LITMIR.BIZ

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spend part of her time in London, wouldn’t she? Surely she’d invite Venus to visit. Then Venus could see the museums and the parks and go to the theater and perhaps even a ball or two. She’d not be condemned to live forever in sleepy Little Huffington amid people she’d known her entire life.

      Archie had reached the gate to Hyndon House’s land and was waiting for her to open it. She paused, her hand on the latch. Old Mr. Blant, the previous owner, had never cared if they trespassed, but the duke might feel differently.

      Archie barked and then whined, bumping her hand with his nose. He smelled water.

      She’d like to go down to the water, too. It was so hot, and the deep, secluded pond was one of her favorite spots.

      Archie jumped up as if to push the gate open himself.

      “Archie, your manners! Show a little patience.”

      Patience was not Archie’s strong suit. He got down from the gate, but clearly it was a struggle. His back end wiggled, his front feet danced, and his eyes were bottomless pools of supplication.

      The duke was still in London; he’d never know.

      “Oh, very well, we’ll go in, but before we come again, we must ask Greycliffe’s permission.”

      Archie backed away enough so she could swing the gate open, but the moment there was space for him to squeeze through, he was gone.

      Venus closed the gate carefully behind her. She must not get ahead of herself with her matchmaking. She knew nothing at all about Greycliffe. He’d never come to Hyndon House while Mr. Brant was alive, and Mrs. Shipley had not got any details from Mrs. Edgemoor beyond the fact that the fellow was unwed. What if he was Papa’s age? She frowned. She couldn’t wish for Ditee to marry an old man. Or an ugly one. Or an unrepentant rake.

      She heard a great deal of quacking and honking and then a storm of birds erupted from the trees ahead of her. Archie had reached the pond.

      She hurried down the rest of the slope and through the woods.

      She’d been coming here since she was a girl, but she was always a little surprised and thrilled to step out of the trees and see this perfect jewel of water. The woods ringed it, leaving a grassy bank on which to sit or sun; and on the south and deepest side, a large gray rock sat as if it had been placed there specifically to jump from. Once Papa had discovered the pond, he’d been sure to teach her and Ditee how to swim.

      It would be quite peaceful, if it weren’t for Archie, romping and splashing in the water. He started toward her.

      “Oh, no, you’re not going to shake half the pond all over me,” she said, dashing for the rock and scrambling up onto it, well out of Archie’s reach. After some good-natured barking, he ran back into the water.

      She sat down. Even the stone was hot.

      When she was a girl, she used to come here often. Before Ditee had become such a bloody bookworm, Mrs. Shipley would pack them both a basket with their lunch, and they’d spend lazy summer days playing in the water, lying in the sun watching the clouds float by, and talking about all sorts of things.

      She took off her shoes and stockings and wiggled her toes. She’d dearly love a swim, but she was nineteen now, not nine.

      Yet if the duke did bar the gate to his property, this might be her last chance.

      It was so hot …

      She looked around. She’d never seen anyone else here. What were the odds someone would appear today?

      Close to zero. Certainly good enough to wager on.

      She pulled off her bonnet and plucked out her pins, shaking her hair free. She was wearing a simple frock; it took only a moment to have it and her stays off. Then she stood up in her shift and looked down at the deep, cool water. It would feel so good washing over her.

      But a wet shift would feel terrible—even worse when she had to put her stays and dress on over it. She didn’t have time to lie in the sun and let it dry.

      This was a stupid idea. She would get dressed again.

      But if it weren’t for the shift …

      Could she …?

      She closed her eyes, imagining the cool water rushing over her naked flesh.

      No. That was too scandalous.

      But Archie didn’t care what she wore—or didn’t wear—and there was no one else to see.

      Archie, obviously sensing he might have company, ran back and forth on the bank, barking encouragement.

      Damn it, what was the benefit of living in the middle of nowhere if you couldn’t do what you wanted? No one would see her but Archie, and he didn’t bear tales—except for the one he was wagging furiously.

      Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her hem and pulled off her shift. She threw it on top of her other clothes, turned back to the pond—

      Oh! Her ankle twisted slightly, throwing her off balance. Her arms flew out, but there was nothing to hold on to.

      She tottered on the edge and then plunged down into the clear, cold water.

      Andrew, Duke of Greycliffe, stood with his cousin, Mr. Nigel Valentine, in the entry to Hyndon Hall, their valises by their feet. The housekeeper gaped at them, her face a chalky white.

      “Oh, your grace,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened, but I was given to understand you wouldn’t be arriving until next week.”

      She was actually wringing her hands.

      She was also addressing Nigel.

      Nigel raised a brow and gave Drew a look as if to say, how do we gently correct this person?

      In Town everyone knew Drew, of course, but in the country people seemed to forget a duke could be so young. Not that Nigel was old—no one would consider twenty-eight ancient—but it must seem far more ducal than twenty-one.

      Drew could powder his hair like Nigel and most gentlemen did. That would make him look older—but hair powder made him sneeze.

      “Our plans changed,” Drew said, “Mrs ….?”

      The woman’s eyes darted to meet his. “Edgemoor, sir.” She was almost breathless with anxiety.

      It sounded odd to be addressed as “sir” rather than “your grace.” Odd, but not unpleasant. Ever since he was thirteen and had had the title thrust on him, he’d had the recurring fantasy he would wake up one morning himself again: just Drew, not Greycliffe.

      Why not now?

      “Please don’t be distressed, Mrs. Edgemoor,” he said. “The duke knows we came without warning.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Nigel’s other brow shoot up. “Take your time. Is there a place we can wait and not be in your way?”

      “Oh, yes, thank you, sir.” She turned to bob a curtsy in Nigel’s direction. “Your grace. It won’t take long, truly. I’ve already aired your rooms. If you’ll just step into the study,” she said as she led them to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house, “I’ll have Cook send up some refreshments.” She wrung her hands again. “And if you’d like your baggage, when it arrives—”

      “That will not be a problem, Mrs. Edgemoor,” Drew said. “We don’t expect to be here more than a week or so, so we traveled light. All we have are the two bags we brought in.”

      The housekeeper looked as though she would collapse with relief. “Very good, sir. I’ll have Williams, the footman, take them upstairs. Your rooms will be ready as quick as can be.”

      “Splendid. Thank you, but please don’t feel the need to hurry.”

      Drew smiled at the housekeeper as she curtsied again and almost ran from the room.

      Nigel

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