She never could resist swimming. It was the one thing Emily missed from her life in Somerset. London, unlike the countryside of her girlhood, didn’t have much to recommend it in the way of recreational bathing.

But Clareford Manor, with its calm, deserted lake and its clear blue sky, provided the perfect opportunity. It would be her last chance. The guests would arrive soon and the estate would become a hive of activity. Glancing around to make sure the shoreline was deserted, she shed her half boots and walking dress. She sat on the dock, legs hanging over the side but not quite touching the water, her chemise her only concession to modesty. As was her custom, she didn’t test the temperature, preferring to slide completely off the edge, immersing herself quickly and fully.

“Eeee!” It was only the beginning of May, so the deep lake was still cold. She began to kick, using her arms to part the water in front of her as she sluiced along just under the surface.

The lake was ideal, perhaps even the nicest she’d ever swum in. Though the water was chilly, it was clear. In some spots, she could see right down to the rocks that lined the bottom.

After coming up briefly for air, she dove to the bottom. She had her eye on a small, smooth, almost pink rock.

Propelling one’s body through the water was a kind of emancipation. She had no cares in the water—she was a fish, not a bluestocking. No need to worry about Sally and Billy. No columns, no petitioning. Even Mr. Manning was temporarily set aside. So she let the lake summon happy memories as she moved down toward her rock. She could almost believe that when she resurfaced, she’d see Billy, eyes twinkling as he laughed with delight just before he splashed her.

She swam over to the dock and tossed the rock onto it, then turned around and initiated a strong stroke, welcoming that familiar feeling of elation. When she swam like this, sure and strong in a straight line, she always imagined she was moving toward some other, better version of herself. As a girl, she’d imagined a life of freedom, away from the Mannings. She’d imagined a life full of love.

One out of two wasn’t bad.

As she approached the far shore, her heart began making its effort known. The sun was getting higher. Soon she would be missed. She turned back, crossing back over under water, coming up every few strokes for a sip of air. Extending her hands in front of her, she reached the edge of the dock. There was a small ladder attached, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to assist swimmers making their way out of the water. How wonderful!

“Yes,” she exclaimed, hoisting herself up on the first step, “You are a gem among lakes.” She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear some of the water from her hair.

And opened them to the sight of the Earl of Blackstone, sitting on the dock in his shirtsleeves, holding her rock in his good hand.

“My brother would have been delighted to hear you say so, Miss Mirren. This was his lake.”

To her credit, she didn’t panic. The only sign anything was amiss was a widening of those deep blue-violet eyes. Blackstone was a trifle disappointed as she lowered herself back into the water without a word. He’d been trying to shock her, though he wasn’t sure why. Leaving aside the outrageous lapse of manners that impelled him to watch rather than turn home and leave her to her privacy, it seemed a mean-spirited thing to do. But he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from the talented swimmer. She sluiced through the gentle waves as if she’d been born to the water.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that she didn’t scream. She was the captain’s daughter, after all. Still, he found it rather remarkable that she’d made more noise when she’d first lowered herself into the cold water—emitting that little squeal because of the cold—than when she he’d surprised her on the way out of it.

But then annoyance flared. Of course, she would be here this morning, getting in his way. If he was going to spend a week at Clareford Manor, he had to face the lake, bow down to his demons and signal that they still ruled him. But how could he when she was always in the blasted water? And it wasn’t just anyone. It was her. The person in all the world he had most wanted to avoid.

“Can a lake really belong to someone?” Holding the ladder, she cocked her head, thinking about her own question.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said this was your brother’s lake. Did it belong to him? Truly, I mean?”

“He was my elder. The heir and, for a few months, the earl.”

“But that’s not what you meant, was it? You weren’t talking about legal ownership, about entailment.”

Damn the woman for seeing what he meant instead of what he said. “My brother loved this lake.” It was all he was willing to say, and it would have to suffice.

Apparently it did, because she nodded, sun glinting off water droplets on her eyelashes. “It’s a very good lake.” She looked around and grinned, as if the absurdity of the situation had suddenly struck her. “And I am something of an authority on the topic.”

“My brother and I used to spend hours on this dock, skipping rocks.” He flicked his wrist without releasing the rock he held, a practice stroke since he’d never done the movement with his left hand. “I haven’t had a round of ducks and drakes for years.”

“No! Stop!”

He held off, transfixed by the slender, pale arm that emerged from the water, palm toward him. The arm snaking in his direction was just like another that had come toward him years ago in Badajoz. Perhaps this woman should slap him, too, given how boorish he was being, forcing her to stay in the water to preserve her modesty. Somehow, though, he couldn’t make himself do the right thing, so he set down the rock and turned to evasive tactics. “How did you learn to swim?”

“I spent my childhood living with the Mannings when my father was campaigning, and when he died Mr. Manning became my guardian. There were a few lakes on his land,” she said, as if the presence of lakes was a sufficient explanation for the display of aquatic skill he’d just witnessed.

“Still, it’s a trifle unusual.”

“You mean for a lady to swim?”

He detected a hint of indignation in her tone. “Does Mrs. Talbot swim?” he countered. “She grew up on the same land.”

“Mrs. Talbot and I do not share many of the same interests.”

That was not a surprise. It was difficult to imagine the status- and appearance-obsessed Mrs. Talbot removing so much as a single glove out of doors. “Who taught you?” He imagined the captain, holding his violet-eyed daughter as she learned to float, her hair fanned out around her head.

“I taught myself. Well, I read a book.”

“You learned to swim from a book?”

“A person can learn a great many things from books.” Now she was indignant, her tone rising a little before she regained control over her voice. “If you please, I’d like to get out of the water. You can just leave that rock on the dock.”

Her cheeks were pink. He wondered if it was the cold, or something else that had done that.

He should take his leave. But he found himself irritated again. Both times he’d tried to visit the lake, he had found her in it. And now she was trying to steal his rock? He didn’t move, just tossed the rock into the air, then caught it.

“Do not lose that rock. It’s mine.”

“I thought you said a lake couldn’t belong to someone. Shouldn’t your logic apply to rocks, too?”

“Never mind. I’ll find another.” Clinging to the edge of the dock, she cleared her throat.

“They’re all mine.” He was being unnecessarily petulant. But he did take the hint and got up and walked back to the shore, turning his back. He should have gone back to the house, left her to dress in peace. Instead, he listened to the sound of her putting herself to rights. Fabric rustled, corset lacings swished as they were tightened. The latter caused a corresponding tightening in his groin. He took a few steps farther away, trying to put himself out of hearing distance. When that didn’t work, he began whistling a tune.

“What are you whistling?” Her tone was sharp, offended.

He searched his brain, trying to come up with a name for the tune that was, mindlessly, on his lips.

“Who taught you that song?” she persisted.

“It’s something we used to sing—” He stopped abruptly, realizing what had happened. The company had sung it many a night around the fire. “Your father taught us.” There was a long silence. He could only assume she was continuing to dress, but of course he could not turn until she gave him leave.

“Do you swim, Lord Blackstone?” He sensed that she’d moved closer.

“No.” He spoke more tersely than was called for—she couldn’t know.

“Why not? I should think if I had grown up with such a wonderful lake in my backyard, I should never be coaxed out of it. I should shrivel, become a prune.” With that, she stepped into his line of sight and showed him a wrinkled hand. She was, aside from her hands, dressed. The only indication that she’d been in the water was that hair, a sodden curtain of curls hanging down her back.

Who did this woman think she was? She was supposed to be in Somerset, on other side of the country, doing whatever it was spinster bluestockings did. But, no, she had to be underfoot, getting in the way of everything—his mission, his penance. Saying unlikely things with no regard for propriety. Swanning around with wet hair.

“It’s rather difficult to swim when one is a cripple,” he snapped, dropping the rock and using his left hand to slide up his shirtsleeve. Propelled by a growing anger, he exposed the stump.

Her eyes widened, but she caught herself in time to transform what would have been a gasp into a long inhale. Her small breasts, pushed up by the deep breath, drew his attention. Though her attire wasn’t particularly revealing—indeed, the sprigged muslin walking dress with its square neckline was entirely typical of the mode of the day—he wanted to throw something over her, exhort her to cover herself. Or at least to pull that goddamned hair back.

Recovering, she looked back at the lake. “The loss of a hand would make many things more difficult. But swimming, I imagine, wouldn’t be one of them. It should be easy enough to—”

“And how you would know, Miss Mirren? How can you presume to know how others have suffered?” He was acting abominably, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

She dropped her eyes, chastened. “I beg your pardon”—her voice broke and she choked out the honorific—“my lord.” Without meeting his eyes, she turned and ran.

She was gone. He’d gotten what he wanted.

He stooped to pick up the pinkish-brown stone. So why did he feel like such a brute?

The man was a brute. A bully disguised as a gentleman. Emily eyed Lord Blackstone as he entered the drawing room with a striking auburn-haired lady on his arm. The woman said something that coaxed a small smile out of him. Well, one corner of his mouth turned up, which was probably as close to a smile as the taciturn aristocrat ever came.

She felt anew the censure of his harsh words. How could she have thought him handsome? Earlier, when he’d lain on the dock in his shirtsleeves, long limbs sprawled and features made golden by the sun, he’d seemed almost godlike. And as she’d watched him standing with his back to her, she’d grown a little breathless, taking in his unusual height, his broad shoulders barely concealed by the fine lawn of his shirt.

But clearly all the man had to do to ruin the effect was open his mouth.

And given that he was on his way over, she’d best brace herself.

“Mrs. James Burnham, may I present Miss Emily Mirren.” He turned to Emily. “Mrs. Burnham’s first husband, Charles Chambers, Viscount Cranbrook, served in your father’s company, too. Mrs. Burnham followed the drum for a time.”

Emily pasted on a smile as she curtsied. It wasn’t enough that she had to contend with Lord Blackstone and Mr. Bailey, now she would have to listen to this beautiful woman proclaim her devotion to the saintly Captain Mirren, too.

Mrs. Burnham, surprisingly, did not mention Emily’s father. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Mirren. Lord Blackstone tells me you’re a devoted reader. I just finished Amelia de Beaucler’s latest. Tell me, have you read it?”

Emily’s cheeks grew warm as she nodded. It was one thing for this woman, who was married and at least a half dozen years her senior, to admit to having read the Gothic novel, but quite another for Emily do so.

Mrs. Burnham clapped her hands in delight. “Splendid! Come sit with me!” She towed Emily toward a green damask sofa. “We have much to discuss!”

Emily enjoyed the evening after that. Mrs. Burnham and her husband were warm and friendly. She was surprised to learn that they ran a school for pauper children in London. It was hard to imagine the humorless Earl of Blackstone socializing with such reformers. How she wished she could tell Mrs. Burnham her secret. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a fellow reformer to talk to?

Along with Mrs. Talbot, the guests included Lord Blackstone’s neighbor, Mr. Leighton, with whom Emily had grown acquainted on the journey from London. Also from Essex was a local landowner by the name of Smythe, his wife, and their twin seventeen-year-old daughters, just out. From London there were a half-dozen aristocrats, a group of sophisticated ladies and bored-looking men.

So many guests, but the most important one was missing. She suppressed a sigh. At least she hadn’t told Mr. Todmorden about her scheme. He would be expecting her column as usual, but he wouldn’t know that its intended subject would have to be changed because of Mr. Manning’s absence.

Still, it was essential that Mr. Manning come to the party. It wasn’t just the column depending on his arrival. If he didn’t come, how would she ever find Billy? Sally was depending on her, and failure was not an option.

“If Manning doesn’t come, I may not survive the rest of the week,” Blackstone whispered to Bailey as the men joined the ladies in the drawing room the next night after post-dinner cigars and brandy.

They were a mere day into the party. It was only his second night playing the attentive, gracious host, and he was ready to send everybody packing—or at least to bed early.

The London ladies were the worst. He might even go so far as to characterize them as vultures. It was to be expected, though. He couldn’t suddenly open his estate, which hadn’t been seen by anyone in years, without raising a few eyebrows. The ladies would assume he was finally turning his mind to the succession, and for that reason, he purposefully hadn’t invited anyone who was—or was the mother of—a marriageable woman. Unless one counted the Smythe twins, which, given that they were barely out of the schoolroom, he hadn’t. He was beginning to realize that didn’t mean their mother shared his point of view on the matter. She seized every opportunity to place one of her daughters, clad in identical dresses that differed only in color, in his path.

And of course there was Miss Mirren. But he hadn’t invited her.

“Buck up,” Bailey whispered. “I happen to know that you’ve endured much worse for the sake of a mission. Starvation, near death at the hand of enemy abductors, et cetera.”

Blackstone dipped his head to acknowledge Mrs. Smythe, who was waving at him with great enthusiasm from across the room. How did men who actually cared about preserving their family lines make it through a London season? “I’m not sure those were worse,” he said, steeling himself. “Let us just pray the ladies don’t have a mind to roll back the rug for dancing.”

“Lord Blackstone,” said Lady Hastings, a forty-year-old harpy who was the daughter of a duke and the wife of the Marquess of Hastings. Her much-older husband had not made the trip from London with her. “Mrs. Talbot was just enlightening us as to your connection with Miss Mirren.”

He glanced at Miss Mirren, who was using one hand to worry the fingers of the other. Poor thing—caught in Lady Hasting’s talons, and probably she had little practice navigating the social minefield that was the ton. The girl’s penchant for forthrightness would only get her into trouble here.

“Yes,” he said mildly. “I was quite devoted to Miss Mirren’s father.”

“How wonderful,” Lady Hastings said “And why haven’t I seen you in London society, Miss Mirren? Where have you been hiding yourself? You must be…what? Twenty-five?”

Good Lord, the woman was practically calling Miss Mirren a spinster.

“Twenty-three, my lady,” Miss Mirren answered.

Twenty-three, twenty-five, it was all quite on the shelf as far as society was concerned. Blackstone glanced at Miss Mirren, looking for evidence that she’d taken the slight to heart.

“I’ve only recently come to London to stay with my grandmother.” Miss Mirren’s face was unreadable as she answered the first of Lady Hastings’s questions.

“And where were you before that?”

“I grew up as a neighbor to Mrs. Talbot—then Miss Manning. Her family was kind enough to take me in when my father was campaigning. After he died, I went to live permanently with them. When Mrs. Talbot married this past summer, I decided to go to my grandmother.”

He could see Lady Hastings preparing to ask another round of questions—probably the same ones swirling though his own mind. Just because she’d attained her majority, did she think she didn’t need a guardian? Was her grandmother adequate as a chaperone? Whom did she expect to escort her around town?

“Miss Mirren and I are as good as sisters,” Mrs. Talbot said. “We shared a nursery, a nursemaid.” At the mention of a nursemaid, Miss Mirren looked up sharply, her expression intense, somehow, but difficult to characterize beyond that.

“How kind of the Mannings to take you in,” Lady Hastings said in a slightly bored drawl.

“Oh it was no sacrifice at all, I assure you, Lady Hastings,” said Mrs. Talbot. “I was an only child and positively starved for company.”

“Yes, I can imagine. The country can be so…unrefined.”

“I tried and tried to persuade Miss Mirren to remain in Somerset after I married my dear Mr. Talbot,” Mrs. Talbot continued, impervious to the slight. “We would have so enjoyed having her with us. But she insisted on going to her grandmother. She’d been wanting to move to town for some time.”

“Yes, the company in London is highly desirable.” Lady Hastings no longer bothered disguising the fact that she was looking around the room for more interesting companions.

“Oh, it wasn’t the company that attracted my friend!” Mrs. Talbot lowered her voice as if she were about to reveal a great secret. “It was the lending libraries! Can you imagine?”

Lady Hastings picked up her quizzing glass and examined Miss Mirren. “You are something of a bluestocking. How charming,” she said in a tone that suggested she was anything but charmed.

Blackstone tamped down a spark of irritation. He had no right to be annoyed on Miss Mirren’s behalf though, did he, given how poorly he had treated her yesterday? He was trying to think what to say to move Lady Hastings off her interrogation when Miss Mirren transformed before his eyes from a quiet slip of a girl into an avenging angel.

“Yes, I am a bluestocking, and I don’t mind you saying so.” She spoke sharply enough that Lady Hastings nearly dropped her glass. He almost laughed to see a genuine, uncultivated expression on the older woman’s face. “So much of London society is so shallow, don’t you find? People gathered at parties, stuffing themselves and prattling on about meaningless matters when there are so many opportunities to better oneself intellectually.” Miss Mirren gained several inches as she straightened her spine. “Not to mention when there are so many people suffering in the streets, right before our very eyes. It’s unconscionable.”

“What does everyone say to some dancing?” asked Bailey, glancing at Blackstone. “What’s a party without dancing? If one of you ladies could be convinced to grace us with some music, we can just roll up this rug.”

Bailey succeeded in dislodging everyone’s attention from Miss Mirren. Blackstone was embarrassed that he hadn’t intervened on her behalf earlier. What kind of a host allowed his guests to be so rudely treated? Even as he posed the question in his mind, he answered it. One who treated her equally rudely himself.

As the ladies began organizing the music, Blackstone couldn’t resist directing a slight eye roll in Bailey’s direction. Anne, one of the Smythe twins—the one dressed in yellow—sat down to the pianoforte. As the guests began to pair up, he moved to a sofa near the edge of the makeshift dance floor.

“You won’t dance, Lord Blackstone?” Gillian, the other Smythe twin, ducked her head shyly after her question, as if she’d belatedly realized she was being too forward.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Smythe.”

“Oh, but you must!” exclaimed Mrs. Smythe, moving toward him with her hands outstretched, as if she meant to physically tow him to the dance floor.

“I don’t dance. The injury, you know.”

“Oh!”

Though the missing hand didn’t have to preclude dancing, it was a damned convenient excuse. In London, from time to time while on a mission, he would dance when absolutely forced to. But he’d be dashed if they’d make him do so here in his own house. The injury had forced him to sell his commission and to learn to write—and shoot—with his left hand. It made simple tasks a challenge, and it ached damn near all the time. But the silver lining was that it got him out of dancing. No one would dare question the excuse of a maimed war hero.

His abstention would leave one woman short a partner, though. He watched as the gentlemen and ladies paired off and realized with a sinking feeling that the unpartnered lady was Miss Mirren.

And she was headed his way.

She sat next to him with a cool nod. Only as she watched the Scotch reel gather momentum and the dancers grow merry did her countenance begin to thaw.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Sneaking glances at her, he thought she did look rather like a bluestocking—or like a very beautiful woman trying to look like a bluestocking. Her pale green silk evening gown shimmered, though it was modestly cut and lacked adornment. A plain gold cross hung around her slender neck. She’d wrestled that luminous hair into submission, scraping it into a severe knot with nary a curl escaping—just as he’d silently exhorted her to do yesterday at the dock. None of the other guests, save perhaps Mrs. Talbot, knew what glory that hair was in its natural, unconfined state.

A visceral compulsion to apologize for his earlier behavior rose in his chest. Even as the urge overtook him, he marveled at it. He, who had committed all sorts of sins in the name of the cause—he who had betrayed men and women alike in the line of duty—worried that he might have hurt this girl’s feelings?

No. He should face the truth. He owed Miss Mirren an apology for a great deal more than yesterday’s harsh words. But she would never get that apology, so this one would have to do.

Goodness, there were certainly a great number of things the Earl of Blackstone didn’t do, Emily mused as she sat beside him, watching the other guests dance. A man with an enormous library who didn’t read. A man with a beautiful lake who didn’t swim.

The dancing perhaps was understandable. She shifted slightly, angling herself so she could see him in her peripheral vision. The couples had moved onto a country dance that required them to come together and grasp hands, then step away. Anyone who partnered Lord Blackstone would have to be sensitive about his missing hand, but it could be done.

Looking at him casually, one didn’t notice anything amiss. He commanded such attention with his angular—and often scowling—face that a missing hand hardly signified. Indeed, one had to look closely to notice that one arm of his immaculate black coat did not have a hand poking out of it. But no doubt he noticed it all the time, when he tried to shake a man’s hand or bow over a lady’s. She wondered if it hurt. She’d heard stories of soldiers who experienced phantom pain in missing limbs.

But, no. He didn’t need her pity. She had no plans to revise her opinion of him.

“Miss Mirren.”

She jumped a little. The intrusion felt like censure, as if he could see into her heart. Guilt quickly gave way to defensiveness, though, as she prepared to be insulted.

He did not look at her as he spoke, merely watched the dancers. “Miss Mirren, I must apologize.”

“You must what?” She couldn’t mask her surprise.

He turned to her with such intensity in his eyes that she had to force herself not to break with his gaze. “Apologize. You know, express remorse. Beg forgiveness.”

“Yes, of course, I know what it means, my lord.”

“I acted poorly yesterday morning. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did. In fact, I shouldn’t have been there at all. I should have left you to enjoy your swim.”

“It is your lake,” she conceded. “I suppose you had every right to be there.”

“I hope you’ll make as much use of it as you like while you’re here.”

How she wished she could. “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid now that your other guests are here, it won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“You said it yourself. Ladies don’t swim. At most, they take waters for their health, and then only in ridiculous bathing costumes that weigh so much when wet it’s a wonder they’re not the cause of more drownings.”

He shot her a skeptical look. “You don’t strike me as a lady who cares about convention.”

“Not caring about convention is one thing. Tromping into a lake in front of the crème of the ton is quite another. Although…” No. She checked herself. Confiding in the Earl of Blackstone was not wise.

“Although?” he prompted.

She sighed, but gave in—she did want to tell him for some reason. “I would very much like to sea bathe. I’ve never been.”

“You weren’t very far from the shore in Somerset, were you? And you such an avid swimmer. I’m surprised.”

She hesitated, not sure how much to say.

“Sea monsters?” He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “Your instructional manual on swimming didn’t contain a chapter on fending off sea monsters, I suppose. Yes, I can see your dilemma.”

He was almost—but not quite—smiling. Was he teasing her? Was that even possible? Before she could think how to answer, the music changed, and Mr. Bailey approached.

“Miss Mirren, would you honor me with the next dance?”

She opened her mouth and looked toward Lord Blackstone.

“Unless I’m interrupting?” Mr. Bailey looked back and forth between them.

“Not at all,” Lord Blackstone face had returned to its usual austere demeanor. “You’re not interrupting a thing.”