“Bother,” Pandora grumbled. “I wish I weren’t going at all now.” Scowling, she jammed a low-brimmed straw hat over her coiffure and left the room.

The group heading to the beach consisted of Lord St. Vincent, Seraphina, Ivo, Phoebe and her son Justin, Pandora, and Ajax, who bounded ahead and barked as if urging them to hurry. The boys were in high spirits, carrying an assortment of tin pails, spades, and kites.

The holloway was only wide enough to accommodate a single cart or wagon, and so deeply sunken in some places that its banks were taller than Pandora. Tussocks of gray-green Marram grass grew in places along its walls, interspersed with long-stalked flowers and spiny shrubs of sea buckthorn laden with brilliant orange berries. White-and-gray herring gulls spiraled on ocean-flung breezes, their stiffly spread wings carving through the soft sky.

Still brooding over the idea that she was on trial—that Lord St. Vincent was assessing her and would most likely decide to foist her off on someone else—Pandora spoke as little as possible. To her discomfiture, the rest of the group seemed inclined to draw away from the two of them. Phoebe made no effort to watch over them, instead walking far in front, hand-in-hand with Justin.

Obliged to keep pace with Lord St. Vincent’s more relaxed stride, Pandora saw the distance between them and their companions increase. “We should try to catch up to the others,” she said.

His lazy pace didn’t alter. “They know we’ll reach them eventually.”

Pandora frowned. “Does Lady Clare know nothing about chaperoning? She’s paying no attention to us.”

“She knows the last thing we need is close supervision, since we’re trying to become familiar with each other.”

“That’s rather a waste of time, isn’t it?” Pandora couldn’t resist asking. “In light of your plans.”

Lord St. Vincent glanced at her alertly. “What plans?”

“To pawn me off on some other man,” she said, “so you don’t have to marry me.”

Lord St. Vincent stopped in the middle of the holloway, obliging her to halt as well. “Where did you hear that?”

“It’s household gossip. And if it’s true—”

“It’s not.”

“—I don’t need you to dredge up an unwilling bridegroom from somewhere and bully him into marrying me just so you don’t have to. Cousin Devon says I won’t be made to marry anyone if I don’t wish it. And I don’t. Furthermore, I don’t want to spend my visit trying to win your approval, so I hope—”

She broke off, startled as Lord St. Vincent moved toward her in two fluid strides. Instinctively she backed away until her shoulders encountered the side bank of the holloway.

Looming over her, Lord St. Vincent braced one hand against an exposed tree root that ran up the wall. “I’m not planning to give you to another man,” he said evenly, “if only because for the life of me, I can’t think of a single acquaintance who would begin to know how to handle you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But you can?”

Lord St. Vincent didn’t reply, but his mouth twisted in a way that seemed to imply the answer to the question was obvious. As he saw the fist she had clenched in the folds of her robe, something in his face softened. “You’re not here to win my approval. I invited you to find out more about who you are.”

“Well, that won’t take long,” Pandora muttered. In response to his quizzical glance, she continued, “I’ve never been anywhere, or done any of the things I’ve dreamed about. I haven’t finished becoming myself. And if I marry you, I’ll never be anything except Lord St. Vincent’s peculiar wife who talks too fast and never knows the order of precedence for the dinner guests.” Hanging her head, Pandora swallowed against the sharp constriction of her throat.

After a speculative silence, his long, graceful fingers came to her jaw, tipping it upward. “What do you say to lowering our guards?” he asked gently. “A temporary disarmament.”

Fidgeting, Pandora looked away from him and happened to see a nearby vine bearing an enormous cup-shaped pink blossom with a white star at its center. “What kind of flower is that?”

“Sea bindweed.” Lord St. Vincent guided her face back to his. “Are you trying to distract me, or did that question just pop into your head?”

“Both?” she offered sheepishly.

Amusement flicked one corner of his mouth upward. “What would it take to keep your attention fixed on me?”

Pandora stiffened as his fingertips traced the edge of her jaw, leaving behind a ticklish trail of warmth. Her throat felt thick, as if she’d just swallowed a spoonful of honey. “I am paying attention to you.”

“Not fully.”

“I am, I’m looking at you, and—” A shaky breath escaped her as she recalled that Lord Chaworth had called this man a notorious rake. “Oh, no. I hope this isn’t—you’re not going to try to kiss me, are you?”

One of his brows arched. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” she said hastily. “No, thank you, no.”

Lord St. Vincent laughed gently. “One refusal is enough, darling.” The backs of his fingers stroked the frantic pulse in her throat. “The fact is, we have a decision to make by the end of the week.”

“I don’t need a week. I can tell you right now.”

“No, not until you find out more about what you might be turning down. Which means we’re going to have to condense six months of courtship into six days.” He let out a breath of rueful amusement as he read her expression. “You look like a patient who’s just been informed she needs surgery.”