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program for twenty-eight days. Nicola had been here over twice as long, and was no closer to a cure.

      Would they let her stay indefinitely? She knew more cottages were being built for additional Guests, having passed the new construction on her walks. She didn’t want to take up a valuable spot for someone who truly needed it.

      She might be a lost cause. She wasn’t sure the routine and all the kindness she’d been shown was helping her whatsoever.

      Nicola closed the gate behind her and took the stone steps down to the cobbled lane. Adjusting her hood, she headed away from the heart of the village, toward the bottom of Honeywell Lane. The fitful gurgle of Puddling Stream was audible the closer she got, and frost-covered hills were before her. Sheep foraged for grass through the snow and bleated plaintively—country sights and sounds she didn’t experience in busy Bath. It was all very comforting.

      Until her foot hit a patch of ice and she slipped, tumbling ignominiously to her bottom.

      The pain in her twisted ankle was excruciating, but even though her mouth was open, there was no noise.

      Damn.

      It was difficult to get purchase to raise herself. She must look comical, rolling about the street like an overfed seal, her gloves and knees sodden. Nicola didn’t know whether to smile—since laughter was out of her reach—or cry at her predicament.

      Her decision was halted by the rapid footfalls behind her. She turned to warn the runner to be careful, but of course, no words came out.

      The gentleman was luckier than she had been. He remained upright and over her, a concerned look on his face.

      His rather handsome face. Nicola felt herself go hot. No white moon face anymore, she’d wager. She was always betrayed by her blushes.

      “Are you all right, miss?”

      She nodded violently. A lie. Suddenly shy, she wanted him to go away and leave her alone to wallow in the slush.

      “Let me help you up.”

      She shrugged and he pulled her up by both hands. The weight on her ankle was too much, and she buckled before the man caught her.

      “You’re not all right! Is it your ankle?”

      Nicola nodded again.

      “Cat got your tongue? Go ahead, be unladylike and scream. I won’t mind a bit. And lean on me. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

      Oh, it wasn’t that she was afraid of him. It was always so mortifying to have to explain her condition to strangers. She had a little card in her pocket for just such occasions.

      But if he was a normal resident of Puddling, he should know all about her, shouldn’t he? The entire village was a sort of lovely, lush hospital, and everyone knew everything. There were explicit dossiers on each Guest. Nicola had been permitted to read her own and invited to embellish it with any suggestions she thought might be useful to her improvement.

      “I’ll help you home.” There was no arguing with that statement; she needed the help.

      “Where do you live?”

      Nicola pointed the way back up Honeywell Lane.

      “On this lane? Me too. Which cottage is yours? I’m in Tulip. A ridiculous name, don’t you think?”

      Nicola covered her mouth with one damp glove and shook her head very slowly.

      His dark eyes narrowed. “Ah. You cannot talk. You’re not deaf, are you? Well, I suppose if you are, you won’t be hearing me ask the question.”

      She couldn’t help but smile.

      “Oh, good. I can natter on, and you can’t talk back. A silent woman. Every man’s dream, I imagine. Not mine,” he said hastily. “I respect women no end. I’m thinking of my late father, who used to lock himself in his study when my mother was on the warpath. Which was often. They fought like cats and dogs. I’m making a fool of myself telling you all the family secrets, aren’t I? I’m Jack.” He took her hand and shook it with almost excessive vigor. “You’re a Guest too, aren’t you? Come for the famous cure of whatever ails you?”

      Oh, dear. Nicola nodded with reluctance. What was wrong with this fellow? He appeared prosperous, was very good-looking with his neatly trimmed dark beard and sympathetic brown eyes. Eyes that were somewhat shadowed. Was he a drunkard? A womanizer? An opium addict? He was much too old to have had his bad-tempered mother send him here for youthful misbehavior.

      Nicola knew some troubled souls signed themselves into the Puddling Rehabilitation Program for rest and relaxation. He might be one of them.

      Something about her reserved expression must have given her worries away.

      “Don’t be concerned. I won’t ravish you. That’s not my problem at all,” he said with a touch of grimness. “Here, let’s go back up the hill. Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

      She made walking motions with her fingers, but after a wobbly step or two found herself swept up and firmly ensconced in the man’s arms.

      “No wriggling or writhing, and certainly no punching. When we get to your cottage, I’ll drop you onto something soft and comfortable and fetch the old doctor. What’s his name? Oakley? I only got here yesterday. I’m not even sure why I came, to tell you the truth. Another one of my harebrained ideas. Tap my shoulder when we get to your house, all right?”

      All Nicola could do was nod. The man was a force of nature.

      Chapter 2

      He’d been warned by friends that he’d be bored to tears here, but Lord Jonathan Haskell Ryder—Jack to his friends—was rarely bored anywhere. Curiosity was in his bones. He’d been the despair of his parents and teachers since he cut his leading strings, not willing to leave things be but to radically change them like some Victorian alchemist. As a child, he’d deconstructed anything with parts, and, much to everyone’s surprise, put them all back together with only the occasional loose screw or spring leftover. There were fewer mistakes like that as he’d aged, and he was considered by most to be kind of a mad genius.

      To be sure, Jack didn’t think of himself in quite that way. But his mind had always seen the possibilities, whether they were mechanical or metaphysical. As a youth, he’d long outstripped the lecturers at university, and had gone on to considerable glory after he dropped out, founding foundries, inventing inventions, and wooing willing women.

      The foundry, however, had been his undoing. It had been months since the depression had settled so deep in his curious bones a canny Welsh miner couldn’t have found it with a pickaxe. His numbers didn’t make sense anymore, he hadn’t invented anything interesting in ages, and as for women—well, the least said the better.

      But here he was on the second day of his Puddling Program with a lissome blonde in his arms. Things were looking up.

      He’d better look down, for this road was a nightmare of ice and dirty snow. What had this young woman been thinking of to come outside with flimsy footwear that was not meant for the outdoors? They looked like dancing slippers, for heaven’s sake.

      Jack was pretty sure no dancing was on the menu in Puddling. He’d read over his ironically titled “Welcome Packet” and had felt most unwelcome, given the numerous rules and restrictions.

      Foolish female and her foolish shoes. It’s not as if she could even call out for help. Jack wondered if she’d always been mute. His parents would certainly have approved of him being struck dumb by lightning and robbed of speech forever, for he had rambled on in his childish enthusiasm until his father caned him regularly into quiet.

      Fighting with his father was over, however. Now it was just his mama who wanted him to behave according to her exacting standards.

      Settle down. Slow down. Marry a suitable girl, sire a passel of ordinary children, stop being…different.

      Almost impossible for

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