Several hours later, with the long summer twilight deepening to dusk, Richard finally—finally!—stepped out of Balesboro Wood onto a neat gravel drive that curved through a wide clearing in which stood a large manor house. The drive swept in a gentle arc to the forecourt before the house’s front door.

Richard glanced at the eager, smiling faces of his companions—a woodcutter and his wife. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel, a counterpoint to his own and the clop of Malcolm the Great’s heavy hooves.

His idea of following the stream had been a good one; it had led him to the woodcutter’s cottage and not a moment too soon. The couple had been about to leave, having been summoned to the local manor house for a celebration.

As their cottage—a single-roomed hut—was far too small to accommodate the likes of him and they had no stable, the pair had suggested he walk with them to the manor. They’d assured him that the Tregarths, the owners of Nimway Hall and the woodcutter’s employers, were very nice gentlefolk and would be happy to offer him shelter.

Naturally, both woodcutter and wife had taken in the quality of his clothes, his sword, and Malcolm the Great and correctly identified him as a gentleman. Accepting their cheery and plainly confident assurances of welcome, Richard had joined them on the short trek to what he understood was an impromptu celebration occasioned by an old spring running again.

Given they were in Somerset, he’d refrained from leaping to conclusions. If there was a connection to the gentleman’s diversion of the stream, he would find out soon enough.

As they walked up the drive, Nimway Hall rose before them. Built of the local pale-gray stone with impressive corner towers three stories high, the central block comprised two neat stories with dormer windows above and the hint of a basement level below. Ivy, the creeper’s leaves a bright summer green, covered sections of the wall, but the clinging tendrils had been neatly trimmed away from around the numerous multi-paned windows. The lawns surrounding the house stretched wide, smooth and scythed. Although there was no fountain or sculpture to break up the rolling sward, the enfolding arms of the wood and the majesty of the house rendered such ornamentation superfluous.

That evening, every window on the lower level shone with the welcoming glow of candlelight.

The woodcutter and his wife increased their pace. “Looks like most of us are already here.” The woodcutter’s wife’s face was alight with joyful anticipation.

Richard noted a narrower extension of the drive curving around the house to the left, presumably leading to the stable. Several gigs and traps and at least one coach were lined up along its verge. No saddle horses were visible, but others must have ridden to the house. As, beside the woodcutter, he approached the front porch, Richard wondered what to do with Malcolm the Great. The horse needed care; Richard didn’t like leaving him hitched to a bush and unattended. Aside from any other consideration, if Malcolm got loose, given the door was open, he might follow Richard inside.

But then a tow-headed lad, no doubt alerted by the crunching gravel, peered out of the open door. On seeing Richard—or, more correctly, Malcolm the Great—the lad’s eyes grew wide, and he hurried to step out, onto the porch, where he paused uncertainly.

“There you are, Young Willie,” the woodcutter boomed. He was a large robust man with a large robust voice. “This gentleman got lost in our wood, and we’ve brought him here to beg shelter. And his great horse has fallen lame, too—best you take the beast around to the stable while we take the gentleman indoors to speak with the Tregarths. No doubt Hopkins will be interested and will come to see to the beast.”

Radiating suppressed eagerness, the lad descended the three steps and readily approached. “I can take him to the stable for you, sir.”

Richard smiled and held out the reins. “Despite his size”—the horse more than lived up to his name—“he’s very even tempered.”

The lad stroked the long velvety nose, and the horse—who was also intelligent enough to know who to butter up—chuffed encouragingly. “What’s his name?”

“Malcolm the Great.”

The lad grinned, as did the woodcutter. “I’ll take good care of him, sir,” the lad vowed. He nodded to the horse’s lame foreleg. “And if you speak with Hopkins—he’s the stableman—I’m sure he’ll come out and do what he can to make the beast more comfortable.”

Richard nodded and, as the boy led the big gray away, followed the woodcutter and his wife up the steps and inside. He stepped over the threshold and paused.

He stood in what he recognized as the antechamber to a medieval great hall. The large rectangular space that opened up two paces on had unquestionably been a great hall in its time; the large, solid, polished-oak beams that ribbed the walls and arched across the ceiling testified to its past. At several points in more recent centuries, it had been built onto, with wings to either side and stories above, until the house had attained its present form. Richard judged that the great hall now operated as the central hub of the manor house. And, as at that moment, the space provided the perfect venue for communal celebrations.

A mass of people—all solid country folk as far as Richard could see—thronged the room, yet it wasn’t overcrowded. This wasn’t a ton “crush” but a pleasant gathering of people comfortable in each other’s company; the hum of conversations interspersed with easy laughter bore witness to that fact.

“Evening, Mr. Cruickshank.”

Richard turned as the woodcutter bobbed his head to a man—tall, thin, and garbed in the long-tailed black coat favored by butlers everywhere—who had materialized out of the shifting crowd.

“This here gentleman”—the woodcutter gestured to Richard—“got lost in our wood. He found his way to us, and we thought to bring him to the manor for shelter. Him and his lame horse.”

The butler—Cruickshank—assessed Richard’s station, or as much of that as Richard allowed to show, in one swift glance, then bowed appropriately. “Sir.” He straightened. “Mr. Tregarth and Miss Swinford are by the fireplace. If you will follow me, I will make you known to them.”

Richard inclined his head. “Thank you.” He turned to take his leave of the woodcutter and his wife, but both had already been claimed by friends.

Richard caught the man’s eyes and inclined his head gratefully, then with his customary easy smile curving his lips, he turned and followed the butler. The man led him down one side of the room, skirting the knots of guests filling the space.

Several people glanced his way, but that was hardly surprising; he was taller than most, and even in his traveling clothes, deliberately chosen to be unremarkable, he cut a sufficiently striking figure to draw eyes—he always had. Unperturbed, he idly surveyed the crowd. He recognized their type—good, honest gentlefolk, squires, small landholders, tenant farmers, and those who served the manor, their lives spent, busy and content, managing their acres or fulfilling their duties unconcerned with and largely oblivious to the exercise of wider power. These were the people his mother referred to as the backbone of England, and she wasn’t wrong. Without them and their labors, his class—the ruling class—would have little to rule.

Halfway down the long hall, a lady, part of a large group in the center of the room, swung around and blatantly studied him. She was, he judged, somewhere in her twenties, yet there was no challenge in her gaze, only frank and straightforward assessment. Her gaze steady and assured, she surveyed him for several seconds, then briefly, she met his eyes.

Openly noting him—taking note of him—yet with no judgment or, indeed, any reaction that Richard could see.

That last piqued his interest, far more so than had she smiled invitingly.

Smoothly, the lady returned her attention to her companions, none of whom had noticed her momentary distraction, while Richard continued on.

Without conscious direction, his mind had cataloged the lady’s appearance—glossy fair hair in a warm shade of honey blond piled artlessly atop her head, a wide forehead and finely arched eyebrows above eyes whose color he hadn’t been able to discern. A straight nose and delicately curved lips, beautifully sculpted, with cheeks plump and just touched with a healthy rose…and a firm and determined chin. It was, he realized, that chin that had made the biggest impression on him, that had drawn his interest enough for him to have noted all the rest.

Her gown ranked as among the more expensive in the room, fashioned of teal silk in the current style, with a front panel of fine ivory lace.

Idly—he reminded himself that any interest on his part could be nothing more than idle—he wondered who she was.

Just because he’d set his mind against marriage didn’t mean he’d set his mind against female companionship altogether. The sight of the lady—who might well be married—had evoked a familiar pressure in his loins, reminding him that it had been weeks since he’d last indulged. Unfortunately, given his partners in pleasure were, by his invariable rule, of his own class and also well and truly wed, then unless he was exceedingly lucky and found a willing and suitably qualified lady, he might be facing a prolonged period of abstinence.

The butler—Cruickshank—reached the far end of the hall and led Richard to a settle flanking a massive stone-manteled fireplace. An older, rather faded, but sweet-faced lady sat on the settle, her hands clasped in her lap, and alongside her, ensconced in a Bath chair with a rug spread over his knees, from under bushy eyebrows, an older gentleman surveyed the throng.

Cruickshank bowed to the pair. “Mr. Tregarth. Miss Swinford. This gentleman found himself lost in our wood and has come asking for shelter.”

“Heh?” The older gentleman—Mr. Tregarth—squinted at Richard, his gaze as openly assessing as the unknown lady’s had been.

Richard smiled, stepped forward, and bowed with his customary grace. “Mr. Tregarth.” Straightening, he inclined his head to the older lady. “Miss Swinford. My name is Richard Montague.” He often used his last given name, also his mother’s family name, whenever claiming that of his exceedingly powerful and well-known father might not be in his best interests. With a self-deprecating smile, speaking to both his hosts impartially, he continued, “This morning, I set off from Yeovil for Wells, on my way to visit a relative in the bishop’s household, but to my abiding astonishment, I became quite turned around in the nearby wood. I fear I am, indeed, reduced to throwing myself on your mercy and asking for shelter for myself and my horse.”

Miss Swinford’s hands fluttered, and she beamed up at him. “Well, of course, dear. We’ll be only too happy to put you up. Won’t we, Hugh?” She glanced at the gentleman.

Hugh Tregarth was scrutinizing Richard. “Got lost, did you? In our wood, you say?”

“Balesboro Wood,” Richard replied. “I believe it forms part of this estate.”

Slowly, Hugh nodded. “Indeed, it does.” Hugh eyed Richard for a moment longer, then Hugh’s wrinkled face creased in a genial smile. “And Elinor’s quite right—you are, indeed, very welcome.”

Richard half bowed to them both. “Thank you.”

“You mentioned your horse?” Hugh inquired.

“Yes, and sadly, he’s gone lame. A sliver of wood wedged into his off-front shoe.”

“Nasty. We can’t have that. Good beast, is he?” Hugh asked.

“A Trojan,” Richard averred.

Hugh shifted in his chair, scanning those around, then he raised an arm and waved. “Hopkins! Over here, man.”

Richard watched as a man as old as Tregarth, heavy chested with the bow-legged stance of one who had ridden on most days of his life, drained the tankard he held, set it down on a nearby dresser, then weaved through the crowd to present himself with a crisp nod. “Aye, sir?”

“This gentleman”—Hugh indicated Richard with a flick of his hand—“Mr. Montague, got lost in our wood and will be staying for the nonce. His horse picked up a sliver and is lame. Thought you might see to him.”

The stableman’s interest was immediate. “Aye, sir—that I will.” The man raised his gaze to Richard’s face.

“I left the beast with your stable lad—Young Willie,” Richard said, answering Hopkins’s unvoiced question. “I believe he took the horse to the stable.”

“Aye, he would’ve done. Not wanting for sense, Young Willie.” Hopkins nodded to Hugh Tregarth. “I’ll get along there and see what’s what.”

“If you don’t mind,” Richard said, “I’ll come with you.” He met Hopkins’s faintly surprised gaze. “I’m rather fond of Malcolm the Great.”

Hopkins blinked. “That’s the beast’s name?”

“I bought him at a horse fair in Scotland. The name seemed appropriate. You’ll understand when you see him.”

Hopkins’s eyes widened. “In that case, sir, if you’ll come this way?” Hopkins waved to an archway giving onto a corridor that led away from the great hall in the direction of the stable.

Richard bowed to Tregarth and Miss Swinford. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, sir. I’ll return once I’ve seen the beast settled.”

“Of course.” Tregarth waved him away. “Commendable thing, to take care of one’s cattle.”

Richard hid a smile and followed Hopkins from the hall.

As he’d assumed, the corridor led directly to a side door that opened to a short stretch of lawn on the other side of which the stable squatted, long and low in the fading light. The glow from a lamp inside the stable spilled out of the open door; inside, they found Young Willie leaning on the front of a stall and crooning to Malcolm the Great.

Young Willie had brushed the horse down and fed and watered him, for which Richard thanked him and surreptitiously slipped him a penny. Hopkins had already opened the stall door and, after offering the horse his hand and stroking the long nose, then the arching neck, had gone into the stall.

Having surveyed the dappled gray’s size, Hopkins grunted. “See what you mean about his name. Fits him, right enough. Now.” Hopkins bent and lifted the off foreleg, angling the hoof to the light. After a moment of studying the damage, he grunted again. “Young Willie—go fetch Ned Ostley.” The boy instantly raced off. Hopkins glanced up at Richard. “Ostley’s our farrier. He’s the best one to see to this.”

Richard blew out a breath. “I thought it would take a farrier—I’m just glad you have one.”

“Oh aye—we have most of the trades here.” Hopkins gently set down the damaged hoof, leaned against the side of the stall, and folded his arms, clearly prepared to talk while they waited for the farrier to arrive. “An old estate, you see, and we’re a mite isolated, what with the wood all around and the escarpment to the west.”

Richard propped a shoulder against the front of the stall, more than willing to exploit the situation. “I was on my way to Wells when I got lost. I found your woodcutter, and he and his wife brought me here.” He tipped his head toward the house. “They said the celebration was something to do with an old spring running again.” The woodcutters hadn’t seemed to know more, and not wanting to advertise his interest, he hadn’t pried.

Hopkins nodded. “Aye. See, our stream’s been running low. Very low. We didn’t get the flush we usually do after the winter thaw. Our farmers were getting into a pother—not enough water would make for a hard year. And the mill can’t run, not with the stream so low, so that’s another worry—even if they get the crops in, they’ll have to pay for someone else to mill the grain. But the mistress, Miss Jacqueline, remembered about the old lake.” Hopkins tipped his head beyond the rear of the house. “Used to be at the far end of the grounds, but it’s been dry for years. Seems the spring that fed it got plugged up somehow, but Miss Jacqueline had the dowser in, and this afternoon, they had the spring gushing again. So now the lake’s filling, and once it’s full, the estate will have water aplenty. We’ll still have to figure out how to supply the mill, mind, but if any of our farms need water, we’ll have it to give them. So that’s what the celebration’s about.” Hopkins eyed Richard—measuringly, much as Tregarth had done. “Might not seem such a big thing to you, but to us in the country, fixing a situation like that…it’s a victory of sorts. Worthy of celebration.”

Richard allowed an entirely genuine grin to split his face. “I might live in London for some of the year, but I was born and brought up in the country. So I fully appreciate the triumph of…Miss Jacqueline.” He arched his brows. “I presume she’s Mr. Tregarth’s daughter?”

“Nah—she’s his great-niece.” Hopkins straightened as the sound of heavy footsteps neared. “He’s her guardian, so to speak, ever since her parents died. It’s Miss Jacqueline who owns Nimway Hall.”

Richard blinked, but then a heavyset man arrived and introduced himself as Ned Ostley, the farrier. After taking a quick look at Malcolm’s damaged hoof, Ostley fetched his tools, and in short order, the offending sliver—a surprisingly thick and sharp-edged shaft of hardwood—was removed.

Both Ostley and Hopkins—along with Richard—studied Malcolm the Great’s subsequent reaction. The big horse still found the foot too sore to use. Hopkins grunted. “It’ll take a while to settle, no doubt. His weight…you wouldn’t want to rush him back into using it before he’s ready.”

“No, indeed.” Somewhat grim, Richard said, “We’ll see how he is tomorrow.”

The others grunted agreement, and leaving Young Willie to settle Malcolm, the three men returned to the great hall and the celebration that was still in full swing.

Richard estimated he’d been absent from the hall for about thirty minutes. He parted from Ostley and Hopkins with sincere thanks, then found himself offered a mug of ale and a pasty, both of which he gratefully accepted. The pasty, simple and hearty country fare, went some way to filling his empty stomach. Two more pasties and another mug of ale did the trick. Sufficiently fortified, he wondered which of the younger ladies he’d spotted in the crowd—all three of whom he was making a point of ignoring—was Miss Jacqueline Tregarth. Further wondering if he should find the housekeeper and retire rather than linger when he knew so few, he made his way back to the fireplace where Tregarth and Miss Swinford continued to hold court.

He’d only just rejoined them when, with a rustle of silks, the lady he’d noticed earlier—she of the assessing gaze and determined chin—stepped out of the crowd and halted beside Hugh Tregarth.

Richard realized he was about to meet the owner of Nimway Hall.

In confirmation, Miss Swinford fluttered and beamed at the lady. “There you are, Jacqueline. You must meet Mr. Montague—Richard Montague. Mr. Montague, please allow me to present my charge, Mr. Tregarth’s great-niece, Miss Jacqueline Tregarth.”

As Richard bowed and Miss Tregarth dipped into a regulation curtsy, Miss Swinford rattled on, “Mr. Montague was riding to Wells to visit a relative in the bishop’s household, but he got lost in our wood and his horse went lame, and so here he is, come to beg shelter.”

Miss Swinford lowered her restless hands to her lap, her face alight with satisfaction, apparently over having delivered such news. She looked from the lady to Richard, transparently pleased.

Richard felt Miss Swinford’s approving gaze, but didn’t meet it. His eyes were trapped, stare for stare, by the most striking blue-green gaze he’d ever seen. Miss Jacqueline Tregarth had eyes of mingled cerulean blue and spring green, both shades bright; she also possessed a gaze of such directness, of such unstated confidence and unshakeable inner strength, that the combination literally stole his breath.

It had been a long time—a very long time—since anything about a lady had rendered Richard Edward Montague Devries speechless.

Jacqueline studied Richard Montague with her customary outward calm, yet inside, to her surprise, she felt her senses fluttering, her nerves leaping, and a very real curiosity stirring. In other ladies—more susceptible ladies—she imagined he stirred another sort of interest entirely, but she knew herself to be fully armored against that particular weakness.

Regardless, it was, apparently, impossible not to react to his presence. He was of above-average height, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long rider’s legs, and he moved in a way that marked him as quite different from the country gentlemen to whom she was accustomed. Richard Montague was a…the label her mind supplied was “warrior.” He wore a sword at his hip, and his fluid prowling gait was that of an experienced hunter.

Did he hunt through woods or ballrooms?

She suspected the answer was both.

The line of his lips was frankly sensual, the thickness of his dark hair a blatant invitation to feminine fingers to stroke, thread through, and grip. He wore the walnut-brown locks drawn back into a queue at the nape of his neck, exposing the chiseled planes of his face. His nose was a patrician blade, his chin rugged and uncompromisingly square, and his deeply set hazel eyes looked out on the world with—if she had to guess—a cynicism to match her own.

Certainly, the gaze she held was as unrevealing and as unapologetically assessing as hers.

She raised her chin a fraction and continued to meet his eyes. “Welcome, Mr. Montague. As I’m sure my uncle and my chaperon have assured you, you are welcome beneath this roof.”

His lips quirked fractionally, then relaxed into an easy—practiced—smile, and he bowed again, remarkably elegantly. “Thank you, Miss Tregarth.”

She glanced at the door through which he’d returned to the hall. “Your horse, sir? Has it been stabled?”

“Thank you, yes. Your stableman and farrier have seen to him. They removed a splinter from his hoof, and we’ve agreed to see how he is come morning.”

The emotion that fleetingly shadowed his face suggested he was truly concerned for his steed. Her curiosity deepened. “Have you ridden far?”

His gaze returned to her face. He hesitated for a second, then replied, “I left London several days ago. I rode with a friend to Yeovil, and we parted there, and this morning, I turned north. I expected to reach Wells by this afternoon, but sadly, your wood defeated me.”

She widened her eyes. “I admit I’m surprised you didn’t keep to the lanes.” Most travelers did.

His lips thinned slightly as if in remembered irritation. “I might have had I known of the confounding nature of Balesboro Wood. However, as I’ve hunted since boyhood and in forests far larger and have never before encountered any difficulty in finding my way, striking north across country seemed the obvious and fastest route.”

She noticed Hugh snap to attention, his gaze focusing a great deal more sharply on their unexpected visitor. Before Hugh could commence an interrogation, she smoothly stated, “The folklore of these parts includes several tales of travelers getting lost in the woods.” Specifically, in Balesboro Wood. “The stories often involve some magical being that haunts the woodland and ensnares certain mortals.” She smiled reassuringly. “Of course, such tales are generally considered myths.”

A faint frown tangling his dark brows, he replied, “In light of my experience in your wood, I can understand how such tales come about.”

She’d expected him to laugh and dismiss all ideas of magical beings with a contemptuous wave.

She wasn’t at all sure what to make of Richard Montague. What was he doing there? Could she take his story at face value? Up to now, the gentlemen who had sought to woo her had openly ridden up to the house, more or less declaring their purpose, but if Richard Montague had heard of her and decided to make a bid for her hand, then she had to admit that gaining entry to the household by claiming shelter with a story of getting lost in her wood was a novel and effective way of getting past her first line of defense.

He was inside her walls and assured of a bed, at least overnight.

That in the process, his horse, who he plainly cared about, had picked up a splinter and gone lame might simply have been an unintended consequence of his plan.

“Will the bishop’s household be expecting you, Mr. Montague?” She had to wonder if that part of his tale was true.

“If they are,” Elinor hurried to say, “I’m sure we can send a messenger…” Her face clouded. “But it’s already late, so perhaps not until morning, and by then, you might be ready to journey on.”

Richard Montague smiled gently at the older woman. “I’m a frequent visitor to the palace at Wells, but this visit was a spur-of-the-moment decision, so they won’t be expecting me. And, as you say, if my horse recovers the use of his hoof quickly, I’ll be in Wells tomorrow.”

Elinor relaxed under the reassuring warmth of Montague’s smile. Jacqueline gave the man credit for being kind enough to calm her chaperon, who was a dear but prone to plunging into distracted and distracting flusters.

Based on that calming kindness and that Montague had, to that point, shown no signs of setting himself to charm her, she decided that, at least for the moment, she would proceed as if he was nothing more than he claimed—a traveler intent on reaching Wells who had been temporarily waylaid.

By Balesboro Wood.

Of course, it was early days yet.

She glanced around, her duty as lady of the manor tugging at her, yet she was reluctant to leave Montague to his own devices. “Perhaps, Mr. Montague”—she returned her gaze to his handsome face and coolly arched a brow—“you might accompany me on my rounds, and I can introduce you to some of our neighbors.”

He half bowed. “I am yours to command, Miss Tregarth.”

She seriously doubted that, but, when he gallantly offered his arm, consented to lay her fingertips on his sleeve. As he turned her toward the groups of people dotting the great hall, she tried to ignore the clamoring of her senses occasioned, evidently, by the feel of steely muscles beneath the cool fabric of his coat sleeve and the sheer impact of his powerful body in such close proximity to hers. Surreptitiously, she swallowed, then she tilted her chin upward and gestured to one of the nearer circles. “I should speak with Mr. Harris. He’s the local alderman.”

With a brief, acknowledging dip of his head, Montague led her to join the group.

Unsurprisingly, they were welcomed with undisguised interest and the avid curiosity of country folk on finding a stranger—an exceedingly handsome one who, despite his neat and conventional appearance, carried the dangerous edge of an experienced commander—suddenly in their midst.

Determinedly suppressing the effect he had on her, Jacqueline introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Harris and the two other couples—the owners of neighboring smallholdings—then asked Mr. Harris about the upcoming wool fair.

“Indeed, Miss Tregarth.” The alderman puffed out his chest. “There was something of a battle between East Pennard and West Pennard, but in the end, it was decided to hold the fair in our usual field, to the west of West Pennard.”

“I have to admit,” Jacqueline said, “that that suits us rather better—driving our flocks across to East Pennard would have meant an extra day.”

“Aye—a lost day.” One of the other gentlemen nodded in agreement.

Mrs. Harris smiled at Montague. “You’re from London, sir? I daresay you find such pastimes as wool fairs and the like supremely boring.”

Montague returned her smile, his own one of easy, confident grace. “Although I spend much of my time in the capital, I’m not one to turn my back on country pleasures.” He glanced at the men. “And these days, the wool clip and similar harvests from the country form the backbone of our nation’s wealth—none of us should forget that.”

The comment had Jacqueline’s brows faintly rising and, of course, made Montague an instant ally of the men—farmers all. Montague’s attire, subdued and self-effacing though it was, his dark-brown coat relatively plain with simple gold buttons but devoid of braid or other showy embellishments, nevertheless marked him as hailing from London; given their quality, his garments couldn’t have originated from anywhere else.

Subdued his clothing might be, yet everything about him screamed of wealth.

The gold signet ring on his right hand and the jewel-encrusted hilt of the sword she’d seen peeking out from beneath his coat confirmed that assessment.

Whoever he was and whatever his reasons for being there, Richard Montague came from a wealthy family.

Given he was a Montague, there was little surprise in that.

They remained chatting with that group for several minutes, then Jacqueline touched Montague’s arm, and they made their excuses and moved on to the next knot of locals.

Once again, Montague proved to be a dab hand at reassuring others uncertain of how to deal with him. After making a joking comment about his woeful experience in her wood, he engaged the men in what evolved into a lively discussion of hunting in the neighborhood. Montague’s recollections of the sport to be had around Wells, and his ready exchanges with Mr. Willis and his son, Thomas, both of whom hunted in that area, left Jacqueline reasonably certain that Montague’s claim to be a frequent visitor at Wells was true.

As they moved from group to group, under cover of the chatter, she watched him closely, but somewhat to her surprise, he appeared to…subtly retreat from the ladies’ advances. Certainly, he deployed what she sensed was a shield of smiling yet steely reserve between him and those ladies who, with their smiles and gushing comments, sought to draw him to them.

He resisted most definitely and remained by her side.

Yet he made no move to engage her, stoking her curiosity even more. Indeed, to a point where her escalating inquisitiveness made it easy to ignore her nonsensical, still-overactive senses.

Perhaps Richard Montague was exactly who and what he claimed to be and nothing more.

Regardless, he gained her very definite approval when, as they were passing through the crowd, he dipped his head to hers and murmured, “One moment, if you please.”

Then he diverted to where Hammond, one of the Hall’s woodcutters, was standing with his wife and several others, all workers on the estate.

All turned in some surprise, but bobbed bows and curtsies to her and to Montague.

Montague smiled upon them all, then settled his gaze on Hammond. “I wanted to thank you and your wife”—he dipped his head to Mrs. Hammond—“for taking pity on a stranger and bringing me here. Not everyone would have been so helpful.”

Hammond flushed and insisted that they’d done no more than what anyone would have, but Montague only smiled and inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I’m grateful to you both for your kindness and hope prosperity shines upon your labors.”

With that and a general, easy nod to the others, he steered Jacqueline on to the next group of guests.

After making the introductions, in response to several questions, she described calling in the dowser and finding the old spring, yet Montague making the effort to thank the Hammonds remained high in her mind. It had, quite simply, been a nice thing to do. And not something to which gentlemen of Montague’s ilk tended to stoop.

The longer she spent in his company, the higher Richard Montague rose in her estimation.

Apparently, without intending to.

Richard saw no reason not to stick by Miss Tregarth’s side—a decision that, once he realized he’d made it, struck him as distinctly odd; normally, he avoided the company of marriageable ladies like the plague. But Miss Tregarth had displayed not the faintest interest in claiming his attention for herself. Indeed, if asked to define how she viewed him, he would say “suspiciously.”

Regarding him as a highly desirable, eminently eligible parti—which he unquestionably was—apparently did not feature in her, from all he could judge, otherwise clear-eyed view of her world.

If one part of him saw her obliviousness as a challenge, that part and any impulses to which it might have given rise were smothered beneath a tide of relief. Although he was escorting a striking young lady about a social gathering, for once, he felt safe.

He’d thought that he would have to reach Wells and the august presence of his uncle before he would be able to relax. But while he still had to keep a wary eye out for the other young ladies—and several not so young—who saw him as a marriageable entity and couldn’t believe their luck, while he stuck by Miss Tregarth’s side…he was safe.

That gave him time and the mental space to observe more broadly and consider other things.

Of course, many of the older gentlemen, those of the type to take a paternalistically protective view of Miss Tregarth, were eyeing him askance, some with expressions bordering on incipient animosity. He could have soothed them by informing them that he had sworn off marriageable females, possibly for all time, but their wish to scare him off was proving useful.

From the instant he’d been informed that Miss Tregarth owned the estate, he’d been curious as to how she managed it. Being the owner of an estate himself, he knew what the management of such properties entailed. It was pure curiosity on his part, wondering how a pretty, still-youthful lady would handle the demands of the position.

During their various discussions, several gentlemen—Alderman Harris among them—had dropped comments to the effect that Miss Tregarth managed the reins entirely on her own. Richard suspected that the alderman and others who had made similar remarks thought that by painting a picture of a lady of managing disposition, they would frighten him off. Instead, their revelations only further fueled his curiosity.

As he and she progressed up the great hall, stopping at each circle of guests to chat and converse, he overheard a not quite low-voiced-enough exchange between three disapproving older ladies and learned that Miss Tregarth had dismissed a string of suitors. The older ladies deplored her unwed state, declaring that, at twenty-four years of age, she should be married with a brood of children rather than discussing the price of wool with two of the estate’s farmers, as she presently was.

Richard enjoyed the puzzle of understanding people, of figuring out what drove them. It was an interest his parents had encouraged as useful in one of his station, and over the years, defining people had become an ingrained habit. He could comprehend and catalog most people without any real effort. Jacqueline Tregarth, however, was proving to be a challenge.

That she was, apparently, uninterested in marriage—which went some way toward explaining her lack of matrimonial interest in him—and, instead, was focused on managing her estate was precisely what made her so interesting to him.

So different, ergo fascinating, entertaining, and intriguing.

She was presently discussing the estate’s expected wool clip and the price she and her farmers might get for it. Having not that long ago been privy to a similar exchange between his father and his brother, Richard judged her to be well informed.

Given she was competent, intelligent, and strikingly attractive—albeit romantically reserved—and endowed with what, from all he’d gleaned, was a sizeable house and estate, he had to wonder just why Miss Tregarth had turned away what sounded to be legions of suitors.

They were in between groups when the strains of a viol drifted down from above. Glancing up, Richard saw movement in the gallery above the end of the hall as the musicians who had taken up position there put bows to strings and struck up a jaunty country dance.

Those milling in the center of the hall shuffled toward the sides, creating an impromptu dance floor. Richard looked at Jacqueline. She was smiling encouragingly at other couples, then she laughed and made a shooing motion, directing those others to the floor.

One glance around the room was enough to confirm that he was the ranking male of appropriate age and station to lead Miss Tregarth out, at least to begin with. Electing to grasp the opportunity Fate was dangling, he caught Jacqueline’s eye, swept her a flourishing bow, and with a laughing smile, asked, “Might I beg the honor of this dance, Miss Tregarth?”

For one instant, she looked taken aback, as if participating in the dance hadn’t crossed her mind. But then she smiled, sank into a curtsy, and rising, gave him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Montague. I would enjoy that.”

He set his mind and his considerable expertise to ensuring she did.

It was a simple country dance, one he could perform in his sleep, but with her as his partner, he remained alert and focused.

As she dipped under his arm in a slow, graceful twirl, from beneath her lashes, she met his eyes. “Do they dance such dances in town?”

Ruefully, he shook his head. “The hostesses prefer the more complicated contredanses, yet everyone needs to concentrate so ferociously on the steps, such dances feature more as torture than enjoyment.”

She laughed—as he’d intended.

They parted, then came together again, and he seized the moment to ask, “I’ve heard, of course, of the cause of this celebration—that an old spring is running again and a previously dry lake is refilling. But what prompted you to search for the spring?”

The stableman had explained, but Richard wanted to hear her reasons. In her various exchanges on the topic, she hadn’t touched on those.

She bobbed, then drew closer and turned, giving him her hands. “Our stream’s been drying up—the flow never picked up after winter. So we—the estate—needed water. Quite desperately. We still have to find a way to supply the millstream, but one hurdle at a time—at least we now have water enough for the Hall’s and our farmers’ needs.”

“I see.” After another circle and changing of hands, he asked, “The stream that’s failing—is it the one that runs past your woodcutter’s cottage?”

“Yes. You must have noticed how poor the flow was.”

He nodded as they swayed, but continued to hold his tongue regarding the gentleman and his diversion of the stream. Clearly, they were talking of the same stream, yet his father had drilled it into him never to jump in and volunteer information in situations he didn’t fully comprehend, and he had no way of telling if Miss Tregarth and the gentleman were acting together for some reason he couldn’t yet discern.

The dance separated them for several minutes.

By the time they came together again, he’d decided that, if he hadn’t learned more one way or the other before he was ready to ride on, he would mention the gentleman and the diversion in the wood before he left.

The dance came to an end, and he bowed, and she curtsied. He gave her his hand and drew her to her feet, returning her smile—one more genuinely relaxed than he’d yet seen from her.

Others gathered around, and they continued chatting while the musicians decided on their next measure. When they once more started playing, Richard—too well brought up not to know his role—solicited Miss Swinford’s hand.

Although she blushed and disclaimed, when he inquired, Miss Swinford admitted she loved to dance. Thereafter, he ignored her fluster and inexorably drew her into the nearest set.

If her wide smile when the dance ended was any indication, Miss Swinford had thoroughly enjoyed the exercise.

While dancing with a succession of her neighbors, Jacqueline watched with approval as Richard Montague dutifully progressed through the ladies, most of whom were somewhat older than he, but who nevertheless clearly enjoyed his company.

His attentions, she noticed, he kept to himself. Given the dearth of younger ladies, that might have been expected, but more than one lively matron attempted to catch his eye in a more meaningful fashion, yet although his smiling courtesy never wavered, he studiously maintained a respectful distance.

He was, she realized, accustomed to this—to country entertainments and country ways. She suspected that meant he was a landowner himself or, at the very least, the son of one. That, indeed, fitted with some of his earlier comments to her farmers and neighbors.

After a time, she excused herself from the dancing and returned to the hearth to check on Hugh and Elinor, who had returned to her seat beside Hugh. Hugh’s legs had weakened, and he was confined to his Bath chair, propelled around the house and grounds by his devoted valet, Freddie. Freddie had retreated to stand by the wall, so when Jacqueline paused by Hugh’s chair and exchanged a smile with her erstwhile guardian, she felt no hesitation in declaring, “I find myself quite content to have had Mr. Montague join us.” She turned to watch the dancers and picked him out amid the lines—simple enough given he was taller than most and easily the most striking man in the room.

Hugh humphed, the sound one of approval. “He’s certainly joined in—no standing on ceremony.”

Jacqueline nodded. She had a strong suspicion Richard Montague was at home in significantly more elevated circles, yet at no time had he shown the slightest sign of being high in the instep.

Elinor sighed. “Such an easy and undemanding guest. He’s the sort of guest it’s a pleasure to have.”

“Indeed.” Jacqueline felt reassured at having her reading of Montague confirmed. Hugh and Elinor might live as sheltered a life as she did, but each had years of experience at their back, and she’d long ago learned they were rarely taken in by pretty faces and polished manners. As for charm…like her, they instinctively distrusted it, especially in gentlemen.

Despite his easygoing handsomeness, Richard Montague hadn’t tried to charm anyone.

With a nod, she moved on. She accepted an offer from a blushing Thomas Willis for the last dance and found herself in the same set as Montague. Thomas was younger than she by three years and was clearly in awe of Montague’s polish, but with a smile and a nod, Montague set the boy at ease, and the dance passed off splendidly, leaving the four in their set laughing and smiling and in excellent accord.

Most of the estate’s workers had already left, slipping away with nods and bows. The rest of the guests, mostly neighbors, took the end of the music as signaling the end of the event and started gathering their parties to depart. Coaches were called for and farewells tendered. Jacqueline stood to one side of the open front door and waved her guests off, into the softness of the summer night.

Finally, all were gone. She turned inside to find Cruickshank waiting to close and bar the door.

While he did, she walked slowly back into the great hall. Elinor had already gone up, and Hugh and Freddie had retreated to Hugh’s rooms at the rear of the house. Somewhat to Jacqueline’s surprise, Richard Montague was helping the footmen muscle back into place the heavy round table that normally stood in the center of the great hall.

Once it was settled, she approached. With a nod and a smile, she dismissed the footmen, then met Montague’s hazel eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He smiled and lightly shrugged. “I was here, and it seemed the least I could do to repay you and your household for your collective willingness to put me up for the night.” He tipped his head. “And for allowing me to join your celebration—you didn’t have to do that.”

She laughed. “Very well. Let’s call ourselves quits.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glint of candlelight on gold and looked toward the hearth. Now freed of all dirt and polished until the gold mounting gleamed and the surface of the stone, a moonstone, shone, the orb—Hugh, Elinor, and she had agreed that was the only word for it—stood on the mantelpiece, in the middle, in pride of place.

Smiling, she turned and crossed to the fireplace. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll show you to your room. I should put this away.”

He trailed after her and watched as she reached up and lifted the orb down.

As it had several times before, when her fingers brushed the moonstone, the stone appeared to softly glow. Just for an instant.

Frowning, he peered at the orb. “What is that?”

She wasn’t sure if he was asking about the orb or the curious glow. “We found it lodged on top of the spring—like a plug.” Cradling the orb in her hands, she started toward the drawing room on the other side of the hall. “Now, of course, it’s become the Hall’s good luck charm—we’re calling it ‘the orb.’ The way the estate’s workers are talking of it, it’ll feature in the tales they tell their children for years to come.”

“I see.” He strolled beside her, but his gaze remained on the orb, his expression one of puzzled curiosity.

They walked into the drawing room; the room had been left open for guests to sit and rest, and several candelabra still shed a warm glow throughout the chamber.

She crossed the room and halted before the dresser set against the far wall directly opposite the door.

His gaze still on the orb, he halted beside her, then glanced up and saw her studying him. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his lips quirked. “It’s a curious thing—I was thinking it looks a bit like the top of a scepter.”

She nodded. “The more fanciful suggestion is that it’s the head of a magical staff, but regardless, it’s now the Hall’s charm.” She looked up at the top shelf of the dresser; she couldn’t reach it, not without dragging over a chair.

“Top shelf?” he asked.

“Please.” She held out the orb.

He lifted it from her hands. His hands were so much larger, the orb was all but engulfed by his palms and fingers.

And it glowed. Briefly.

Just as it did whenever she touched it.

They both frowned as the glow quickly faded, leaving the moonstone once more just a large, smooth, pale, milky, semi-translucent stone.

“Perhaps it’s something to do with the warmth of our hands,” he muttered.

Except it hadn’t reacted that way when either Hugh or Elinor had held it. “I thought it might be due to some hidden facet or fracture catching the light just so,” she offered.

He made an uncertain sound, then looked up at the empty top shelf of the dresser. “In the middle?”

“If you would.”

He placed it carefully, turning it on the base of old gold, an engraved working that reminded her of the ruff above an eagle’s claw. The mounting holding the moonstone in place almost certainly represented claws.

He stepped back to view his handiwork. “Is that how you wanted it?”

She couldn’t have done better. “Yes, thank you.”

She turned and deviated to pick up one of the candelabra as she crossed to the door. He stood back to let her precede him into the great hall, then followed at her shoulder as she led the way to and up the stairs.

His manners, his courtesies, weren’t actions he consciously thought about; his attentiveness to others was ingrained. As he followed her down one of the corridors leading from the gallery, she was quite sure of that.

She halted before the door of the room the Hall’s housekeeper had earlier informed her had been prepared for him. She lifted the latch, set the door swinging wide, then stepped back and waved him inside. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.” With a gracious nod, he stepped past her, and she added, “If there’s anything you find you need, please ring no matter the hour. Cruickshank and Mrs. Patrick—the housekeeper—will be distressed if you don’t. To their minds, they have their own standards to uphold, and we don’t get many unexpected visitors, so you’ve put them on their mettle—please don’t be shy.”

Richard cast a comprehensive glance around the room, taking in the comfortable four-poster bed, his saddlebags set on the top of a large tallboy, and the ewer, basin, and folded towel on a washstand in one corner. The wide window was uncurtained and stood open to the soft, scented night air.

He turned to his hostess and smiled. “I can’t see any reason to disturb your staff.”

He reached out and lifted the candlestick left waiting on a side table by the door. He tilted the tip of the candle to one of those in the candelabra she held. Once the wick was alight, he straightened the candlestick and raised his gaze to her face—to her lovely blue-green eyes. “You and your staff have my heartfelt thanks for taking pity on a benighted traveler—and his even more benighted horse.”

She laughed as he’d hoped she would; the silvery sound fell like music on his ears.

He saluted her with the candlestick and reached for the door.

She dipped her head to him, her golden curls burnished by the candlelight. “Goodnight, Mr. Montague.”

He executed a courtly half bow. “Goodnight, Miss Tregarth.”

Still smiling, she set off along the corridor, heading back to the gallery.

Richard turned into his room and shut the door.

It had been a long day. He was tired, but…despite the frustrations of the day, he’d landed on his feet, and unexpectedly, they’d led him to a welcoming, comfortable, and altogether intriguing place.