Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

E van pretended he was not watching Frances as he polished his already spotless rifle. When she'd asked if their previous day's encounter had been a dream, he'd agreed, because how else could he reconcile the idea that things had been so utterly perfect between them with the reality that they could not engage in such behaviors again?

It had been unforgivably reckless of him to lure her into that dark little room.

He was trying, with little success, to regret it.

She wasn't making him easy on it, either. Not only did she look otherworldly in a dark blue riding habit that practically made her eyes glow, but, as he watched, he caught her slipping a piece of cheese out of her pocket and giving it to one of the hounds.

He was crossing to her in a flash.

"Frances, are you trying to spoil the hunt?"

She leaped up so sharply it was like he'd lit a firecracker beneath her.

"What?" she asked, eyes wide and innocent. "No. Why would you even say that? Certainly not. No."

"Convincing," he drawled, and her feigned guilelessness dropped into a scowl.

"Oh, fine, yes," she hissed. "I just feel bad for them. The poor little rabbits are just trying to have a nice time, and then the poor dogs do all the work and don't even get to keep their spoils."

She really was too precious. "So, you pity both the hunters and the hunted?"

"Pretty much everyone except the gentlemen," she agreed with a shrug of her shoulder.

He laughed and stood at her side as they watched the guests trickle out of the house, many fighting yawns at the uncommonly early hour. Frances' manner closed in on itself, so slow at first that Evan scarcely noticed it. It didn't fully strike him until he glanced down and saw that the girl he'd caught feeding the dogs, the girl he'd kissed in the dark, was gone. Instead, the false Frances was in place, the one he'd seen that first night at dinner, the one that had roused his ire so effectively.

He couldn't reconcile the two. Instead of being angry about it, however, he just felt puzzled. He could no longer accept that she was complicit in her parents' schemes, but neither could he understand why she insisted on wearing this fa?ade so frequently.

He did, however, allow himself to feel fortunate that she let him look behind her mask when it was just the two of them.

"Are you quite all right, Frances?" he asked lowly.

The mask lifted for an instant as she smiled, then fell back into place.

"Yes. I just…I don't particularly care for guns."

He blinked. He'd never heard of a nobleman's daughter who was unfamiliar with firearms. "Does your father not shoot?"

She chuckled mirthlessly. "No, he does. And I didn't used to be alarmed by them. It's just… My friend's husband was shot, nearly two years ago now."

Her words hit Evan like a blow. The Duke of Hawkins. He'd been shot by Theodore Dowling, the man who had killed Grace.

"I wasn't there," she went on, eyes distant, not noticing Evan's reaction. "So it isn't even really the guns themselves. It's more…I always recall Diana's face, when she thought that he was going to die." She shook her head, dispelling the bad memory. "Plus, they are very loud," she added in a far more matter-of-fact manner.

Her abrupt switch in tone startled a laugh out of him. God above, this woman . She could shake him out of himself so easily, it was almost like magic.

It was, therefore, entirely the fault of Frances' witchcraft that he made another highly irresponsible decision. He propped his rifle against a nearby tree, catching the eye of one of the footmen to be sure it was properly stored away."

"Right," he said smartly, returning to her side.

She watched him through narrowed eyes. "Are you not hunting, then?"

He grinned. "Oh, no. I am."

She looked up at him, then flicked her eyes over to the rifle, which was already being neatly packed away. Then back to him.

"Do you plan to seize rabbits with your bare hands, then, like you're one of the dogs?"

"Dogs don't have hands; they use their teeth," he corrected, just to annoy her. "But no, I do not."

She made that little grumbling noise, the one he liked.

"You're being purposefully obstruse," she accused.

"I certainly am," he agreed gallantly.

She made the sound a second time. Delightful.

The lawn was growing busier by the minute. Few of the ladies were planning to join in on the day's festivities. Frances was clearly kitted out for moving through the woods, as was Mrs. Westford, looking impressively spry with a rifle in her hands, given her age. Lady Mary, by contrast, was reclining beneath a tent that had been erected that morning, wearing the contented look of a woman who did not intend to budge from her position for a considerably long time.

Which, did beg the question…

"Why are you going out on the hunt if you pity the poor rabbits, then?" he asked. "And if you don't care for gunfire?"

She shot him an offended look. " You were being difficult and bothersome, yet I am supposed to answer your questions?"

He gave her his most charming smile, the one he dared not deploy within a two-mile radius of any of the mamas of the ton , lest he trigger their supernatural senses for matchmaking. "Yes, please."

The look grew even more indignant, though he was convinced she was hiding a smile. Pestering her, he'd realized, was a surefire way to lure her out from behind her demure mask, even when others were present. She could not, it seemed, resist a challenge.

She peered at him for one more second before putting her nose so high in the air she'd drown if it started raining. "Well. I couldn't let you win, could I?"

Unlike Frances, Evan was not bothering to hide his smile. "So, you're going hunting for my sake?"

Her posture grew even more upright. She was going to do herself an injury if she kept this up. "Not for your sake, you insufferable man. To beat you."

"Without a gun," he observed.

Her nose dropped an inch. Her eyes shifted to the side. "You don't have a gun, either."

"I did when you came out here," he pointed out reasonably.

Her mouth was pursed tightly. "That's beside the point."

"It is? Because it really does make me wonder how on earth you planned to ‘beat me' without a weapon."

"It's very rude to ask a lady so many questions," she said primly, which he took to mean that she hadn't thought her plan through in the slightest.

Winchester called out merrily to draw the group's attention to where the head groom stood behind him. The two men explained where the hunt would take place, quickly familiarized the guests with the hounds' capabilities, and directed them where to find their mounts, if they preferred to hunt on horseback, rather than on foot.

Frances didn't head for a mount, so Evan didn't, either.

She shot him a quizzical look. "Aren't you riding? I thought yesterday's race was to acclimatize to a horse."

He gave her a benign smile as he shot her words back at her. "It's very rude to ask a gentleman so many questions."

She threw up her hands in a marvelously unconstrained gesture and began stalking towards the area designated for the day's sport. Evan grinned and followed behind, letting her set the course…for now.

The hunt, alas, was on.

The marquess was up to something.

Something profoundly annoying, no doubt.

Frances moved through the woods, enjoying the way the early morning sun dappled through the trees, trying to ignore the silent aristocrat that dogged her heels. She was more meandering than anything else; though she was nominally participating in the hunt, she had no desire to actually chase down any prey. She'd just wanted to…

Compete with the marquess? No, that wasn't right. She'd never intended to try to register more kills or any other traditional marker of competition in a hunt.

She had just wanted to be with him.

But that was a stupid thought for a stupid person, and Frances was not stupid, so she pushed it away.

"Have I mentioned," he drawled from behind her after they'd walked for a few minutes in silence, "that you look particularly fetching today?"

Oh thank goodness—not for the compliment, but for the break in the quiet. He'd been driving her mad, lurking behind her so that she could feel his eyes on her. Her pride, however, had stopped her from being the first to speak.

That he'd broken the quiet with a compliment was… Well, she supposed it was nice, though it did make the stupid thoughts try to return.

She dug for an arch comment to hide her pleasure. "I would say the same for you, except I can't see you, since you seem determined to follow me about like a baby duckling."

When he chuckled, the sound was low and sinister—and very close behind her.

"Not so much like a duckling, sweet. But don't worry. You'll see."

She didn't know what to make of that but refused to admit as much. So, she just let out a tiny scoff and kept walking. The silence stretched—and changed. She could hear other hunters in the distance, could hear the bark of the dogs. But the marquess' footsteps were silent, and she could no longer feel his eyes upon her.

She turned her head slightly, pretending to look into a tree for a bird so she could steal a peek behind her without making it obvious what she was doing. There was no point to her subterfuge, however. He wasn't there.

She frowned, giving up the pretense. "My lord?"

No answer.

She turned, hurrying back a few paces. Had he fallen? No doubt she'd have heard him, wouldn't she have? But no, there was no sign of trouble.

She frowned, stopping to prop her hands on her fists. What on earth ? She turned back to return to their original direction?—

And nearly felt flat on her bum when the marquess appeared directly in front of her.

She let out a highly undignified squeak and he had to catch her around the shoulders to save her from toppling.

"What?" she gasped, her senses whirling. They whirled more when he used his grip on her arms to pull her flush against him, the warm solidity of his chest immovable against the softness of her curves.

"Were you looking for me, little darling?" he asked, the words a purr. His hazel eyes were riotously colored from this proximity, the brown dancing with flecks of green and gold.

"I—" She licked her lips; his eyes darted down to track the movement. "Where did you go?"

The crook of his mouth and the shrug of his shoulder indicated nonchalance, but the wide expanse of his pupils undermined his attempt at seeming unaffected.

"Oh, here and there," he said, a hint of the devil in his tone. "Just prowling about."

"Just…" she trailed off again. Her heart was racing, her worry over his disappearance melting directly into the fright at his reappearance before becoming overwhelmed at his proximity.

She shook her head like this would shake her thoughts back into order. It didn't work, but it did make the marquess smile.

"Feeling at odd ends, love?" he asked, the sly tilt to his words a sharp caress. "Here's this will be better."

Slowly, not putting any additional space between them, he backed her up until her spine pressed against the rough bark of a tree, any potential scrapes prevented by the thick fabric of her hunting dress. The tree did safeguard her against any potential falling, it was true, though she supposed whether it was "better" depended on one's definition of the word.

It was not, for example, at all better for her ability to think clearly.

It was, however, strangely delightful.

She let her head loll against the bark, not minding that it would leave her coiffure in disarray. "What are you doing?" she asked, feeling strangely proud when the question came out intelligibly.

His laugh was sharp and bright and full of joy.

"I, my darling," he said, and truly Frances did not know what to do with these little endearments, "am kissing you."

And then he was.

They fell into it more easily this time, like each time they came together her body learned more of him, grew more in tune with the way he moved, the way he smelled, the way he tasted . She didn't have to think to open her mouth to him, needed no further prompting to moan in pleasure when his tongue slid against hers.

"You're so bloody perfect," he murmured against her mouth as one hand traced the curve of her jaw, the gentle caress a contrast to his punishing kisses. "Tell me I can have more of you. Frances, please."

Frances knew what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to deny him, was meant to push him away. She was, by all the laws of polite society, taught to safeguard her virtue, that nebulous, fragile thing, with every ounce of her being. Hell, she should have pushed him off long ago, should have never let him follow her into the woods.

She didn't want any of that. She wanted whatever he meant when he said more .

"Yes," she said, the words more plea than permission. "Yes, yes, more, please."

She felt his smile against her mouth.

"Spread your legs for me, sweet," he urged, not breaking their kiss as his hand floated down past her waist, molded itself against her thigh in a touched that blazed even through her layers of skirts. He guided her until her legs parted enough for him to slide his broad, hard thigh between them.

"There you are," he murmured as she surged against the pressure, the feeling strange and intense as he leaned his weight against her in such a way that she couldn't help but feel it. "My God, Frances, you perfect, wonderful girl."

She didn't know what she was doing right, didn't know how she was doing it, but she knew, without a doubt, that it was right, the way they pressed together as if no force on earth could separate them. She wound her fingers through his hair, clinging to him with such force that it made him hiss.

She'd have let go, if not for the way he rocked even harder against her, the press of his leg against her center eliciting another long moan.

He kissed his way across her cheekbone before running the tip of his nose along the shell of her ear in a way that sent delightful shivers through her. When he spoke, the faint ghost of his breath made her tremble.

"Yes," he encouraged, his heaving breaths interrupting the words. "You are perfect, Frances. If only you could see yourself right now. That pretty pink flush on your cheeks ruins me."

"Please," she murmured. There was a tension rising inside her, coiling tight like a spring. It made her shiver harder, made her cheeks flame. Something was happening, something strange and wonderful.

That teasing note, the one she loved and hated, crept back into his tone even as he returned to her mouth for another deep kiss.

"Tell me, darling. Do you need something?"

"Yes," she gasped. The spring was growing tighter and tighter. He pulled back from her mouth, and her head fell back even harder against the tree, her eyes clenched shut as she chased that elusive feeling. "More."

"More," he agreed. She could feel his eyes on her again, even with her own eyes closed. He was watching , and the thought sparked in her like a firecracker. His hands were on her hips, now, pressing her down harder against his leg, moving her exactly as she needed to be moved, and the feeling grew closer, the tension growing too great. She sucked in a sobbing breath, reaching for the end of it and?—

And he was gone, leaving her aching and incomplete.

And extremely bloody confused.

When she finally managed to open her eyes, it was like waking from a dream, the space between reality and fantasy blurred. The woods were almost mocking her with their placidity, their cheerful peace a vicious contrast to the way she was reeling and unfulfilled.

Where, she wondered for the second time that day, had that wretched marquess gone ?

As the cheerful chirping of birds continued, rudely paying her no mind, several things began to fall into place.

"Are you not hunting, then?" That's what she'd asked when he'd set aside his gun, the gesture solicitous in a way that did not match his playful mood.

And how had he responded?

"Oh, no. I am."

That was why he'd been lurking behind her, why he'd hidden himself and leapt out to startle her.

That irksome wretch was hunting her .

"He'd better hope he's as good at hiding as he is at tracking," she muttered as she shook out her skirts and shoved a loose tendril of hair back into place. "Because when I find him, I am going to murder him."

She stepped away from the tree, snarling low in fury when her legs dared to shake beneath her.

"I'm not going to give him the satisfaction," she grumbled, annoyed to arguing with her own body.

Particularly because her body was arguing right back. No matter how much her mind sniped and shrieked about marquesses who had better start saying their last prayers, her body kept insisting that the better course, when she found him, would be to launch herself on him and refuse to let go until he'd made good on his promises to fix this…ache.

When she first started walking, she stomped, hoping it would exorcise some of her ire. It didn't help. Besides, she reasoned, if she was going to hunt for him, she'd be best served with quiet feet and cautious movements.

She slowed, moving carefully, until she was practically silent against the well-worn dirt path through the woods.

Not, she realized as she went on, that it did her much good. She was, as she'd said to Lord Oackley, no huntress. She was a city girl, unused to even the half-tamed wild of a nobleman's woods. She might be able to move quietly, but she didn't know how to read the signs in the branches and leaves.

She wasn't hunting , she realized, so much as taking a walk while in an ill temper.

"I'm going to kill him," she vowed again as she went on. "Murder. Outright murder. And I shan't even feel bad about it. Not one whit."

It was when she started to mentally consider details for her dastardly plan that she felt it again.

His eyes on her.

She paused, eyes narrowing as if this might truly help her.

"I know you're there," she called.

No response except for the rustle of wind in the leaves.

Fine. Fine . If that was how he wanted to play it…

She kept walking, pretending she thought herself wrong for having detected him. She carried on like this for a minute or two, his presence increasingly palpable. Then, without warning, she stopped and spun, determined to catch him out.

Nothing.

She held her position for a moment, eyes darting around the woodland, before turning slowly and continuing in her original direction.

When she continued walking, the prickling feeling of being observed intensified. It was palpable in a way that made her nervous, though it was a giddy kind of nerves. She bit back a giggle that threatened to bubble free and picked up her pace.

She didn't pity anyone who was involved in this kind of hunt, she was learning. Neither the predator, nor the prey. For she had no doubt that, unlike the dogs, if the marquess caught her, he would keep her.

And she felt certain that she'd enjoy that very much, indeed.

She hurried along, moving more and more quickly, nerves making her twitch with anticipation. She was practically running by the time she came to a clearing, it's rounded openness a deceptive contradiction to her reality.

She'd come to the end of the path. She was out of places to run.

Not that she even knew if she wanted to run any further. Her heart pounded as she spun in a slow circle. She was enjoying the game—she had to admit it.

But she wanted to know what came next. Wanted to know what happened when she was caught.

"My lord?" she called, backing towards the edge of the trees, feeling too exposed.

Again, no answer.

Her nerves pricked sharper, and she drew in a shaky breath.

"Evan?"

And then he was behind her. She didn't startle this time, as if some part of her had known that speaking his given name for the very first time would summon him better than any magic spell from any fairy story.

"Hello, beautiful Frances," he greeted, one hand pressing tight against her belly, hauling her against him. His mouth came to the curve of her throat, an echo of their position in the room off the library. Her body remembered this, too, and her head fell aside to welcome his touch.

"You left me," she murmured, the words only half complaining. She felt her ire slipping away as his hands roamed hungrily over her body.

"I told you I would go hunting today, little rabbit," he teased. His free hand grasped her by the wrist. He pulled her fingers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles then nipping at the base of her thumb. "And I think you like being caught."

"I—" She could not deny it, not when she was melting back against him like a sweet left too long in the sun. "Yes," she admitted on a sigh.

"Such a good girl," he praised, and it coursed through her like fire. "Such honesty deserves a reward, don't you agree?"

"Please," she whimpered. She'd surely be embarrassed by that later, but for now, she didn't care. The aching in her body had reignited the moment he'd become touching her again, had leapt, in an instant, nearly as high as it had been before he'd so cruelly abandoned her.

The rumble of agreement in his chest was a distinctly masculine sound.

"Yes, my darling," he said, spinning her in his arms and pressing her into a long, hot kiss. "Yes, let me tend to you."

"Yes," she echoed into his mouth as she found herself, once again, pressed against a tree. She'd have agreed to practically anything in that moment.

She did feel a flicker of distinct disagreement when he neglected to press his leg between hers once more. That had, she thought sourly, had such a pleasant effect before that it seemed pointless to deviate. When she felt him lifting the hem of her skirts, however, his hands greedily gathering the fabric even as his mouth pressed skillfully against hers, she returned to her previous state of total accord with his plans.

The contrast between the cool air that floated beneath her rising skirts and the fire that threatened to consume her put all of Frances' senses into their most sensitive state. She could feel everything, could feel the weave of the fabric of her shift, could feel the way the blood thrummed beneath her skin.

Even so, it was a jolt when the marquess' hands reached the soft, untouched skin above her stockings.

"Oh," she murmured. She felt drunk, the way she had when Grace had purloined some of her father's liquor and shared with her friends.

"Gentlemen shouldn't get to keep all the fun for themselves," she'd argued, and Frances had been unable to argue with the sentiment. Emily had disliked the flavor, while Diana had fallen directly asleep after her first glass. Frances and Grace, though, had paced themselves, and Frances had learned that the floaty, giddy feeling was rather pleasant, though she'd cursed her headache the following morning.

Even if this action gave her a headache the next day, Frances knew it would be worth it.

"Do you like that, sweet girl?" the marquess asked, his lips a caress against her. "Do you want more?"

She was clinging to him, she realized, her hands grasping his shoulders like she'd been thrown out to sea and had a single rope tethering her to shore. She didn't let go.

"Yes. Please." His lips trailed across her neck, and she tilted to give him easier access. She was being so wanton, and the knowledge thrilled her.

"Ask," he urged her. "Ask me."

She frowned slightly as the words permeated the fog in her brain. Hadn't she been asking? She didn't mind repeating herself. If that's what he needed to continue delivering such delicious touches, she was happy to oblige.

"More, please," she said. His hands were above her knees now, the slight callouses on his fingertips dragging against the soft curves of her thighs.

"No," he said, even as his fingers inched higher. He was millimeters from touching her in her most private place now, close enough that she trembled with anticipation with each pass of his fingers. He moved in long, caressing sweeps along the insides of her thighs, the gentleness of the movement making her burn higher and higher.

Her eyes fluttered as she opened them, her body at war between the drugging pleasure and the demand that she understand why he was denying her.

When she focused on his face, it was intense, his gaze probing.

"Ask me ," he insisted.

The smile was a sigh of relief. She understood.

"More, please, Evan," she said.

His smile was the sun, though Frances only appreciated it for a moment before she was distracted by the consuming feeling of his sliding a finger inside her.

It was fortunate he was holding her up, because her legs threatened to collapse beneath her as he moved inside her, paring the motion with a caress of his thumb on a deliciously sensitive spot higher up on her body. He moved his fingers in tandem, and Frances would have been impressed with his coordination if she hadn't been dying, actually, because certainly nobody could feel this good and live to tell the tale.

"Evan," she moaned again because such a good turn deserved a reward. Indeed, his thumb pressed a little bit harder, and he slipped a second finger inside her and—oh, yes , that was even nicer.

He was breathing nearly as heavily as she was, muttering soft nonsense into the curve of her neck.

"God, Frances, the feel of you. You're so bloody perfect, it's a goddamned curse. You marvelous, marvelous girl."

She was only half listening, because the feelings in her body were so spectacularly distracting. The spring from before had coiled even tighter—far tighter than she'd ever assumed possible. The precipice, the one she'd recognized but not yet reached, loomed closer and closer.

And then— again —Evan stopped, his fingers inside her stilling but not withdrawing.

Frances eyes shot open, and she fisted a hand in his hair in a flash.

"If you stop again," she hissed, feeling more out of control than she could ever imagine being, "I will murder you ."

"Hush," he chided, even as the faintest glimmer of amusement lit his face at her words. "I thought I heard someone."

That banked Frances' ire in an instant. Indulging in a decadent moment in the woods was one thing, but being caught in such a state was another thing entirely. That was how gentlemen ended up at the altar at gunpoint.

And yet, the threat of discovery did not bank her arousal . Instead, her blood continued its eager thrum, and she could not resist squirming, just a bit, against Evan's hand, drawing his attention away from the woods he'd been scanning.

The amusement grew pronounced, but behind it there was genuine pleasure, too. "Oh, sweet Frances," he murmured, bending low to speak against her lips, his voice barely audible even at this distance. "Have I left you needful?"

She couldn't answer beyond a whimper, but she didn't need to. His hand began moving again between her legs, rendering her almost limp with relief.

But only almost, because the tension was still there.

"You'll have to be very quiet, my sweet," he said, hand moving faster, faster. "Let me see you, but don't let them hear you."

She was reasonably certain that he wouldn't be continuing like this if he truly thought someone was approaching, but the pounding of her own heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she mightn't have heard an entire calvary approach. She wanted to whimper, moan, cry out, but she held the sounds inside, letting nothing escape except her harsh breathing.

And then the coil inside her finally, finally snapped, sending pleasure rushing through her. She could not entirely hold back her cry, not when she felt like that, but Evan swallowed it with a kiss, his mouth pressed to hers like her pleasure was the finest wine.

It went on for ages, or only a moment, leaving her trembling and oh so satisfied. Evan, too, looked deliciously smug when he withdrew his hand, first from her body then from under her skirts. She felt an unusual dampness between her legs and felt an odd sense of pride at this sign of what she'd done.

She'd been brave. She'd taken what she wanted—taken what had been offered. And it had been wonderful.

No matter what happened next, she would always have this.

She looked up to find Evan looking back at her, his expression almost baffled, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. She had no answer for him; she scarcely recognized herself, either.

"I—" She broke off, unsure what she should say.

She never picked up the sentence as, just then, the gentle beat of hooves against packed dirt told her that they were not yet entirely safe from discovery. Someone was coming. Hastily, she looked down at her skirts, fluffing out the wrinkles that indicated their activities. It wasn't terribly obvious that they'd been rucked above her waist only moments before, she was pleased to note. She sent a mental prayer of thanks for heavy, fine fabrics and talented seamstresses up to the heavens.

When she looked up again, Evan was gone. Christ, but he was quick like a fox, that one, she thought irritably. Now she was just standing alone in a clearing like a ninny.

Though better a ninny than a woman entirely ruined, she allowed, particularly as, not a minute later, Lord Hounton rode into view.

He drew up his horse sharply when he saw her, a flash of surprise crossing his face, though it quickly shifted into the man's typical affable smile.

"Oh, goodness, Lady Frances, hello. I hope you won't think less of me if I admit you startle me."

He really was the consummate gentleman, was Lord Hounton. He dismounted in an instant, taking his horse by the reins so he could approach her, coming close enough to speak easily, though not so close that it would cause a scandal.

If only other people could behave as well, she thought sourly, though the mental complaint was halfhearted as her body still buzzed with the aftereffects of pleasure.

"Not at all, my lord," she said politely. "I am fortunate, actually, as I fear I have gotten myself a bit turned around."

This was not strictly true, but, she reminded herself, better to seem the sympathetic fool than be suspected of her true activities in this clearing.

"Ah, then we shall make a good pair," he said, offering his arm gallantly. "Though, if you hope to be returned to the thick of things, I fear I am not your man. I'm not much of a hunter myself. Always seemed unsporting, all these men with guns, dogs, and horses against a few woodland creatures."

It was a pity, Frances thought, that she could not fall in love with Lord Hounton. He was a nice man. His goodness might tend the slightest bit towards naiveté, but there were worse qualities. If she gave in to her parents' efforts to matchmake her with the viscount, she wouldn't have a terrible life. He had a fortune and seemed unlikely to control her, as some husbands did their wives.

But even the thought of such a union felt so terribly flat. Lord Hounton would never pursue her through the woods, would never make her body sing as he teased her then left her wanting, only to bring her to even greater heights. He would never needle her until she forgot herself, forgot her shyness, forgot all the things that weighed upon her so persistently.

Except, no, she couldn't be having those thoughts, because she wouldn't be engaging with Evan—with Marquess Oackley—again. The house party was halfway over, and when she left, she'd be free from the grasp of whatever madness had overtaken her these past days. She would return to London, to her friends and her life, and figure out how to get away from her parents' mad machinations.

But the viscount was kind, and he deserved to be told as much. "You are too good, my lord," she praised genuinely. "I, too, confess a tender heart for the creatures, so your offer of a stroll sounds perfect."

The viscount beamed. They walked back to the house, as Frances tried desperately to lose herself in the pleasant encounter, wishing with all her heart that she could desire someone so very easy to love.

But she didn't. That was the problem. She simply didn't.