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had stolen her heart. Without meaning to, she put her hand out to touch his sleeve, then dropped it away again as she remembered the risk of getting too close to him.

      ‘But why did you leave me without explanation?’ she whispered.

      ‘You did not know that, either?’ He looked up at her sharply, surprised.

      She shook her head.

      ‘I left him a letter to give to you. When I did not get an answer...’ His voice fell away just as her hand had earlier.

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘That, if we did not marry, I could no longer trust myself in your presence.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps not the right words to leave in a missive that was probably read the moment I left the room. But I made no mention of what had gone before.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I made it very clear that I did not trust myself with you outside of the sanctity of marriage and that I meant to return, when you were older, and I had made my fortune, or at least after I could assure Fred that I had settled sufficiently to be worthy of you.’

      She let out the breath she had been holding in a slow sigh.

      ‘I asked you to write to me, if you needed me,’ he said with a significant raise of an eyebrow. ‘And even if you did not, I begged you to tell me that you were willing to wait for me.’

      ‘I was angry that you’d left without word,’ she said.

      ‘So, of course, you did not write,’ he said with understanding, but no emotion at all.

      ‘But I did wait,’ she reminded him.

      ‘And I did not,’ he said gruffly. ‘I gave up hoping.’ The look he was giving her now said that the past was the past and that anything between them was finished.

      But it didn’t have to be. If he wanted her, she was still free, as was he. For the first time in ages, hope fluttered in her breast and she imagined a future quite different from the orderly marriage and life of service that awaited her as a vicar’s wife.

      It might hurt William’s pride, should she decide against him. But his wooing thus far had smacked of expediency, not ardour. His heart would be undamaged if she called an end to their courting. And hers would breathe a sigh of relief.

      But the man in front of her seemed to have nothing more to say on the subject of love, either. Apparently, she would have to prod him to life. ‘These stories of the past are all very enlightening,’ she said. ‘But it is the present we must contend with. And the future,’ she added with significance.

      ‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Your brother says you are near to making a match with Mr Thoroughgood.’

      ‘So it would appear,’ she agreed.

      ‘I spoke with him briefly. He is a most serious and learned fellow...’

      ‘I will relay your compliments to him,’ she said, praying that there was more to the sentence.

      ‘But I do not think he is right for you.’

      She knew that as well. But she had waited for Jack until her options were limited, hoping for love. When Waterloo had come and gone with no sign of his homecoming, she had settled.

      But now he was home. She smiled, realising that they still stood in the doorway, under the mistletoe. ‘Do you have someone in mind that would suit me better?’

      Perhaps she was being too obvious in her questions. But she wanted some hint that he had come to make things right between them and he was playing far too coy.

      She was not expecting the answer she received. ‘I know no one who will suit. But I know you well enough to think that you need a man with spirit and a sense of humour, and someone who will appreciate those qualities in you. Thoroughgood is wrong on all counts.’

      ‘What?’ It was all she could manage, for the answer he had given rendered her near to incoherence.

      He gave her a firm and somewhat puzzled smile, as if he felt he had been perfectly clear before and should not have to repeat himself. ‘I would not offer advice on the matter, if your choice seemed more appropriate. But I have known you so long that I cannot help but be concerned for your future happiness. I fear you would make an abominable vicar’s wife and would make yourself miserable by trying.’

      She shook her head, amazed. ‘You return after all this time and have nothing more to say than that?’

      ‘If you were expecting something more—’ his brow furrowed ‘—then I must remind you that it has been five years,’ he said. ‘Things have changed.’

      ‘“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.”’ She touched her cheek, wondering if she was really so different from the girl he had once wanted. ‘If they are so easily forgotten, then the feelings you claimed for me were not as deep as you claimed.’ It made her feel all the bigger fool for succumbing to him then.

      ‘It is not you,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘You are every bit as lovely as you were on the day I left and just as hard to resist. It is I who have changed.’

      ‘Of course you have,’ she laughed. ‘You are a war hero now. If I am to believe what I have heard, you are quite well off and no longer dependent on an allowance from your brother to cover your bills.’

      ‘I have changed for the worse,’ he argued. ‘Ignore the nonsense about my being an officer and a gentleman. One cannot be a good soldier and remain untouched by the brutality of the profession.’ He turned away again, staring into the fire, and his hand gripped the mantel until his fingers went white.

      ‘But that is over. You are home now,’ she reminded him.

      He smiled sadly. ‘Would that a change of location was all it took to return to the man I was.’

      ‘Time will help,’ she said.

      He shook his head. ‘It will not change what I have already done. And the man who could behave in such a way is not a man worthy of your affection. Now, if you will excuse me, I must wash for dinner.’ And he left the room, walking beneath the kissing bow without even looking up.

       Chapter Five

      Dinner at the Clifton table was much the way he remembered it from childhood, when the house had been his refuge against the capricious affections of his own family. He had spent most summers and Christmases at the neighbouring estate belonging to his grandfather, Sir Henry Gascoyne, but since the family seldom bothered to come along, it was more exile than holiday.

      But once the Cliftons took note of the boy living largely unsupervised next door, his loneliness ended. He became an honorary member of their family, playmate of the children and doted on by parents and servants alike. Now, apparently, Fred had notified the cook that Master Gascoyne had come home, for a fricassee of chicken and mushrooms had been set on his end of the table and he helped himself to a liberal portion. The recipe was too simple for a holiday meal, but since the night he had mentioned it was his favourite, no Clifton meal was complete without it.

      Tonight, this gesture of welcome was warm, but undeserved. He was too unsettled to enjoy any of the delicious foods on the table. He had broken his promise to Lucy, who had been foolishly loyal and waited for him. Though he’d thought that there would be nothing worse in his life than battle, greeting his lover this afternoon had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was also the cruellest.

      He had not realised that she would look even more beautiful than she had when he’d left her. She’d felt right when he had kissed her and even better when he’d put his hands on her waist. It was like finding a lost part of his soul. For a moment, he had forgotten his plan to remain aloof from her. He’d wanted to be her last kiss as he had been her first.

      Then he’d turned from her, called her sister and pretended it meant

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