How did young ladies encourage gentlemen?

Jacqueline had no clue. She’d never wanted to do such a thing before.

So she dallied in the drawing room until, as had happened on the previous nights since Richard had arrived at the Hall, he and she started up the stairs side by side.

Cruickshank was doing the rounds of the ground floor, checking that all the doors and windows had been locked. Ever since the break-in, he’d been extra vigilant.

A candelabra on the central table in the hall cast flickering light over the walls as, holding her skirts raised, Jacqueline climbed. Cruickshank would douse the candles downstairs. The single large candle in its ornate stick that sat on the side table in the gallery opposite the head of the stairs cast enough light to guide Jacqueline and Richard to their rooms; when, eventually, Cruickshank followed them upstairs, he would take the candlestick with him to light his way up the next flight to the staff quarters above.

Not having to juggle a candlestick as well as manage her skirts was a definite boon…

Inwardly cursing, she wrestled her skittering thoughts back to the problem at hand. How was she to encourage Richard? How to convey and make clear to him that she would welcome his advances if he chose to make them—if he felt that way inclined?

The gallery loomed ahead. The end of the stairs was nigh.

She frowned in earnest, raking through her mind to find some form of words with which to at least allude to the subject, to indicate—

Her toe hit the top step, and she pitched forward—

Before she could gasp, she sensed Richard beside her, swooping, then a muscled arm wrapped about her waist, and she was abruptly hauled upright.

She tilted toward him—was pulled even nearer—and found herself locked in his arms.

Once more with her breasts pressed to his coat, cradled against the warm hardness of his chest. But this time, they were on their feet.

She looked up. Their faces were only inches apart. The flickering light of the candle played softly over one side of his face, revealing the austere planes of his cheeks beneath his sharply delineated cheekbones.

His eyes, the bright hazel wreathed in shadow, trapped hers. Gazes locked, they stared at each other, their breaths mingling in the dimness while hunger rose, powerful and potent, a tangible entity claiming the air between them.

She stared into the sharp hazel gaze of a predator.

Her heart sped, galloping faster and faster. Her lungs seized, denying her breath.

As every sense she possessed stretched and reached for him.

Passion flowered, a need she’d never experienced before. Desire bloomed and seduced her.

She felt heat rise and spread beneath her skin, urging her on, needy and wanting. Instinctively, she moistened her lips—and saw his gaze deflect, releasing her eyes to follow the passage of the tip of her tongue over the lower curve…

Emboldened, she lowered her gaze. To his mouth.

His lips were edged in shadow, infinitely intriguing…infinitely tempting.

She drew in a shallow breath, then tensed and stretched upward—

He stiffened.

She looked up, surprised. His hooded lids had fallen, screening his eyes.

Then his arms eased—slowly but smoothly releasing her. Before she could stagger, he closed his hands about her upper arms.

He gripped and, for one instant, stilled, but then she saw his jaw set, and with his lips now a thin line, he stepped back, simultaneously setting her on her feet.

Away from him.

His hands fell from her. His rejection could not have been clearer.

Struck to the heart, her blood cooling as if he’d plunged her into ice, she dragged in a breath. “I’m…thank you.” After a second, she added, “Again. I seem to be making a habit of stumbling…”

What was she saying? Both falls had been accidents.

She reached for a shawl she wasn’t wearing, then realized, straightened, and clinging to what dignity remained to her, inclined her head. “Again, thank you. I will bid you—”

“I meant to mention it before.” He’d edged even farther back; the candlelight barely touched his face. He clasped his hands behind his back; standing rigid and somehow distant, with quite terrible politeness, he went on, “I believe my horse will be recovered enough to ride on…if not tomorrow, then certainly, the day after. I’ve enjoyed my time at Nimway Hall immensely and wish to convey my deepest gratitude to you and the household for the welcome you’ve shown me—a stranger lost in your wood. However, despite the pleasure I’ve found here, others will be wondering where I’ve got to. I must ride on.”

Despite the cauldron of feelings roiling inside her—embarrassment, hurt, disappointment, and self-directed anger among them—she nevertheless thought, on a spurt of irritation, that obviously his stay hadn’t been so very pleasant that he would consider remaining forever.

Metaphorically pulling the shreds of her dignity more tightly about her, she forced herself to—however stiffly—incline her head. “Of course.” Her voice was low; despite her best efforts, temper edged her tone. “We cannot—and would not wish to—keep you.”

An outright lie, but at least she’d got the words out.

With a fractional inclination of her head, she turned away. “Goodnight, sir.”

She didn’t look back but, head high, walked to her door, opened it, went inside, and carefully let the latch fall.

Only then did she allow the tremors that had been building inside to surface. She slumped back against the door and closed her eyes.

She breathed in, out, and waited for the maelstrom of her raging emotions to subside.

Once it had—only once it had—she drew in a deep breath and opened her eyes.

Her gaze fell on the orb. It sat on her dressing table; she hadn’t moved it since it had appeared there. Yet even though the moonlight was falling full upon it, the moonstone seemed curiously dull. More milky, less translucent, and with not a hint of a glow.

She humphed and pushed away from the door.

Without allowing herself to think—without allowing her still-surging emotions to capture her again—she walked to the open window and looked out. The view was to the north. She could see the lake, its waters shimmering under the moon’s light, its edge marked by the dark shadows of trees, and on the distant horizon, silhouetted against the night sky, pale and somehow infinitely lonely, stood the Tor.

Had Nimue once stood somewhere near, on the Hall’s lands, and looked out on a moonlit summer night—at the Tor, at the lake and the wood—and wondered about life and love?

Jacqueline stood for long minutes and grappled with the reality of rejection.

Of the pain of offering and being deemed unworthy, of being turned away from.

It hurt.

As the minutes ticked by, she sensed the ancient peace of the Hall rise around her, wrapping comfortingly about her, an all-but-palpable presence in the dark.

Held, supported, she took her courage in her hands and looked inward—to where the hurt resided. As if it was a physical wound, she examined it. Acknowledged it.

Admitted to herself that the slash had scored her heart.

Only now that the prospect of a future with Richard Montague had been denied—had been shown to be an unattainable dream—did she finally understand, did she finally comprehend how deeply the hope and the promise of what she’d sensed she might have with him by her side had burrowed into her soul.

* * *

“I don’t know as I would advise it, sir.” Ned Ostley, his gaze on the pink line that was barely detectable along the edge of the pad of Malcolm the Great’s hoof, pursed his lips and shook his head. “Could flare up again.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Hopkins put in placatingly, his gaze on Richard’s frowning face.

Ostley patted Malcolm’s glossy neck. “You won’t want to risk this fellow.”

Malcolm fixed his large eye on Richard as if to echo that sentiment; normally, after being idle for days, the horse would be fractious and wanting a run. Instead, the look in that dark eye spoke of peace and contentment and a disinclination to be disturbed.

Richard clenched his jaw. His hands gripping his hips, he drew in a deeper breath and tried to quell, or at least contain, the impulse urging him to flee.

Now, before anything more could occur between him and Jacqueline.

A decade and more of running from the advances of—in some cases, extremely inventive—young ladies had created a self-protective drive that gave no quarter. He could barely think through the alarm flooding his brain.

“Very well.” He forced out the words; there seemed little else he could say. “Tomorrow, then.” He looked at Malcolm. “But we will have to leave then.”

The horse snorted and looked away.

“So,” Hopkins said, turning to walk up the stable aisle beside Richard, “I suppose you’ll be going to the fair with Miss Jacqueline and the others, then, and I should saddle up the gelding along with Miss Jacqueline’s mare?”

And that, Richard suspected, was the real—or at least, another major—reason Ostley and Hopkins didn’t want him to leave. They’d heard through the household grapevine of their mistress’s difficulties with her would-be suitors the day before and that Richard had come to her aid. The pair—indeed, the whole household—would be infinitely happier if he accompanied Jacqueline to the fair.

If he had to remain at the Hall for another day, he would be happier with that arrangement, too. Regardless of his intention to flee her presence, the thought of her being prey to unwelcome attentions twisted something inside him.

He nodded. “Yes. Given I need to kick my heels for another day, visiting the fair”—even with your mistress—“will fill the time.”

A fair was an eminently public venue; as long as he resisted all attempts to create a private interlude—and heaven knew, he was experienced enough to have no qualms on that score—then acting as Jacqueline’s friendly protector for one more day shouldn’t pose any real risk.

He’d gone out to the stable early, hoping to get away as soon as the household was fully awake. With escape denied him, he parted from Hopkins in the stable yard and headed for the breakfast parlor.

From the instant Jacqueline joined him there, he remained on guard, but after that awkward scene the previous night, she’d clearly taken his intentions to heart; if anything, it was she who maintained a certain distance between them.

A distance, he now realized, that had not been there before, even at their first meeting.

Regardless, he could hardly cavil, and two hours later, as he walked by her side onto the fairground, he told himself he was glad of her understanding.

The field in which the fair was set up was located to the west of the village of West Pennard. The village lay on the road between Shepton Mallet and Glastonbury, so was easy to reach for all those interested in the fleeces, woolen cloth, leather, horn, and associated products displayed on the fifty-odd stalls that ringed the field. In between the farmers’ stalls were those of blacksmiths, farriers, and similar trades offering tools and equipment of interest to the farmers.

The stalls were arranged around the periphery of the field, while in the center, holding pens were filled with animals of various sorts, but mostly with sheep and lambs.

Jacqueline strolled the fair, circling past the stalls, nodding and exchanging greetings with the locals whose paths she crossed and pausing at the stalls of the Hall’s farmers to smile and speak encouragingly. She was determined to appear untroubled and unconcerned, to behave as she usually did, even though, inside, she was—still—railing against the fate that had sent Richard Montague riding into Balesboro Wood.

She felt more helpless than she’d ever felt before. Helplessness over fixing something that was wrong wasn’t an emotion she was accustomed to feeling, and it raked at her with sharpened claws. She wanted to reach for him, to shake him and force him to look at and appreciate what she could now so clearly see—what she was convinced could be theirs—the strength, the security, and the satisfaction that a union between them would bring to them both. To see how right such a marriage would be.

From where her unwavering belief drew its strength, she couldn’t have said, yet that did not diminish her absolute certainty in the least. She’d known him for only a matter of days, yet she now knew—beyond question—that he was hers. The one chosen to stand by her side.

The one ensnared by Balesboro Wood and sent to the Hall and her.

She wanted to speak of it, to give voice to her certainty and try to persuade him—

But she couldn’t.

The same powerful, irrefutable certainty that told her he was her rightful mate also insisted that only if he came to her, cleaved to her, of his own free will, with his own understanding—his own certainty—would they be able to claim what could be theirs.

She wanted to act, but there was no point in even trying.

The critical decision, in this instance, did not lie with her.

She slanted a sharp glance at Richard’s face, handsome and austere, his expression outwardly easy, yet to her educated eye, closed against all comers.

The fact he was pacing beside her was no help at all. While maintaining her outward calm, she was forced to constantly battle her senses’ obsession with him. But he’d made it clear that it was only the need to allow his horse another day to recover from the inflammation that had affected the beast’s hoof that was keeping him there, so her senses would soon have nothing to focus on. Metaphorically gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore his presence and concentrate on why she was there—the business of the fair.

If he and she were meant to be…

Despite the clamor of her emotions, it seemed she would have to place her trust in Fate and those higher powers said to guide the lives of such as she, the guardians of Nimway Hall.

A tug on her sleeve had her turning to find Elinor pointing to a nearby stall.

“There’s some very nice woolen lace over there.”

Jacqueline accompanied Elinor to the stall; to her relief, no one else seemed to have noticed the distant stiffness that had sprung up between her and Richard.

“Miss Tregarth! Well met, my dear lady!”

Jacqueline swung around to behold Lord Wootton bearing down upon her. His cheeks were ruddy, his fine, pale, not to say wispy hair covered by an over-large wig, he came striding past the stalls, his protuberant gaze, as usual, fixed on her.

She couldn’t help it; she glanced at Richard—only to find he was already strolling to resume his place by her side.

Instinctive protectiveness had spurred Richard into motion. Nevertheless, he was glad of Jacqueline’s wordless appeal; it silenced the niggling voice inside him that demanded to know by what right he was stepping in and how he could be certain Jacqueline wished him to. Her look gave him the license he craved.

His gaze locked on the approaching lord, he halted close by Jacqueline’s side, deliberately placing himself within the field of Wootton’s tunnel vision.

Wootton blinked, and his feet slowed. His eyes widened as his gaze dwelled on Richard, then Wootton visibly swallowed.

He couldn’t turn away without being obvious; perforce, he came forward, but in a much less forceful manner. He made Jacqueline a leg, and she curtsied.

“Sir.” With one hand, she indicated Richard. “I believe you met Mr. Montague yesterday.”

Richard exchanged a stiff bow with his lordship.

Straightening, Wootton glanced briefly at Richard’s face, then, with increasing nervousness, looked at Jacqueline. “I…er, hope you enjoy your day about the stalls, Miss Tregarth. You and your party.” Wootton had noticed Elinor, who, after purchasing some lace, had turned and joined them; he bowed to her. Straightening, he tugged his coat down, then gripped the lapels as if for reassurance. His eyes shifted, as if he wasn’t sure where to look. “I…ah…must get on. A pleasure, as always. If you’ll excuse me?” He bowed again.

“Yes, of course.” Jacqueline inclined her head graciously.

Richard coolly half bowed.

Beside them, Elinor watched his lordship depart. A frown tangling her fine brows, she shook her head. “I’m so glad you’ve never wished to look in that direction, my dear. He really wouldn’t do.”

Richard glanced at Jacqueline—as she glanced at him, amusement glinting in her eyes. The sight soothed something inside him; he felt his lips curve and looked away.

To survey the crowd, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

He might not approve of the unreasoning, unrelenting pressure to protect Jacqueline that had, apparently, taken root in his soul, and he definitely didn’t like being helpless to deny it, yet the satisfaction that warmed him over accomplishing such a simple task as discouraging Wootton was undeniable.

Given he would be leaving on the morrow, he might as well accept the role his instincts urged on him and enjoy the small pleasures of the day.

He strolled beside Jacqueline, idly listening to her exchanges with her people as well as to various discussions and negotiations with farmers from farther afield.

Once again, he saw how tirelessly she worked to advance her farmers’ various causes; with a word here, a suggestion there, she was instrumental in sending a significant amount of business their way.

At one point, Richard glimpsed Sir Peregrine Wallace standing between two stalls at the edge of the field. Jacqueline had halted to speak with a stallholder; beside her, Richard stared at Wallace—until Wallace saw him.

Across the intervening yards, with warning and challenge in his eyes, he held Wallace’s gaze—until Wallace broke the contact. Wallace looked aside, then stepped into the flow of fairgoers and walked away.

Thereafter, Richard kept his eyes peeled; he—his instincts—did not trust Wallace, not even as far as he could throw him.

Five minutes later, Jacqueline and Elinor were busy investigating the offerings of a weaver from the north. Richard moved to the end of the stall the better to scan the shifting throng now packed between the stalls and the central animal pens. Almost immediately, his gaze was drawn to a personable gentleman with light-brown hair neatly tied back in a queue. The man’s appearance was a touch above most others Richard had seen thereabouts, but in a subtle way—he was well dressed, well turned out, his clothes of good quality and well chosen to make the most of his otherwise average stature. His features were good, the cast of his countenance pleasing.

The gentleman’s gaze was fixed on Jacqueline.

Richard glanced her way, just as she and Elinor parted from the weaver and turned to continue their stroll.

His senses locked on Jacqueline, Richard knew the instant she noticed the approaching gentleman; her eyes flared—not with pleasure—and she stiffened. She halted.

Even more alarming, Elinor also saw the gentleman and, halting, too, all but visibly bristled—like a frosty hedgehog.

Richard looked back at the gentleman, swiftly closing on his target, but the man was all smiles and nicely judged charm as he came to a halt before the two ladies and swept them both elegant bows.

“Miss Tregarth—Jacqueline, if I may presume on our long acquaintance. And Miss Swinford. It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am.”

Jacqueline rose from her instinctive curtsy and, before Elinor could speak, coldly stated, “Mr. Marbury.” She was certainly not going to call him David. This was the man who had broken her heart when she’d been young and still naive enough to think that any gentleman who wanted to marry her must at least feel affection for her. Clasping her hands before her, she raised her head and met his eyes with all the icy disdain she could muster. “I trust we see you well, sir.”

Marbury smiled—reminding her just how easy it had been to trust him. To trust in his glib assurances. If she hadn’t heard the truth of his view of her from his own lips, she would never have seen through his polished façade. “You perceive me in the pink of health, my dear Jacqueline. I don’t need to inquire of you or Miss Swinford—I can see that you both are prospering in every way.” Marbury’s gaze locked on Jacqueline’s face. “You remain as beautiful as ever, Jacqueline—indeed, with no fear of contradiction, I believe I can state that, over the past years, your beauty has only grown more pronounced.”

The compliment was delivered with a smiling expression designed to induce any young lady to lap up his words with a giddy sigh.

Coldly, she arched her brows. “Indeed, sir? But what brings you to the fair? I had not thought your interests ran to sheep.” She was no longer a young maid to be cozened by charm.

Marbury’s smile didn’t falter. “As you say, my interests are rather less bucolic.” He swung around, angling so that he put himself more definitely beside her. His gaze scanning the fairground, he went on, “I admit that I never understood, much less do I share, your liking for country life.” He lowered his voice. “However, I understand you are still unwed, fair Jacqueline. Consequently, given we so nearly tied the knot years ago, I wondered if, now you are older and no doubt less susceptible to missish sentiment, we might, perhaps, reassess the prospects of a joint future.” He returned his gaze to her face; although his expression remained pleasant, his eyes had grown harder. “Being a lady alone, coping with the business of an estate, makes you a target for the unscrupulous, my dear. You should really think about that.”

Fury burned, cold and crystalline, inside her. She held Marbury’s gaze, her own gaze level and direct. She was aware of Richard, two paces away at the end of the stall, watching, listening—waiting to ascertain whether Marbury, outwardly more suitable than any other of her would-be suitors, was a gentleman whose company she might wish to entertain.

But at Marbury’s last words, Richard’s features had hardened, and he’d tensed, but she was no longer the young girl she once had been. More, she was honestly incredulous that, given the manner of their parting, Marbury was yet so conceited he believed that he could return and cozen her into marrying him and losing control of Nimway Hall and all that went with it. “Mr. Marbury, allow me to assure you that I have absolutely no interest whatever in joining my future with yours or in linking myself in any way with you.”

Marbury’s assured composure cracked. His features tightened, and his tone was edged with contempt as he replied, “My dear Jacqueline, you fail to comprehend—”

“Sadly, sir, it appears to be you who lack comprehension.”

A frown marred Marbury’s handsome countenance, and he reached for her arm.

Deftly, she swung aside, preventing him from touching her. Her gaze flicked Richard’s way to find him closing the short distance to her side; she returned her gaze to Marbury and, with a graceful gesture, indicated Richard. “Mr. Marbury, I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Montague.”

Plainly taken aback, Marbury blinked at Richard; a hint of unease flashed through his eyes before his face hardened.

Richard met Marbury’s coldly irritated gaze with one of arrogant dismissal. With specious politeness, he half bowed. “Sir.”

Lips tight, Marbury was forced to return the courtesy. As he straightened, his gaze flicked to Jacqueline.

Richard spoke before Marbury could. “My dear, time is passing”—he gave full rein to his London drawl—“and I regret to say that if you wish to call on all your farmers, we’d best be moving on.”

“Indeed.”

Smoothly, he offered his arm; equally smoothly, Jacqueline reached for it. Something primitive inside him calmed at the touch of her hand on his sleeve, the weight as it settled there.

Dripping aloof superiority, he directed a brief nod Marbury’s way. “Sir. A pleasure.” A glib and customary phrase; in this case, the words were patently meaningless.

With a glance, Richard gathered Elinor, who, judging by her bright eyes, was pleased and entirely approving of his actions. With his head arrogantly high—ignoring Marbury as if he had already disappeared from their view—Richard steered Jacqueline on.

Until Marbury had reached for her arm, Richard had been trapped by indecision as he’d weighed up what his instincts were urging against the observations of his rational mind. Marbury appeared significantly more acceptable than Jacqueline’s other suitors. As Richard was leaving the next day, and as Jacqueline was definitely not his in any way—given he was refusing to lay claim to her—what right had he to interfere with Marbury’s suit?

Thus had spoken his rational mind. His instincts had paid not the slightest heed.

All they had seen was Marbury’s over-glib utterances and Jacqueline’s icy reaction; there was, transparently, some past history between them.

Then Marbury had tried to touch her—to coerce her—and that had been that. Jacqueline turning to him had simply confirmed that he’d been right to step in.

He might not be the marrying sort, but he was definitely the protective sort, and at least in his mind, he’d accepted the title of Jacqueline’s protector for that day.

They halted before another stall, and with a soft “Thank you,” Jacqueline drew her hand from his sleeve.

He squelched the impulse to reach out, snare her hand, and return it to that soothing spot. Instead, he waited patiently while she and Elinor chatted and exchanged news with one of the Hall’s farmwives. But when Jacqueline rejoined him and, with Elinor trailing behind, they walked on side by side, he noticed a frown lurking in her eyes. He seriously doubted the frown had been occasioned by the farmwife, who had been a jolly sort, excited and content with her day thus far, and it hadn’t been there before Marbury had accosted her.

He studied what he could see of her face and wondered…

She sensed his gaze, glanced up, and briefly met his eyes…then she grimaced and faced forward. After another moment of silent strolling, she offered, “Marbury was…the only one of my suitors I…actually entertained. Years ago. He was first in the procession.” Her tone had turned cynical and bitter.

When she said nothing more, he quietly observed, “You didn’t accept him.”

“No.” Her lips tightened. “But I very nearly did. I very nearly walked, all unknowing, into his snare. If it hadn’t been for a…twist of fate, I would have.” She paused, then drew breath and went on, “One day, months after he’d first started courting me, we’d arranged to meet in Wells. Elinor and I were to meet him outside the cathedral. We were fifteen minutes early. I left Elinor outside on a bench in the sun and went into the cathedral—I’m quite partial to the quiet of the chapels.”

She paused.

Sensing the tension gripping her, this time, he held his tongue and waited.

“I was seated in one of the side chapels, head bowed, still and silent, when I heard two gentlemen walk in. They sat in a pew in the nave, closer to the front doors, so I couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see me.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “The one place in which one should never whisper secrets is a church—such buildings are designed to amplify sound. The pair weren’t talking loudly, yet I heard every word. It was David—Marbury—and one of his friends. And the friend asked David how things were going with me.”

She huffed cynically—whether at her younger self or at Marbury, Richard couldn’t tell. She went on, “The long and the short of it was that, courtesy of his openness with his friend, I learned that the only genuine interest Marbury had lay not in me but in my lands. All the rest was fabrication, a deliberate ruse to pull the wool over my innocent and gullible eyes.” Her tone changed, growing harder. “Once I’d heard enough—more than enough—I rose and walked out of the chapel and into the nave. He saw me approaching. The look on his face… If I’d needed any assurance that all I’d heard was true, his expression provided it. Of course, he recovered and tried to tell me I’d misheard or misinterpreted… I just kept walking.”

She shrugged, then glanced at him. “In hindsight, I should probably have thanked Marbury for the lesson in reality. It was he who taught me that, when it comes to offering for my hand, the first and really only thing gentlemen are after is my land. Primarily, the farms.”

He said nothing; there was nothing he could say. With respect to the would-be suitors he’d met, her assessment was correct. Yet her tale reminded him of the incident in his past—his own “coming of age,” as he thought of it. And the moment made him feel even closer to her, linked by another similar experience. “First disillusionments always hurt the most.”

The words had slipped from his lips without conscious thought.

Diverted from her own musings, she shot him a quizzical glance.

He didn’t meet her eyes but, his lips twisting in a self-deprecatory grimace, admitted, “There was a young lady who, a long time ago, taught me a similar lesson. Even though she’s no doubt married now, if I met her today, I would still cut her dead.”

Jacqueline’s lips quirked upward. Her expression lightened, and she tipped her head his way, then faced forward. “Sadly, I don’t go about sufficiently in society to cross Marbury’s path, and even if I did, in the country, I suspect the impact of cutting someone dead would simply not be the same.”

With a soft laugh, he inclined his head, and they walked on side by side.

Encouraged by the moment of unexpected empathy, he set himself the challenge of banishing Marbury from her mind. He was tall enough to see over most heads; he kept watch for distracting and amusing incidents to point out to her—like the geese someone had brought to sell that were sticking their heads out through the woven withies of their enclosure and snapping at the ankles of unwary passersby, making people jump and dodge, creating a minor pocket of mayhem. Then there was the ram who, far from appearing the least interested in ewes, had fallen asleep.

She laughed at both sights, leaving Richard with a warm glow in the center of his chest.

Jacqueline continued on her duty-bound route around the fairground, feeling increasingly…if not precisely happy, then settled. Accepting of her lot in life. Richard was intent on leaving in the morning, and there was nothing she could do—or indeed, should do—to change his mind. So she might as well make the most of the day and enjoy his company; letting go of any hope for more, she accepted Fate’s decree and did.

She drew him to the stall she always visited to buy pasties for lunch. She, he, and Elinor stood to one side looking over the milling throng and munching their way through the crisp pastries filled with succulent meat.

Afterward, she insisted on doing one final round of the Hall’s farmers’ stalls. She suspected the day had proved a prosperous one for all her people, but from what they had seen, the farmers with livestock to sell had done especially well.

“And,” she told Richard, “Higgs found four more of those black sheep. He might just have enough for Martha to generate sufficient black yarn for Mrs. Higgs to use as a definite color. She’ll be thrilled, if so.”

Richard smiled and nodded. Thus were the small pleasures of country life. To his mind, they easily surpassed the more showy pleasures of life in the capital.

He ambled at Jacqueline’s heels as she and Elinor led the way on their final circuit. At last, the ladies were ready to depart, and after glancing back to make sure Richard was close behind, the pair turned through the gap in the ropes that led to the area where the horses had been tethered under the eyes of several grooms hired by the fair’s organizers.

Some sixth sense tickled Richard’s nape as he made to follow in Jacqueline and Elinor’s wake. Unobtrusively, he paused beside the gap in the ropes and swiftly glanced around.

The watcher was standing in the shadows between two stalls. Richard let his gaze move unheedingly on as if he was merely taking a last look at the fair before leaving and hadn’t spotted the man at all. Large and heavyset, the man wasn’t a gentleman.

Richard turned and lengthened his stride to catch up with Jacqueline. The unknown man had looked vaguely familiar, but Richard couldn’t remember ever speaking to him; he couldn’t place him.

There was no mounting block in the paddock. Earlier, in her own stable yard, Jacqueline had avoided Richard’s help by using the mounting block there, and when they’d arrived, she’d slid down from her saddle without assistance.

Now, he walked to where she waited by her mare’s side. Without making any fuss, she steeled herself, and he did the same, and he grasped her waist and hoisted her up, then set her gently in her saddle.

For an instant—one fleeting instant—their eyes met and held. His hands remained about her waist as his gaze and hers…

He fell into her, and she fell into him, and in that single instant of perfect clarity, both knew and acknowledged their connection—that spark of physical recognition that had linked them from first sight and which had only grown stronger over the past days.

Then, still trapped in each other’s gazes, they both drew breath, and he forced his hands to ease and drew them from her.

Her expression impassive, she inclined her head and reached for her reins, and he walked on to where Elinor waited to be helped into the trap.

With Elinor settled, the reins firm in her old hands, Richard swung up to the saddle on the chestnut’s back. He and Jacqueline waved Elinor ahead, then fell in behind, ambling.

As they left the fairground, alert and on guard, Richard glanced sharply to the side and caught the briefest glimpse of the heavyset man slipping away through the crowd.

Richard frowned, dredging his memory. Could the man be the one he’d seen in the wood with Wallace? What had his name been…Morgan?

They reached the lane that would take them south, and Elinor smartly turned the trap for the Hall. She set the cob trotting, then glanced back at Richard. “Hopkins told me you plan to leave tomorrow, Richard—is that correct?”

The question jerked him from contemplating the reason Wallace might have set his man to watch them—and focused him instead on the prospect of his tomorrow. He’d expected to feel eager, keen to move on. Instead, he felt…

He forced himself to say, “Yes, that’s right. My horse’s hoof will be healed, and I need to be on my way.”

“So someone is waiting for you?” Elinor called back.

Not as she meant it. “My uncle,” he replied.

“Ah—that’s right!” Elinor nodded. “I’d forgotten.”

As they traveled through the gentle countryside, past fields and, eventually, into the wood around Nimway Hall, Richard ruthlessly suppressed the unexpected resistance surging within him. He couldn’t stay—that was impossible, and he knew it. Jacqueline had—clearly and transparently—started to hope, and it wouldn’t be fair to lead her on by dallying longer.

He was who he was. And she was who she was. It was her duty to marry a man of sufficient wealth and position to protect the Hall—she’d said it herself, that being the guardian of the Hall meant protecting the Hall was her highest priority.

If she learned his true identity, she would feel even more bound to make a bid to snare him, true affection or not.

He wasn’t about to risk that by staying; leaving was definitely the right thing to do for him and for her.

From all he’d gleaned of her past and all he knew of himself, acceding to a marriage based on considerations other than true and abiding affection would trap them both in their worst nightmare.

* * *

Over dinner, Hugh inquired as to Malcolm the Great’s recovery.

Richard seized the moment; he related his latest findings—on their return from the fair, he’d dallied in the stable to check on Malcolm—and grasped the opportunity to reiterate his intention of taking his leave of the household come morning.

Hugh harrumphed, his jowls shaking. His expression said he was disappointed, but he didn’t argue. After a moment, he huffed, “I’ll miss having you to talk with.”

A somewhat strained silence descended, then Elinor glanced across the table. “I daresay Richard has his uncle and his life to return to. Indeed, after London, being forced to remain here for…what has it been? Six days? Well,” Elinor continued, “it must have seemed quite strange, isolated and quiet as we are.”

His time there had been a blessed relief. Richard held the words back and, instead, inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

“So it’s back to the fray.” Hugh took up the refrain, then frowned. “But I thought you were headed to the bishop’s household.” Hugh arched his brows. “Not much of an entertaining nature there, I’d warrant. Not for such as yourself, at least.”

Richard had been heading to his uncle for safety; entertainment had been the last thing on his mind. “That’s true enough,” he admitted. He couldn’t think of anything more to add and was grateful when Cruickshank appeared to remove the plates.

At Jacqueline’s signal, they all rose. Richard glanced at Cruickshank; the butler briefly caught his eye, then busied himself dealing with the covers.

Richard circled the table to take hold of the handles of Hugh’s chair. As he had for the past nights, Richard steered the older man in the wake of the ladies.

The wheels rattled softly over the hall tiles. Both footmen passed them, their expressions downcast.

Inwardly, Richard frowned. He absolved everyone of deliberately trying to darken the atmosphere of the usually serene household, yet there was no denying the news of his leaving appeared to have cast a pall over all.

Their time in the drawing room dragged. Where, before, they’d tossed comments back and forth and then settled comfortably to read, tonight, they struggled to find anything to say, and comfort seemed in short supply.

Her gaze on her stitching, Elinor finally remarked, “I expect, Richard dear, that after your visit in Wells, you’ll be heading back to your accustomed life. Back to London—or, given it’s summer, are you expected somewhere else?”

He’d left a veritable stack of invitations to house parties on his desk in London; he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t be accepting any of them. Finally allowing himself to think of what, exactly, he intended to do after spending a few days, at least, with his uncle, after several seconds, he slowly shook his head. “I really don’t know. I doubt I’ll want to return to London, not in this season, but I have no other plans…” Quickly, he added, “At present. There might be a summons from the family waiting for me with my uncle.”

He doubted it, but the last thing he wanted was for Elinor to voice the thought he was sure had just passed through her head and invite him to return to the Hall. He couldn’t do that—not to himself or Jacqueline. Through long experience, he’d learned that a clean break was best.

Elinor glanced at Jacqueline, then returned her gaze to her embroidery.

Surreptitiously—warily—Richard followed Elinor’s gaze. Jacqueline appeared absorbed in her embroidery, but he felt certain she’d heard every syllable of their exchange. Neither by word nor expression did she evince any reaction.

He returned his gaze to the book he’d balanced, open, on his knees. And pretended to read.

Freddie came and, after Hugh had extracted a promise that Richard would not leave without breakfast and bidding them all goodbye, Hugh consented to be wheeled to his bed.

Elinor sighed, then set her needle in her work and started to fold it up.

Jacqueline glanced up, then did the same.

Finally, it was time for them to retire. Elinor climbed the stairs, and Richard, with Jacqueline beside him, followed more slowly.

They reached the first landing, and Jacqueline drew breath and said, “Although I’ll see you tomorrow, of course, I wanted to personally—and formally—thank you for all you’ve done for the household and estate while here. All the considerable help you’ve rendered us.” Through the flickering shadows cast by the candles ahead and below them, she met his eyes. “On behalf of Nimway Hall and all those on the estate, I thank you most sincerely for all your assistance, and I hope you’ve enjoyed your time with us.”

It felt strange and stilted to revert to formality with her, but he inclined his head and replied, “It was my pleasure to be able to render that assistance, to be in a position such that I could help both you and your people. And I have, indeed, enjoyed my days here.” More than I suspect I will appreciate until I’m far distant.

With those unspoken words echoing in his head, he glanced up and saw that Elinor had paused at the head of the stairs. Briefly, she met his eyes, and he could almost see the question on her lips: If he had enjoyed himself, why was he leaving?

Elinor held his gaze for an instant more, then, confusion in her face, she turned and headed along the gallery toward her room.

Leaving Jacqueline and Richard to step into the gallery, more or less alone.

At the point where they would part ways—she to go one way to her room while he headed down the corridor to his—they both halted.

Paused.

Through the soft shadows, their eyes met, their gazes held.

And both remembered with crystal-edged clarity the moment they’d shared the previous night.

Like a cloud of suppressed need, the compulsion of that moment swelled and engulfed them—even more intense than twenty-four hours before.

For one finite instant, he wanted nothing more than to take one step forward, sweep her into his arms, and taste her lips.

Taste her—a prelude to learning all he now hungered to know of her.

The impulse was so strong, so insistent, he trembled and almost gave in.

But it couldn’t be. He knew that.

Slowly, he forced his lungs to expand, to draw in much-needed air. To clear his head so he could remember his resolution.

He had to leave. He couldn’t remain.

No matter the temptation.

He straightened, raising his head.

As if she could read his decision in his eyes, she held his gaze for an instant more, then smoothly yet rigidly, she inclined her head. “Goodnight.”

She turned and moved toward her chamber.

He stood, helpless in the face of his own reality. His fists slowly clenching, he watched her go—watched her walk into her room and close the door.