like he always does—real early, he goes, long before the sun is up. And I’m supposed to feed the geese morning and evening while he’s away—we’ve been fattening them up for the past month, you see—but…” Johnny stopped and looked at Jamie.

From the corner of her eye, Therese saw Jamie level a determined look at Johnny, who was several years the elder.

Johnny looked pained, yet he shifted his gaze back to Therese’s face and went on, “But that day, soon as Dad was off, I left to go fishing with some lads from Romsey.”

Therese waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, she prompted, “Yes?”

Johnny blinked and looked at Jamie.

Who quietly sighed and explained, “He didn’t feed the geese. He left them hungry, and because they’d been feeding on extra for the past weeks, they would have quickly got very, very hungry.”

“At least that’s what we think,” George put in.

“And then,” Roger revealed, “Johnny didn’t get home until late. Until dark.”

Again, Therese looked to her grandsons for clarification.

Jamie obliged. “It was after six when Johnny got home and went to feed the flock—that was when he found they were missing. But he should have fed them earlier, before it got dark and they roosted for the night.”

“Ah.” Therese looked at Johnny. “So the geese had, in effect, missed two feedings?”

Johnny hung his head and nodded. “Me dad’s gonna skin me.”

“That,” Therese briskly informed him, “is an excellent reason to do all you can to help us locate the geese.” When Johnny glanced up warily—hopefully—and met her eyes, she said, “I gather this means the geese would have been exceedingly hungry.” When all the boys nodded, she asked, “Would they have—could they have—gone looking for food?”

“That’s what we think must have happened, my lady,” Will Foley said.

“Terrible hungry, they musta been,” Johnny added.

Therese sat back and ran her eye over her now-expanded band of searchers. “Very well. It appears we have to think like hungry geese. Let’s assume they were hungry enough that they wandered off looking for food. Where would they have gone?”

“They might hunt for grain,” Johnny said, “but more likely scraps. They love those.”

“But,” George pointed out, “we know they’re not in any of the barns or stables or anywhere else around the village.”

Therese considered, then said, “There has to be somewhere we haven’t thought to search—somewhere with food that would satisfy geese.”

“But where?” Jamie demanded.

She was saved from having to shrug by the doorbell pealing. They all waited as Crimmins went to the front door, then he tapped on the parlor door, opened it, and looked in. “Mr. Fitzgibbon and friends, my lady.” He lowered his voice. “They appear quite excited and say they have something to show you.”

Therese blinked. This seemed a morning for the unlikely. “Very well, Crimmins. Show them in.” She waved the younger boys deeper into the room. “Stand over there, if you please.”

The five village boys cautiously shuffled toward the fireplace, leaving just enough space for Henry and his four friends to get through the door and line up facing Therese.

Five more enthused and excited faces looked at her.

“Lady Osbaldestone.” They all bowed.

She waited until they’d straightened to ask, “Yes, gentlemen?”

Henry’s guests looked to him. But before Henry could even open his mouth, the doorbell pealed again.

This time, when the parlor door opened, Crimmins announced, “Miss Eugenia Fitzgibbon and Lord Longfellow, my lady.”

“Good heavens!” Therese muttered. She waved and more loudly said, “Further in, boys.” She flicked her fingers at Henry’s friends. “You, as well, if you would. We appear to be getting a trifle crowded.”

All her guests complied, allowing Eugenia and Christian to come in and Crimmins to pull the door closed behind them.

Therese looked at her latest guests, read their news in their faces, and beamed.

Christian saw her understanding and smiled. “As you’ve guessed, we’ve come to share our news.” He glanced at Eugenia. She looked up and met his eyes, and her face positively radiated happiness. Christian glanced at Therese. “Miss Fitzgibbon has done me the honor of agreeing to marry me.”

“Excellent!” Therese’s smile couldn’t grow any wider.

Congratulations erupted from Henry, from his friends, and even from the village boys.

Jamie, George, and Lottie sang their felicitations, then, beaming, turned to share a thoroughly triumphant look with Therese.

Still smiling—indeed, beaming, too, which she rarely did—she looked up as Christian said to Henry, “We looked for you at the Hall, but you’d already left. I take it you have no objections?”

“Of course not! None at all.” Henry beamed, too. “I literally couldn’t be happier.” Henry looked at Eugenia and caught her eye. “I’m very happy for you both.” He kissed his sister’s cheek, and she patted his.

Therese let the excitement run for a moment more, then lightly rapped her cane on the floor. When the occupants of her parlor fell silent and looked her way, she fixed her gaze on Henry and his friends. “You gentlemen were about to share some news, I believe.”

“Yes, indeed.” With a nod, Henry invited Dagenham to speak.

Transformed by his enthusiasm and for once looking younger than his years, the viscount suddenly appeared shy, but then he drew breath, inclined his head to Therese, and said, “We”—he indicated the other three—“felt…well, guilty over cracking the ice and spoiling the village’s day of fun, and we’d heard about the missing flock of geese, so we thought to make what amends we could by scouting around and making absolutely certain that the geese weren’t anywhere on the Hall estate at least. Only the boundaries aren’t marked, and it seems we ended in the woods at the back of the estate, but the long and the short of it is that we found these”—like a conjurer, Dagenham held up four largish, mostly white feathers—“on a narrow path through the woods to the west and a bit south of the Hall.”

Everyone stared at the feathers.

Then Jamie, his eyes shining, stepped forward, plucked one feather from Dagenham’s hand, and showed it to Johnny. Johnny touched it, then nodded eagerly.

Jamie held the feather aloft and announced, “At last! A clue!”