But he had suggested she go to London to stay with his mother, and Lady Overfield had repeated the invitation. The idea had horrified Wren both times. She had said goodbye to the Earl of Riverdale largely because marriage to him would drag her into the social life of the ton, and that was just not going to happen. So why was she even thinking of going? The cons list was almost twice was long as the pros list.

But the idea of going to London anyway had gnawed and nibbled and nudged at her until—horror of horrors—she found herself sorely tempted to go, even if just to show that she could. Show whom, though? Herself? Him? His sister and mother? The world at large?

It all boiled down to a question of courage, she decided at last. And while she really did not want to go and really really did not want to see the Earl of Riverdale again, she also did not want to be a coward in her own eyes. Was it cowardice not to do what one did not want to do anyway? But was she being quite honest? Was it possible that she secretly did wish to see London? And was it remotely possible that she yearned to see him?

Yearned?

Wren grabbed another piece of paper and scrawled a single word almost vengefully across it.

WHY?

But staring at it brought no clear answers. Why indeed was she tempted? Because she had taken a look at herself and did not quite like what she saw? And this had nothing to do with her hideous face. Because Lady Overfield had offered friendship and she had never had a friend? They had actually exchanged a couple of letters each and Wren had found both writing her own and reading the answering ones a great, unexpected delight. Because he had invited her—before she said goodbye? Or was it after? She could not remember.

Because he had kissed her?

Because she could not quite forget him?

She arranged the three pages neatly on top of one another, tapped them on the desktop to even up the edges, then tore them once across and once down, dropped the pieces into the back of the fireplace behind the unlit coals, and decided that she would not go.

There.

It was done. She was not going.

Definitely, irrevocably not. Final decision, never to be revisited.

She felt very much better.

Eight

Alexander was walking along the banks of the Serpentine in Hyde Park one afternoon a little over three weeks after his arrival in town, Miss Hetty Littlewood on his arm, Mrs. Littlewood beside her.

He had been maneuvered into the walk the evening before while attending a concert with his mother and Elizabeth. They had been sitting with the Radleys—Uncle Richard, his mother’s brother, and Aunt Lilian—and with Susan, their daughter, and Alvin Cole, her husband. Alexander had gone with Alvin during the interval to fetch lemonade for the ladies and had found himself face-to-face with Mrs. Littlewood and her daughter as he turned from the table, one glass in each hand.

“How very good of you, my lord,” the mother had said, fanning her face as she took one of the glasses and gestured for Miss Littlewood to take the other.

And somehow during what remained of the interval Alexander had found himself agreeing that indeed Hyde Park was a delightful place in which to stroll during an afternoon, particularly the banks of the Serpentine. Miss Littlewood had apparently not been there yet, her papa not being fond of walking and Mrs. Littlewood herself always a little wary of stepping out anywhere except the more well-frequented shopping streets without male escort. Alexander had responded like a puppet on a string.

And so here he was.

Miss Littlewood was looking very fetching in a peach-colored walking dress with matching parasol and a straw bonnet. She was small and dainty and smiling. And she was not without conversation since they strolled in a picturesque part of the park on a warm, sunny day, and other people were out in force, and there was much to be commented upon and rhapsodized over. Mrs. Littlewood meanwhile nodded graciously to everyone about her, the tall plumes on her bonnet nodding with her as though, Alexander thought with some discomfort, she were already the mother-in-law of the Earl of Riverdale.

Even more uncomfortable was the thought that perhaps she really would be before the summer was out—or someone like her. Any parent willing and eager to give a vast dowry with a daughter, he had come to understand, wanted a great deal more in return than just a decent marriage for that daughter. He wondered if he was going to be able to do it. But he smiled at his companion and agreed that yes, the little boy approaching along the bank, trailing a boat by a string in the water behind him, was a darling little cherub.

“Oh dear,” she said in sudden distress, tugging slightly on his arm to draw him to a halt. “Oh no.”

A girl, slightly older than the darling cherub, was skipping along the bank in the opposite direction and chose to pass the little boy on the lakeside without noticing the string. She tripped over it, fell sprawling, and scrambled to her feet, eyes blazing, mouth going into action with shrill insults, which included silly oaf and clumsy clod and loutish imbecile. The boy opened up his mouth and howled, pointing pathetically to his boat, which was escaping merrily along the bank, trailing the dropped string.

“Ah, help is at hand,” Alexander said just when he expected to be urged to step up to the rescue. A lady in green had caught up the string and was leaning down between the children and saying something to reduce the girl’s tirade to a petulant murmur and the boy’s anguish to a few injured hiccups as he reclaimed his mastery over his boat. She straightened up as two women, both nurses by the look of them, converged upon the spot from opposite directions and took ownership of their respective charges. “All appears to have been solved.”

“Poor little angel,” Miss Littlewood said, presumably referring to the boy.

“If that girl were mine,” her mother said, “she would be marched home without further ado and shut into her room for the rest of the day on bread and water after having her mouth washed out with soap. Her nurse would be dismissed without a character.”

Alexander scarcely heard either of them. The lady in green, tall, slim, and elegant, had been facing away from him until she half turned in order to resume her walk. She was wearing a pale green bonnet with a matching facial veil. Good God. Could it be? She moved her head fully in their direction just at that moment, stopped abruptly, and then turned right about and hurried off in the other direction—with a familiar stride.

“Pardon me,” he said, drawing his arm free of Miss Littlewood’s without looking at either her or her mother—indeed, for the moment he had forgotten them. “There is an acquaintance I must greet.” And he went after her, outpaced her within very few steps, and set a hand upon her arm. “Miss Heyden?”

She stopped again and turned to face him. The veil had been cleverly made to look light and attractive, but it quite effectively hid her features. “Lord Riverdale,” she said, “what a delightful surprise.” She did not sound either surprised or delighted.

“You came to town after all, then?” he said.

“I had some business here to attend to,” she told him. “Some London shops sell our glassware and I wanted to see them for myself.”

But had she not told him she never came to London and never would? Had that not been at the heart of the whole compatibility issue between them?

“I would love to see those shops myself,” he said. “You must tell me where your glassware is displayed. But more important, where are you staying?” And where was her maid or her footman? She appeared to be entirely alone.