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  “My brother isn’t here. Who will knock sense into me?” Now she sounded teasing. He’d have to be a fool to mistake the tone.

  “Well. I could do it.” Obviously.

  She slanted a look at him. “How would you do that? Would you recite another of your poems? Mangle a bit more Shakespeare?”

  He had a good memory; once Samuel recited a poem or piece of prose, most of it stayed in Colin’s head. “Since you asked.

  “Let me not to a bargain with Ada

  Admit impediments. Besottedness is not besottedness—”

  “It’s meant to be ‘love,’” she cut in. “A word of one syllable. You’re spoiling the meter.”

  “I have to put my own stamp on it, or you won’t be impressed.”

  She looked thoughtful. “I have been impressed. Not by the poems, but by much else about you.”

  The air was cool and sweet and lovely. He drew in a deep breath of it, filling himself. “Have you? Yet you hardly know me.”

  “Do I not? I have seen how you treat your brother, strangers above your station, servants, horses. I’ve seen how you deal with me. We thought we’d have to be enemies at first, but here we are getting along fairly well.”

  He hadn’t been prepared for her to notice so much; he hadn’t expected her to be so generous. He wasn’t sure how to fight her kind words.

  “It was the caramel candies,” said Colin. “I was yours from that moment.” After a silence, he added, “What penalty will you demand if I fail to uphold my part of our ruse?”

  “I don’t know. I was sure I’d have you drummed from the county in disgrace.”

  “But now?”

  “Now I know you have a feeling heart. And you’re trying to help me. So if you do not succeed, it won’t be because you haven’t tried.”

  He couldn’t have been more unsettled if she had arranged an audience for him with the queen. “I’m a real paragon,” he said flippantly. “Glad you’ve noticed.”

  She made a little noise of exasperation. “If you were a paragon, I should never have managed a second conversation with you. And you’d never have wanted one. You’re far better than that. You are real.”

  The simple words stung, sweetly. Words of one syllable, piercing his heart. He couldn’t be flippant in response to this. He could only reply in kind, the words thick and difficult to pronounce, as they were drawn from so deep within.

  “You are all I could want, had I the right to ask.”

  She slowed, digging the toe of her boot into the earth. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. Not with an old legend keeping watch over us and the moon so bright overhead.”

  She gasped. “The full moon! I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “Really? You weren’t strolling out here to claim a kiss from your true love?”

  The moonlight was sufficiently bright for him to note the roll of her eyes. “Hardly. I was trying to escape my thoughts.”

  Funny, I was trying to do the same by walking out tonight. He decided to keep that to himself. “Anything in particular you want to share?”

  “Most of them relate to you.”

  Another spear of pleasure. She was killing him by inches, and he had no defense against her.

  Halting, he drew her to the edge of the path. It was relatively unshielded here, hedged and fenced and open to the sky. Cool moonlight spilled down like a waterfall.

  “Old legends be damned,” he said. “You know I have to kiss you now.”

  “You mustn’t,” she said weakly.

  “Because?”

  “It seemed like the sort of thing I ought to say.” With her frank gray eyes, she looked straight through him. “But I think you must. As long as you don’t kiss me on the lips, we’ll be safe.”

  Safe? He hadn’t been safe in years. Not since he first talked his way into a reporting job, betting his nerve and Samuel’s skill against the world. Not since they were orphaned, alone with no one to depend on but themselves.

  And certainly not since he’d stepped from a stage coach onto the high street of Rushworth Green. Since he’d laid eyes on a woman with gilt-brown hair and the sort of mouth that made one want to listen, dream, sin.

  But under the quiet moon, hemmed in by patient hedges and a slow autumn breeze, he took Ada’s hand in his. And for this moment, he felt safe.

  He lifted her bare hand. Brought it to his lips. She smelled sweet and piquant, like a lemon tart.

  Her eyes went wide. “You—”

  “As you said, we’ll be safe if we don’t kiss on the lips. Surely the old legend didn’t mean people had to be bound together when they only kissed on the hand. Why, that’s just using good manners.”

  He’d left his hat back at the inn, and a nighttime breeze ruffled his hair. It tugged at hers too, light brown wisps soft around her face and silvered by moonlight.

  With his thumb, he traced the winging line of her brow. Gently, he kissed that too, then kissed the other and drew her into his arms to kiss the side of her neck. Up its heated length, he pressed with lips and tickled with the tip of his tongue. When he reached her ear, he drew the lobe into his mouth and nipped.

  “None of this counts, Ada,” he murmured. “I know you don’t want it to count.”

  Another spear, and not the pleasurable sort. She didn’t want to tie herself to him. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t want to tie herself to anyone. A jilted woman, a wealthy woman, a woman with so many blessings she’d practically walked a furlong while enumerating them—that sort of woman didn’t need a man like Colin, even if she found a speck of genuineness within him.

  But she needed kisses just now, of the sort that would make her quake and quail and shiver. And he needed to give them to her, needed whatever pieces of her she would allow.

  Her pelisse covered her, neck to wrist, then fastened down the front with little hooks. Colin made it his mission to undo them. Then he found the hollow at her collarbone—yes, a kiss belonged there. Since she moaned, he gave her a second one. Up the line of her throat, more, and one for the sharp line of her chin. She was warm and lovely and so right in his arms, yet there was something so proud and untouchable in her spirit that he could have sunk to his knees before her.

  So he did, heedless of the leaf-littered earth. As he knelt, he trailed his hands down her sides. Over the curve of hip, the line of thigh, the calf, the ankle. He paused at the hems of her pelisse, her gown.

  “There are so many more places I want to kiss you,” he told her. “And if we were not in the open, with moonlight like the light of a stage on it, I would try to persuade you. I’d draw up your gown and nip your ankles and tickle behind your knees until they went all loose and your eyes were dreamy—did you say something?”

  “An incoherent noise of pleasure,” she said, looking down at him with wonder. “Go on, please. After the knees?”

  “The thighs next. The skin of the inner thighs is sensitive. Perhaps I’d lick you there, then blow over the place I’d licked to give you prickles of cool and heat. You might like the sensation.”

  “I might,” she said faintly. “Why isn’t there something I can lean against?”

  “Lean against me.” He rose to his feet, took her in his arms, and whispered into her ear. What he would do, had he the right. Were they alone, and in private. Were he hers for good and all.

  Which of them did he torment more? He couldn’t say. She was taut in his embrace, breathing harder than usual. He was erect in his trousers, which were uncomfortably tight. He could practically see her bared all over. If he shut his eyes, it could almost be real.

  “You had best finish walking me home now,” she said in a voice that was not steady.

  “I had best.” Reluctantly, he let her go. Formally, he offered his arm again. Determinedly, he forced down all that lust and longing—or tried to. They walked the remainder of the path in silence.

  He bade her farewell before the d
oor of Theale Hall.

  “We’re not on the bridle path anymore,” Ada said. “So we’re not bound by the old legend. You can kiss me on the lips now.”

  “Damned right,” he growled. Taking her face in his hands, he pressed his lips to hers. Oh, they were everything: soft and sweet and welcoming and warm and trusting, so trusting, that he would do as he’d promised and no more. Just a sip when he wanted to drown in her.

  He was unsteady on his feet as he stepped back, leaving her to enter that great old ancestral home of hers alone. Almost untouched.

  He couldn’t say the same for himself. Nothing was the same as he walked back to the White Hare, lost on the familiar route, seeing nothing of the silvery night. He was all in a whirl, off balance, and it was all due to her.

  Somewhere along the path, he had lost his heart.

  * * *

  Ada wrapped herself in a dressing gown, then drew open the draperies, letting the pie-round moon shine into her bedchamber.

  She curled up on the window seat, drawing her knees in. This was the sort of night she’d write about if she were a poetess.

  The moon shines bright. In such a night as this,

  When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees

  And they did make no noise, In such a night

  Colin Goddard found the bridle path

  And Ada sighed her soul toward where he stood…

  Colin wasn’t the only one who could contort Shakespeare for his own ends. The Merchant of Rushworth Green? It hardly had the ring of immortality to it.

  Much as Ada loved words, she was no poetess. If she dug out one of her old diaries, she would fill it instead with wonderings. Was a kiss truly a kiss if it was not on the lips? What did it mean if it was?

  At the end of the two weeks, how was she going to let him go? But what would he stay for? Much as he’d charmed the neighboring families, his life was in London.

  One week left with Colin. He could leave anytime, really, with his ears full and pockets about to become so.

  Maybe he would stay longer because he chose to.

  Maybe he would stay until Philippe and Harriet returned? That would be another three weeks, if all went as planned. Where Harriet and horses were concerned, one must expect priorities to be shifted. But if there was anything Harriet loved more than horses, it was Philippe and home.

  And what would there be for Ada to do, once His Grace and Her Grace returned from their travels and turned Theale Hall on its sleepy head?

  She wouldn’t wait for that. The following day, she would dissolve the pact she made with Colin. Let him stay or go, as he wished. And let him know that he had won not only their bargain, but a feeling from her that was too deep to name.

  Chapter 5

  As you carry on your courtship, do not allow your heart to be touched. The softer emotions have no place in a marriage for gain.

  Vir Virilem, Ways to Wed for Wealth

  The following noon, the message arrived for Colin just as he had descended the stairs of the White Hare. He had dressed in his own clothing—for once, thank goodness, and it fit like heaven—and was prepared to fortify himself with bread and tea before marching the familiar line of the bridle path toward Theale Hall.

  “This just arrived from the Hall for you, Mr. Goddard,” said the publican, a hearty, friendly man named Jarvis. “Her ladyship’s groom brought it from her ladyship. Said she didn’t need a reply by note, but that you could make it in person.”

  A dew of perspiration broke out on Colin’s forehead as soon as Jarvis pressed the note into his hand. It was addressed to him, so he knew it read Mr. Goddard, but the letters all twined around as if Ada’s handwriting were a living vine.

  “Of course.” He fired a confident smile at Jarvis. “Thank you. I’ll just… have a look at it in private.”

  Which meant he’d have to have Samuel read it to him. Clutching the note in his fist, he climbed the stairs with considerably less brio than he’d thumped down them only a few minutes before. His brother had just gone to sleep, being nearly nocturnal, but he could wake up for a moment. It would take him far less time to wake, read it aloud, and go back to sleep than it would for Colin to flounder through it on his own.

  But when he eased open the door of their shared chamber and took a look at Samuel, he couldn’t bear to wake him. Samuel had stayed up long, worked hard, run off during a walk the brothers had meant to share—and now he was asleep, fiercely so, his brows knit and his eyes ringed with shadows of fatigue.

  Colin stepped back, slowly so the floorboards didn’t creak, and let the door shut again. All right. He’d read it himself.

  Mr. Goddard, it said on the outside. He knew that. And on the inside—

  He cracked the seal, only to be faced with lines of what looked like gibberish. A wall of it, all loops and lines linking and interlocking and unlacing again. He’d been eager to set off for Theale Hall, and his concentration was all in pieces.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them wide, he tried again.

  Druu Qloom—all right, that had to say Dear Colin. But what came next? He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to know. What if she suspected he’d come up with the Periodical questions about her brother? What if she was done with him?

  Or what if she merely wanted to ask him to buy a few cakes in the village for the tea she was planning to host in the early afternoon? It could be anything.

  If Ada had ever sent him a note before, he’d have a sense of whether this was something he could give Jarvis a coin to read out for him after pleading a splitting head. But she hadn’t. So the chance was too great that the note was of a personal nature.

  He hoped it was of a personal nature. Surely it would not be bad, if she wanted a reply from him. Yes, that made sense. The best way to find out would be to go to Theale Hall, as he’d intended, and tease out the substance of the note from Ada before making his reply as she’d wished, in person.

  Cramming the note into an inner pocket of his coat, he set off, whistling.

  * * *

  “You didn’t even read it?” Ada was arranging and rearranging the dishes on a tea service. She was sorely tempted to wing one of them at Colin Goddard’s head.

  But she couldn’t. Everything had to look perfect, for Lord and Lady Wrotham were coming over for tea.

  They were staying in the area at some small place of Wrotham’s father, and Ada had known since the dinner a week before that she ought to have them over again. If she hadn’t once been betrothed to Wrotham, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. New company was thin in the country, and invitations were eagerly granted and seized.

  Kisses on the bridle path—and on the lips—had buoyed her throughout the morning. Thoughts of the note she’d scribbled out, of Colin’s possible responses, had teased and tantalized her. Would he want…? Did they dare…?

  Now she found out he hadn’t even read the damned thing. Maybe she would throw a dish at him after all.

  “I was busy,” he said.

  “You could have read it as you walked over from the inn.”

  He looked at her pityingly. “I had other things on my mind. If it’s that important, just tell me about it now. Your groom said I might give you my reply in person.”

  “Yes, but that was assuming you would have read my note and thought it over.”

  Chalmers appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “My lady, Lord and Lady Wrotham have arrived.”

  Good Lord. What had she got herself into? Pasting a smile upon her face, she said, “Thank you, Chalmers. Please show them in.”

  To Colin, she shot a look of pure venom. He hadn’t even read the note. “There’s no time to talk about this right now,” she hissed. “We’ll speak of it later.”

  He didn’t even bother looking chagrined. He just shrugged, smiled at the entry of the two guests, greeted them in a way that was everything polite and friendly. He had a gift for that, she had to admit—thoug
h right now every kind thing she thought about him was grudging, because he hadn’t even read the note.

  Ugh.

  With an effort, she set aside that annoyance and guided Lord and Lady Wrotham to a set of comfortable chairs. The four tea-drinkers surrounded a round table on which a tea service and several towers of dainties were set out. Around them, the drawing room’s draperies were drawn back to let in early afternoon light and permit a view of the grounds.

  “Nice look at the stables from here,” Wrotham granted. He put an unbelievable amount of lemon into his tea. “Talbot used to be the horse master here, didn’t he? Good old fellow. Really knows his horseflesh.”

  Ada politely agreed with all of this, then offered biscuits.

  “I’d love one,” said Lady Wrotham. “I am remarkably fond of shortbread.”

  Colin took up a plate and passed it over to the viscountess.

  “No, those are lemon biscuits,” said Ada. “See, there’s a little sign.” Fussy of her, probably, but when one put out a dozen types of biscuits and cakes, one needed a reminder of what they were. She’d written labels in her neatest script on lavender paper, then folded each into a tiny upside-down vee to rest on the plate.

  “My mistake. I overlooked it.” Colin grinned. “Too eager to try a biscuit myself, I suppose.”

  “I will happily have one of those, Mr. Goddard. Don’t they look delicious?” Lady Wrotham was all smiles and good cheer. Her neat blond hair and riding habit showed that the couple planned to spend another day at the horse farm.

  Ada turned the subject back to that safe direction, asking what the couple thought of the Talbot horses and whether they’d determined which to buy.

  “If we only wanted to buy horses,” said her ladyship, “we certainly could have chosen them much more quickly! But Wrotham and I are enjoying our stay in the area. So lovely in autumn here, isn’t it? And it is nice to get away from London. I’ve been indulging myself with daily rides on practically every animal in Talbot’s stable.”

  “You must be a fine horsewoman,” Ada noted. “I’ve no doubt the new duchess would love to make your acquaintance if you find yourself in Berkshire after she and my brother return from abroad.”