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regard.’

      ‘I feel regard for my intended bride, but I will not let emotions dictate my choices.’

      ‘You like her, then?’ she asked.

      He nodded. ‘I like her well enough.’

      Well enough. She was beginning to feel very sorry for his intended. ‘But you do not love her?’

      He gazed at her and the firelight made his eyes even more intense. ‘Are you asking if I have a passion for her? If my mind goes blank and my tongue becomes tied when I am with her? The answer is no.’ He turned back to the fire. ‘But I like her well enough.’

      Perhaps if Tess’s father had loved their mother, she would not have sought lovers. Perhaps if her mother had loved her father, he would have indulged her and flattered her and cosseted her as she wished. Tess and her sisters had discussed this many times.

      ‘I hope you learn to love her,’ Tess told Mr Glenville. ‘I hope she loves you.’

      His expression remained implacable.

      She adjusted her blankets and stared into the fire. The chair felt hard and the wind found its way inside. The fire was losing its battle to keep the place warm.

      They were silent for a while until Mr Glenville spoke. ‘How old are you, Miss Summerfield?’

      ‘I am two and twenty.’

      His brows rose. ‘And your sister, Lady Tinmore?’

      ‘She is five and twenty.’

      He peered at her. ‘In your twenties and you have had no suitors? That is hard to believe.’

      She straightened. ‘I did not say we had no suitors. Our situation has not been such that those suitors could make an offer. We had no dowries.’

      ‘Your father did not provide you and your sisters with dowries?’ he asked.

      If he’d heard of their mother, surely he could guess. Their father did not believe they were his daughters.

      But she would not speak that out loud. ‘Our father was fond of making risky investments. He wanted to be fabulously wealthy so our mother would regret leaving him, but his investments were terrible ones. He used the last of his funds—our dowries—to purchase a commission for Edmund.’

      ‘Edmund is your father’s illegitimate son?’

      So he also knew that part of her family story, as well.

      ‘Yes.’ She added, ‘Our half-brother.’

      She and her sisters likely shared no blood with Edmund. The sisters shared a mother. He came from their father.

      She went on. ‘I do not disagree with you that one needs some fortune and reputation in order to make a good match. Lorene has given us this, but wealth and reputation are not enough for a marriage. It is love that is the answer. Love can get one over the inevitable hurdles of life.’

      ‘Now you are sounding philosophic. There are some hurdles that mere emotion can’t jump over.’ He peered at her. ‘Do you have a suitor?’

      She felt her face grow red.

      He frowned. ‘You have a suitor. A man who would not court you because you had no dowry.’

      She flushed with anger this time. ‘Perhaps I do have such a suitor. Perhaps that is why I say the things I do.’

      He threw off his blanket and stood. ‘I am going to check on Apollo.’ Before he reached the door he turned back to her. ‘I hope it all works for you, Miss Summerfield. But before you make that final vow with your suitor, think with your head and forget your heart.’

      She wanted to snap back at him, but his tone disturbed her. And what he said was true. Mr Welton could not court her when she had no dowry, but that did not mean his heart could not be engaged.

      Did it?

      He opened the door and the wind rushed in. The temperature dropped even lower in just that brief moment. Tess forgot about dowries or love matches or reputations. The air was freezing and they’d put the last of the coal on the fire. How would they stay warm through the night?

      ‘I’ll look for more firewood,’ Mr Glenville said, as if reading her mind. ‘What we have won’t last the night.’

       Chapter Four

      Ice crunched under Marc’s bare feet as he crossed the yard to the stable. His feet ached from the cold as he tended to Apollo. Why could he not have been stranded in June instead of February?

      It was not only the icy cold that disturbed him. His conversation with Miss Summerfield did, as well.

      It cut too close. All this talk of marriage. Love.

      His parents had fallen in love and where had it led them? To shouting, accusations, recriminations, declarations that they wished they’d never set eyes on each other. They’d ruined their lives, he’d heard over and over.

      Then there was Lucien and Charles. Where had love led his brother and his friend?

      No falling in love for him. He’d control such runaway emotions.

      ‘That is the sensible way, eh, Apollo?’

      His horse snorted in reply and Marc leaned his face against Apollo’s warm neck. He found another blanket to help keep Apollo warm and tried not to think of the icy hammers pounding on his feet.

      ‘We’ll be on our way in the morning,’ Marc murmured. ‘Stay steady, old fellow.’

      He searched the stable for scraps of wood to burn and found a few pieces to add to the fire. They would burn quickly, though. He and Miss Summerfield were headed for a very cold night, he knew from experience. He’d spent many a cold night in the French countryside, hiding from men whose suspicions about him had been aroused.

      Gritting his teeth, he crossed the icy mud again and entered the cabin. She was crouched by the fire, pouring water from the kettle into the teapot.

      ‘I found some wood.’ Not enough wood, though. He dropped it by the fireplace, coming close to her.

      She looked up at him. ‘I thought you might like more tea. It will be even weaker than before, but it might warm you.’

      ‘Tea will be most welcome.’

      Her eyes showed some distress. He wanted to touch her, ease her worry. Instead he moved away to hang his greatcoat on the line.

      His feet hurt even worse as the blood rushed to them. He hurried back to his chair by the fire and wrapped his feet in the blanket.

      ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, gazing at his feet.

      ‘Cold.’ He rubbed his feet. ‘I believe my wet boots will be preferable at this point.’

      She rose and walked over to the clothes line. ‘Your socks are fairly dry.’ She brought them to him and knelt at his feet. ‘I’ll put them on for you.’

      Her hands felt too soothing and his body came to life, precisely what he did not wish to feel.

      ‘Perhaps this is not the thing for a lady to do,’ he managed to protest.

      She placed one sock on his foot. ‘It is so little, after what you have done for me.’

      At least now he felt warmer. He endured the pleasure of her slipping the second sock on the other foot, gazing down at her as she worked it over his heel. Her hair was in a plait down her back, but tendrils escaped to frame her lovely face.

      She was a woman a man could lose his head over. For once he wished he could be like his father had been—blinded by passion and unaware of the disaster ahead of him.

      But his eyes were open.

      She

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