“I found the ruins quite, quite dreary,” Lady Clarice announced.

“The ruins were indeed of dubious interest,” Felton said.

As if he felt that Tess was watching him under her lashes, he raised his heavy-lidded eyes and drawled, without shifting his expression one iota, “Although there were some areas for which, I am certain, one should feel a romantic and disproportionate enthusiasm.”

“Were you referring to the dilapidated stairs or the dilapidated walls?” Annabel inquired.

Felton was still staring at Tess, and she—idiot that she was—didn’t seem to be able to look away. “Neither,” he said. And then, without blinking an eye, he turned back to Annabel.

Concurrently, Mayne caught Tess’s attention and handed her a bit of salmon patty. She had the fleeting thought that it would be rather odd to have a husband whose lashes were longer than her own.

Annabel was laughing at something Mr. Felton was saying in her ear. Tess turned to the Earl of Mayne and gave him a lavish smile.

“You seem to know so much about the polite world,” she said to him, pitching her voice so that it would reach Mr. Felton’s ear as well. “I would be most grateful for your guidance.”

Mr. Felton bent even closer to Annabel, murmuring something to her. Annabel started laughing, and Lady Clarice said, “Do share the jest.”

“It was only marginally humorous, my lady,” Mr. Felton said.

Tess lowered her eyelashes and slowly ate a strawberry. Annabel had discovered long ago that strawberries dyed one’s lips a most appealing shade of red. Unfortunately, Mr. Felton didn’t even cast a glance at her red lips. Tess ate another, more quickly. Why on earth was she behaving like this? Why did she care if Mr. Felton noticed her lips or not?

Because…because he kissed me, she thought. And ate another strawberry, thinking about the kiss. And about marriage. Lady Clarice was making a dead set at poor Rafe, leaning toward him and chattering luridly. But Tess had no worries about Rafe; he was leaning against the willow tree with a lazy expression that suggested he had finished the contents of his flask and was not hearing a whit of Lady Clarice’s conversation. She was thinking about Mr. Felton’s kiss again when Miss Pythian-Adams’s voice caught her ear.

“Surely there can be no one,” she was saying, “so petty or apathetic in his outlook that he has no wish to discover under what system of government the Romans succeeded in conquering the greater part of the world.”

Lord Maitland was feeding Imogen grape after grape and paying not the slightest attention to his betrothed; Tess had no doubt but that he considered himself both petty and apathetic when it came to Roman history.

Hazy sunlight was stealing through the willow leaves and dappling the picnic delicacies. It picked out the cream of Imogen’s complexion and the gleam of her hair. Miss Pythian-Adams was sitting bolt upright as she discoursed on the Romans.

But Imogen seemed to have an instinctive knowledge that the Romans had more on their minds than hunger when they fed each other grapes. Her thank-you’s for each grape Maitland gave her were nothing short of enchanting.

Tess sighed. Looking at Imogen made her certain that she was correct to refuse Mr. Felton’s punctilious request for marriage. If one could not be glowing with love (as was Imogen), surely one should be comfortable. And if there was one thing she was not with Mr. Felton, it was comfortable. He was an annoying, expressionless, sardonic…kisser of unwilling women. She peeked at him again and happened to catch his eye.

A hand brought her another strawberry, and she blinked at Mayne. Mayne’s glances were not at all like the swift, tight glances that Mr. Felton shot her. Felton looked—then always looked away immediately.

Whereas Mayne…Well, Mayne was far more handsome for one thing. His face had the graceful, sweet lines of an aristocrat, with the beauty of an altar boy grown to full adulthood. His eyes danced with merriment and compliments and—all manner of nice things. Tess knew without thought that the two of them would be compatible as a married couple: they would rarely if ever fight; they would be merry and tender to each other. In time genuine affection, if not love, for each other might develop.

He had his head bent now, peeling her an apple. Black curls fell over the rich linen fabric of his neckcloth. At that second he looked up and their eyes met. His had small laugh lines at the corners. It was a good face: a beautiful, strong face. One that would hold up to years of marriage.

It was quite different from Mr. Felton’s face. Mr. Felton was harder, leaner, and his eyes held none of Mayne’s charming compliments.

And yet he had kissed her.

As he might kiss any young lady who stumbled past, she told herself, accepting the apple from the earl’s hands. She knew instinctively that if Felton lost his temper, his tongue would be as sharp as the back of the north wind. He was twenty times more dangerous, more sharp, more—

Obviously, there was no choice at all.

She turned to Mayne and gave him a melting smile. As besotted as any of his smiles had been.

Chapter 12

T he next afternoon an extremely interesting event occurred: Mrs. Chace, the village seamstress, delivered a dinner gown for each of them, and brought with her a note from the Earl of Mayne’s sister indicating that she would arrive in time to accompany them to the races in Silchester the following day.

Tess was perfectly aware that Lady Griselda was arriving for one reason, and one reason only. Without doubt, Mayne had signaled to his family the intent to marry. His attentions grew more marked from moment to moment. They had played chess the previous evening to the tune of his frivolities, his sweet compliments. While nothing was said, both of them knew without saying a word that he was in earnest. His face positively glowed with admiration. And he said lovely things about her hair, and her eyes, and her—she couldn’t even remember what all. He seemed to know a great deal of poetry, as well, and had quoted quite a few poets whose names fell between I and the end of the alphabet, none of whom Tess could bring to mind at the moment, but all of whom she meant to read at some date.Annabel was delighted. “I would guess that he’ll ask you the very moment that Lady Griselda arrives,” she said, taking off her gown. Mrs. Chace had only delivered one gown each, although she had promised to deliver riding costumes as soon as possible. “May I try on yours?” And without waiting for a response, she threw Tess’s gown over her head.

Tess frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She was pinning up the front of her hair, trying to get it done before Gussie arrived to dress her for their excursion to the Silchester races. Hairdressing aside, Gussie was a lovely, cheerful person who didn’t mind one ringing for baths, no matter the time of day.

Tess found hot baths that were available whenever one wanted them—and the water carried by footmen, rather than by oneself!—so enthralling that she had to restrain herself from bathing several times a day.

“Did you hear me?” Annabel said. “Perhaps Mayne will propose tonight, or tomorrow, at the races. You’d better wear Imogen’s bonnet to Silchester; it’s the nicest that we have. You must look your best from every angle, just in case he is struck by the desire to make an offer while standing behind you.”

“Of course,” Tess murmured. “Many is the gentleman who’s been overcome by the view of my shoulder blades.”