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He spoke quietly, as if he stood with Daphne not amid towering oaks, but in a chapel.

She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him, and he enfolded her in an embrace. Of all people, of all men, Daphne would not have envisioned herself in Montmarche’s arms, but he knew how to share comfort, how to hold a woman so she could gain some purchase on unsettled nerves and a weary heart.

“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Montmarche said. “Raising children. Bad enough when their other parent shares the upheaval and drama with you. Far worse, when you must soldier on alone. And then they grow up, and alone acquires new and daunting dimensions.”

He smelled good, of lemon and mint, such as the French might blend into a hard soap. He was warm too, and solidly muscular. Daphne let herself notice no more than that before she stepped back. She was a woman well past youth, and hadn’t noticed a man in any personal sense for years.

“Exactly, my lord. When the children are small, we worry about runaway coaches and putrid sore throats, because all manner of bad fates can lay a child low. Then they grow up, and we’re to stand back, letting a cruel and dangerous world strike blow after blow while we wave our handkerchiefs and pretend adulthood is a great lark. ”

He looked around at the trees. “Some of adulthood should be a lark. One loses sight of that. One cannot always be minding one’s duty. I still occasionally ride hellbent across my acres. What of you? What is your version of a lark?”

Certainly not loitering in a forest while imposing on a man’s kind-heartedness. “I paint. Mostly, I tromp around, pretending to be searching for an ideal vantage point from which to render a landscape, but in truth, I’m simply enjoying the out of doors.”

He offered his arm again, and Daphne took it.

“Then for the duration of your visit to Marche Hall, you must tromp wherever you please, my lady. Consider the estate your canvas, and I will make your excuses to the other guests. George is something of an amateur artist, so don’t be surprised if he asks to tromp with you. ”

“I’m sure, if he’s like his father, he’ll be very good company.”

This occasioned another one of those subtle, attractive smiles, though Daphne had offered the plain truth. Lord Montmarche wasn’t silly, vain, self-absorbed, or any of a thousand other pejoratives she could apply to most of the titled men whose company she’d kept.

He turned the discussion to the bride and groom, and the arrangements being made for the formal ball that would follow the wedding. Daphne argued for putting three waltzes on the program, his lordship wanted none, but was prepared to graciously allow one in honor of the happy couple.

They emerged from the woods near the laburnum alley, and Montmarche bowed over Daphne’s hand.

“Please excuse me, Lady Cargill. If I attempt to visit the stables without stopping by the conservatory, my sister, who is choosing flowers for tonight’s centerpiece, will force me to play duets in public. I have much enjoyed our walk.”

They were not yet in sight of the house, but Emma Cavanaugh sat in plain view on a bench nearer to the maze. She was reading, or pretending to.

“I have enjoyed our ramble as well, my lord. Thank you for your escort, and as for Viscount Killoway’s question…”

Montmarche looked puzzled.

“How does a fellow know if a lady is willing to be kissed? That one’s easy.” Daphne offered a curtsey and tossed her answer over her shoulder. “He asks her for her opinion on the matter.” She strode away in the direction of the house, swinging her bonnet by its ribbons.

“But lilies do last quite well,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said, “and in yellow and pink, they carry no mournful message.”

“The blooms are large though,” Cassandra countered. “We want low centerpieces for our evening meal, because we will not be strictly formal, not until Sunday.”

“Perhaps little pots of heartsease,” Mrs. Cavanaugh suggested. “They are so cheerful. No fragrance will compete with enjoyment of the food, and they aren’t the usual thing.”

Lysander’s head gardener stood a few respectful paces back while the ladies sparred, for as determined as Mrs. Cavanaugh was to be helpful, Cassandra was equally determined to maintain her authority as hostess, sister to the earl, and mother of the bride.

The ladies held this discussion not in the ornamental portion of the conservatory, but in the functional expanse of the glass house. The scent here was rich earth and greenery, the air warm and humid.

“I favor the notion of heartsease,” Lysander said, mostly because his gardener had work to do, and Lysander would rather be anywhere else. “A bit of novelty about the table setting, some informality, will establish the tone for our first dinner nicely. Excellent suggestion, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

Both women beamed at him, and abruptly, Lysander realized what the point of the digression had been. Emma Cavanaugh had been colluding with Cassandra rather than in conflict with her, and Lysander had fallen into their ambush.

Lysander’s father had explained much parliamentary strategy to him.

One of the first tenets of winning support from a man reluctant to surrender his vote was to get that man to capitulate on some small, unrelated matter—the wine pairing at a club dinner, the bridle path chosen for a companionable morning hack, whether or not to switch out a deck of cards mid-way through the evening.

Small concessions led to a subtle shift in perspective, and that led to a change of behavior.

Lysander had made a concession by supporting Emma Cavanaugh’s heartsease.

The gardener cleared his throat. “I’ll have the centerpieces set out for the footmen by five of the clock, shall I?”

Mrs. Cavanaugh curled her hand around Lysander’s arm. “Four would suit. I understand we’re keeping country hours through the week.”

“I’m so glad that’s settled,” Cassandra said, her comment bearing portents beyond a mere choice of flowers. “I’ll see you at luncheon, my lord, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Perhaps Mrs. Cavanaugh might enjoy a tour of the maze, Montmarche.”

Perhaps Lysander would like to pitch his sister into the maze and leave her to wander for the next two weeks.

“I’d like nothing better than to enjoy the maze at some length,” he said, “but alas, other duties call. If I’m to host dinner and attend my guests this evening, I’d best spend the afternoon in the dull pursuits of a country landowner, which means I must meet with my stablemaster now. Ladies, you will excuse me.”

He bowed and strode off, leaving the women to weave marriage spells, or whatever dark magic they pleased. Lysander had not lied—correspondence waited for no earl, and a consultation regarding the stabling of the guests’ horses was imperative—but he was being ungracious and that was bad of him.

Bad of him, again . He was apparently in a contrary mood today. He walked past a knot of Helena’s young friends by the garden fountain and offered them a mere nod—they had no business flirting with him when George was on hand to be flirted with—and continued on until he’d reached the stables.

“I can saddle Sindri myself,” Lysander said as a groom greeted him. “You lot have enough to do.”

He in fact simply wanted the horse’s company.

“Yes, my lord,” the groom replied, tugging a forelock, “but perhaps my lord would permit me to fetch the brushes and whatnot?”

The lad was graying, wiry, and had worked on the estate as far back as Lysander could recall. “Mercer, what’s afoot? You taught me how to saddle a mount, and you’ll teach Lady Sophronia how to saddle hers. I know how to use a curry comb.”

Mercer looked up and down the barn aisle, which was spotless, for a barn. Sindri was peering over his half-door, ever one to collect gossip—and carrots.

“The saddle room is in use, my lord.”

What the damned devil? “A saddle room is always in use, keeping the gear dry, organized, and safe from thieves. What aren’t you saying?”

Mercer took a step closer. “The young swell with the flashy”—Mercer gestured to his throat— “with all the lace. He’s helping a lady choose her saddle.”

“A lady?” Behind a closed door with the designated-young-rake?

“I’m sure I could not say which lady, my lord, but she had a distinctive laugh.”

Mrs. Ingersoll. Her laugh was as distinctive as an ill-fitting boot on a gouty toe. She’d brought two daughters to the gathering and no husband, though Lysander knew for a fact she had one.

“You are saying I’m to be denied my gallop because Mr. Offenbach has chosen to go a-rutting in my stables? Sindri will soon become unmanageable.”

Mercer grinned. “I would never impugn my lord’s guests with such careless talk, but I warrant Mr. Off-with-his-breeches won’t be in there long. He chose another lady’s saddle in less than fifteen minutes before breakfast. The lads say we should start timing him, lay a few bets.”

Lady Cargill had spotted Offenbach for the boor he was, would that Cassandra had been as discerning.

“Disturb the proceedings, please. Knock loudly, explain that my lordship is underfoot yelling for my horse, and then count to ten before intruding.”

“Your lordship isn’t yelling,” Mercer replied. “Your lordship stopped yelling before you was sent off to public school, more’s the pity. Master George gave up yelling at the same sorry pass.”

Lord Killoway. “Go,” Lysander said, pointing to the saddle room’s closed door. “ Now .” He did not raise his voice, though he wanted to, and not only because Offenbach was being indiscreet.

Lysander chose a corner of the stable yard where he could loiter in the shade with Galahad, the orange tom, until Offenbach and Mrs. Ingersoll strolled out of the stables.

Offenbach’s cravat was wrinkled, his hair mussed.

The lady was not wearing a habit—easier to get under her skirts that way—and Offenbach was smirking.

Lysander kept his peace while they passed him, oblivious to his presence.