He held out his arm, and after only a moment's pause she placed her gloved hand upon his sleeve. Cedric hid his sense of triumph as he led her through the garden and toward the surrounding parkland. He had half expected to have to toss the contrary chit over his shoulder to convince her to accompany him. He could only suppose that she was too overset by her confrontation with Mr. Allensway to recall that she disliked his company.

"Is it far?" she at last demanded as they angled toward the copse of trees that marched beside Hartshore Park.

"No, not far. Of course, you must tell me if you are cold. I would not wish you to become ill."

"My constitution is quite hardy."

"So you are not one of those females who find pleasure in always being frail?" he teased.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I have little patience with such foolishness. My last employer was quite dedicated to presuming herself stricken with one illness or another. She spent entire months laying abed with no company beyond her doctor."

"And no doubt expecting you to fetch and carry for her night and day," he surmised.

She gave a shrug. "At times."

"It sounds as if you are well rid of her."

"Yes, I suppose," she slowly agreed.

His frown abruptly lifted as he easily read her thoughts. "Even if it did land you in Bedlam."

A renegade smile twitched at her full lips. "Yes."

"We at least do not make you fetch and carry. And for the most part we are a harmless lot."

The emerald gaze suddenly lifted to meet his steady regard. "I am not entirely certain I would consider you harmless, my lord."

He gave a short laugh. "Perhaps not. I do possess a most violent fascination for wood nymphs."

Her head ducked at his teasing, but he had no doubt that a delightful color was staining her cheeks. A strange sense of contentment settled in the region of his heart as he pulled her even closer and entered the fringe of trees. He had exchanged such banter with dozens of women. Some sophisticated, some coy, and some far more experienced than himself. But none of them had managed to stir more than a fleeting desire. He was uncertain why this particular woman managed to strike so much deeper.

The sound of chattering voices echoed through the chilled air, and with a frown of puzzlement Miss Cresswell lifted her head.

"Who is that?"

"A traveling theater group," he explained as they entered a small clearing to reveal a dozen mingling actors attired in brilliant if rather battered clothing. "They are on their way to Canterbury and requested to use the clearing to rehearse. I thought you might wish to watch."

The ripple of pleasure that crossed her countenance was all that he wished for as she nodded her head.

"Yes."

Spotting their arrival, a thin gentleman dressed in a gaudy crimson coat and cape detached himself from the group and hurried to greet them with a flamboyant bow.

"My lord, such an honor to welcome you."

"This is Miss Cresswell." Cedric indicated his companion. "Miss Cresswell, Gaston, the manager of the troupe."

"Mr. Gaston."

The manager waved his hands in a Gallic fashion. "No, no. Merely Gaston. Now I must tend to business. Please enjoy."

He bolted away as swiftly as he had arrived, and realizing he was calling the actors to take their places, Cedric led Miss Cresswell to a rough bench that had been situated close to a large covered-wagon.

"Cold?" he asked as he settled close to her slender form.

"Not at all," she assured him, her gaze never leaving the makeshift stage that was swiftly being assembled.

Ruefully acknowledging that he had been thoroughly dismissed from Miss Cresswell's thoughts, Cedric made himself as comfortable as possible and turned his own attention to the actors. Within moments they were prepared.

Although it was far from a polished rendition of The Country Wife, and the leading man had a tendency to mug and upstage the remaining cast, there was enough ridiculous humor to make the performance bearable. Most enjoyable, however, was watching the rigid control that Miss Cresswell shrouded around herself slowly disappear. There was even a smile upon her face by the time the actors took their bows. This was how he wished her always to be, he thought with an inner sigh. Unfettered by the shadows that dimmed her natural spirit.

Pressing himself to his feet, Cedric helped Miss Cresswell to rise as Gaston hurried in their direction along with a tall, overly handsome leading man and a lush raven-haired actress with an inviting smile.

"My lord, Miss Cresswell." Gaston waved his hands toward his two companions. "May I introduce Raymond Field and Anna Fray?"

Cedric barely noted the lovely actress who attached herself to his arm and offered her conveniently exposed charms for his inspection. Instead, his attention was trained on the oily-smooth gentleman who had brazenly claimed Miss Cresswell's hand and raised it to his lips.

"Miss Cresswell, what a charming surprise," he murmured in rich tones. "Did you enjoy the performance?"

Shockingly, the perverse minx offered him a ready smile. Far more readily than she had ever offered one to him, Cedric acknowledged with a hint of annoyance.

"Very much."

"It is a bit rough, but all will come together before we reach Canterbury." The bounder continued his hold on Miss Cresswell's fingers, unaware how close he was to having his perfect Grecian nose broken. "It always does."

"It must be difficult to travel so much."

"Oh, I don't know." He leaned forward. "I get to meet many fascinating people."

The beautiful Anna tugged on his coat, obviously wishing to gain his attention, but Cedric refused to shift his gaze from Miss Cresswell's delicate profile.

"Yes, I suppose you do," she said softly.

The actor squeezed her fingers. "Some more fascinating than others."

Enough was enough.

Firmly shaking off the clinging actress, Cedric placed a decidedly possessive arm around Miss Cresswell's shoulders.

"I believe it is time I return Miss Cresswell home," he said in firm tones.

"Of course." Undaunted, Field once again kissed the fingers he held before stepping away. "Adieu, my beauty."

Not about to be outdone, Anna raised her hand to blow a small kiss in Cedric's direction.

"Do not forget, my lord, we shall be staying at the Drake tonight," she purred.

Cedric offered a half-bow before steering Miss Cresswell into the trees. He deliberately waited until they were out of sight of the actors before allowing his arm to drop.

He had not cared for the intimate manner in which that ridiculous Field had been eyeing Miss Cresswell. In truth, he had been hard pressed not to grab the man's cravat and shake him senseless. A wholly unexpected sensation for a gentleman who was rarely provoked.

He might have suspected his irrational reaction was one of jealousy if the notion was not so nonsensical.

"Why, Miss Cresswell, I do believe you were flirting," he drawled in a deliberately light tone.

She glanced up in obvious surprise at his accusation. "I was not."

"I distinctly saw you bat your lashes at that lecherous Romeo."

"I have never batted my lashes at anyone," she denied, then her gaze narrowed. "Besides, I at least did not make plans to meet him at the Drake."

His irritation vanished as swiftly as it had arisen.

So, the lovely minx had noted Anna's blatant invitation and was clearly displeased.

Good, he thought with a small smile.

It was only fair that she, too, was plagued with such odd sensations.

"I recall no plans to visit the Drake," he assured her.

"You are not going?"

"Why would I?" He deliberately lowered his gaze to the lips that all too frequently invaded his thoughts. "I have no interest in such obvious lures. I prefer a more subtle enchantment."

Her breath caught before she managed a chiding expression. "Now who is flirting?"

"So you have noticed?"

"Really, sir, you are impossible."

Suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have her close, Cedric deliberately steered them away from the lane.

"Here, we shall take a shorter path," he said, then, as they came to the edge of the trees, he swiftly turned to scoop her up in his arms.

She instinctively stiffened as he began to carry her across the parkland toward the garden.

"What are you doing?"

"This is Bart's favorite spot for treasure hunting," he explained, pressing her form as tightly as he dared to his chest. Those delectable lips were close enough to plunder with his own, but he manfully resisted temptation. The unpredictable Miss Cresswell was as likely to bloody his nose as to respond to the attraction between them. "I would not like you to injure your poor ankle after it has just healed."

She was not fooled for a moment. "I am perfectly capable of avoiding a large hole in the ground."

"We cannot take any chances. Besides, as you must know by now, I like having you in my arms."

"My lord," she protested.

"Yes, Miss Cresswell?"

Meeting his teasing gaze, she heaved a sigh. "Nothing."

Far too swiftly they had reached the garden, and with a slow reluctance he lowered Miss Cresswell to her feet. He felt somehow complete when he held her so close, as if she were the only woman who truly belonged in his arms.

"Here we are," he murmured. "Safe and sound."

She smoothed the folds of her skirts, her gaze not quite meeting his own.

"Are you coming in to speak with Lady Hartshore?"

"Not today, I think." He reached out to brush a stray curl from her cheek. There was more than a little temptation to linger in the company of Miss Cresswell, but Cedric was all too aware that he had begun to neglect the duties of his estate. Worse, he was not even certain that he cared. "I will call later, my dear."

Turning, Cedric forced himself to walk away.

It was that, or pulling her into his arms once more.

Eight.

She would not look.

Seated at the window of the back parlor, Emma fiercely attempted to concentrate on the invitations to the Valentine ball that she was tying with pretty ribbons.

It was absurd.

There was certainly nothing to be seen out the foggy panes.

Indeed, there had been nothing to see the past three days. Surly gray clouds had blotted the sun and shrouded the countryside in an icy drizzle. Even the hardiest souls preferred the comfort of a warm fire to braving the raw wind.

And yet, on a hundred separate occasions Emma had discovered herself unwillingly drawn to the nearest window to search the lanes for signs of an approaching form.

No, not just a form, a renegade voice whispered in the back of her mind. The form of Lord Hartshore.

Emma tossed the invitation in the nearly overflowing basket.

She was being a fool.

What did she care if Lord Hartshore had apparently forgotten her very existence?

Hadn't she already determined that he was far too dangerous for her peace of mind? He was too dangerous for any sensible maiden.

It was decidedly for the best that he chose to remain far from Mayford. Ignoring what might have been a pang of regret, Emma reached for the last invitation.

At least she was nearly finished with the massive task of preparing the invitations, she reassured herself. It had been quite a chore with Lady Hartshore's demands that each one possess an original verse and be trimmed with lace.