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Saye falling in love had hit Fitzwilliam hard.

He was not sure exactly why; he had always known his brother would marry—there was never any question of the title falling to Fitzwilliam. And he had revelled in his ability to choose his own path, while his brother seemed perfectly fitted for an earldom.

Saye was the consummate bored aristocrat, sailing through life and various peccadillos practically untouched.

Fitzwilliam had seconded him in no less than three duels; though Saye was a deadly shot, he could discharge his weapon in the air, make a joke out of the whole affair and somehow, by the time the meeting had finished, the duellists were drinking together.

It was as if strong emotion could not touch him.

And Fitzwilliam had been glad.

It was simply that…in all he lost by being the younger son, he had supposed fate gifted him an extra margin of, well, strength of emotion. Saye would retain wealth and political power, but Fitzwilliam would be allotted another type of power entirely—the power of love.

Of course, he would have to shoot himself were he to admit any of this aloud.

He had always felt things deeply; a sensitive child, his father had ensured his tutors were of the type to toughen a man.

He did not regret it, either, for he would not like to be some poetry-spouting fool wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Furthermore, he understood his financial position; from his mother, he would have a modest inheritance, but it was unexceptional.

He could not marry where he liked, and it had never truly bothered him—he had supposed love to be a choice, and it would be just as easy to choose an heiress as an impoverished gentlewoman.

That was, until he had fallen in love—or something , at least—with an impoverished gentlewoman.

Elizabeth Bennet was everything he had ever dreamt of in a woman…

except for her non-existent portion. Witty, clever, amusing, and stunningly beautiful—he had been gripped by an interest in her since the moment of making her acquaintance.

Ev en knowing it was hopeless—and ensuring she knew, as well—he could not help spending every moment possible in her company.

The previous Easter’s sojourn at Rosings Park had been the happiest he had ever known.

His dreams, of course, would remain only dreams, and though it pained him, he was glad to learn of her likes and dislikes, to know her just a little.

Darcy was often with them both; it had not mattered.

He had been more the paper on their walls—present, but not a part of things.

And then, on the final night of their holiday at Rosings, Darcy had confessed his love for Elizabeth and her rejection of his suit.

Once he was alone again after that conversation, Fitzwilliam had fallen to his knees in gratitude.

If there was one thing worse than falling for a woman too poor to marry, it would be having one’s younger, wealthier, more handsome cousin manage the business.

Thankfully, it appeared, such an awful fate was to be avoided.

Alas, fate was a cruel mistress. In the end, Darcy won the hand of the maiden fair, and it was all Fitzwilliam could do to listen to his soliloquies upon her beauty, wit, and perfections without betraying his envy.

And now there was to be a house party, and two weeks of being in company with Elizabeth and Darcy! Of witnessing the growth of their rapport, the beauty of new love. Resentment wrapped her talons around his neck, choking the life from him .

Worse, he knew his family would ensure that other highly eligible females were in attendance. He wanted to know love, he did! But it would be impossible while Elizabeth was near, a constant reminder of ‘if only’. Cupid’s arrow was doomed to miss its mark at this particular party.

Sarah was an unusually good cook—she truly was.

But as any scientist understood—and she firmly believed cooking to be a science—there were rules to be followed.

The proper ingredients in the proper measure, at the proper time and proper heat.

Even then, such inconsistencies as humidity could foil even the best cook.

Sadly, tonight’s fiasco had nothing whatsoever to do with sultry air, and everything to do with Lord Saye’s whispered wooing words to Lilly.

How, precisely, was such a thing to be accomplished?

It sounded anatomically impossible, and yet…

curiously intriguing. Thus, she was unsure whether she had added the correct number of eggs—had she used six or eight?

Did she put in the orange flower water twice?

Had she remembered to remove two of the whites?

Ah, well, nothing a little more flour could not solve.

And then a little more cream. Or had she already added extra?

After trying for some time to fix everything that was wrong with her efforts, she sighed .

Cook peered over at the gloopy mixture. “Looks like ye could kill a man with that one,” she chuckled.

“Whoever heard of the Quality drudgin’ about in the kitchen, I ask ye?

Ye weren’t born fer it, an’ here’s the proof.

” Nothing put Cook on her high ropes more than Sarah’s infrequent culinary failures.

Sarah sighed again. “I shall toss this out in the mews. No matter how awful, the cats will enjoy it,” she muttered.

“It’s full dark out now,” Cook said, peering out of the window, shaking her head. “Ye’ll likely catch somethin’ from them toms if not the chill. Leave it until tomorrow.”

“No, I want to begin afresh, and the cats will appreciate my efforts—besides which, I believe it will never come out if I do not scrape it tonight. I may have hit upon the receipt for bricks. I shall return in a moment,” she said, and, throwing a dark woollen shawl around her shoulders, ran out of the back door.

Fitzwilliam had been wandering the streets, paying little attention to his direction, avoiding a return to his lonely bachelor rooms. Still, the neighbourhood was a good one, well-lit and quiet, not far from Darcy House. It took him several moments, therefore, to realise he was being followed .

Once he knew it, an eagerness filled him. Combat beckoned, with real enemies at hand, and his mouth stretched wide in a malevolent grin. For soft-hearted he might be, but that heart was surrounded by a tough shell of battle-readiness honed in real war campaigns.

The villains, two of them by the sound, were sticking to the shadows, but they were clumsy and far too noisy. Amateurs. Unlikely he would even need to draw his weapon. His tutors had trained him in combat methods not seen at Gentleman Jackson’s.

He presumed they would attack in the darkness of the mews ahead; he would be ready. A little farther…a bit more…

At the point of deepest shadow, he suddenly pivoted, leaping at his would-be attackers.

But at that exact moment, an unholy shriek—sounding like a thousand toms in heat—screeched in his ears while a bucket-load of viscous batter swiped the side of his head.

The nasty mixture hit the miscreants as well, the bowl bouncing off the taller one’s head and shattering on the cobbles; the pair scrabbled away down the street like the rats they were.

Fitzwilliam wiped the mush from his eyes, turning to see what monster of the gloom had come to assault him.

It was a girl. In the lamplight, he could see she was pretty, plump, dark-haired, and little else.

“What the devil were you thinking?” he bellowed, the energy of the aborted fight still filling him.

“I was thinking that you were about to be attacked!” she shouted back. But there was no mistaking her cultured accents. “I brought the botched paste out for the cats, and saw two men sneaking up on you! If you hadn’t jumped into the way, all of it would have landed upon them!”

“Are you daft? They were not kittens waiting to lick up a kitchen treat! They were criminals!”

“Were you leading them along? What kind of fool lures criminals into darkened mews when he is outnumbered two to one?”

“I am a medalled colonel in His Majesty’s army—I needed no assistance from a–a cat-lady!”

She was quiet, and he was thankful he had quelled her. Now that he had made his point, he opened his mouth to apologise for distressing her, if indeed he had.

“If I am a cat-lady, you are the cat’s paw,” she muttered.

“What?” He could hardly believe his ears. Did she think her ill-timed, even dangerous interference a joke?

“Oh, now, it was hardly a cat-astrophe,” she said. “You needn’t caterwaul.”

“‘Daft’ is too kind!” he accused, disavowing all ideas of apologies in favour of wiping his face with a large handkerchief.

“Do not be ashamed—you were within a whisker of getting your man.” And suddenly, she began to laugh.

And laugh, and laugh. “I–I am sorry,” she gasped, when she caught her breath.

“Your whiskers! With the dough dripping from your beard, you look so–so…” then snorting again in a most un -ladylike manner.

“Im- purr -fect!” And off she went again into peals of laughter.

Fitzwilliam glared at her with distaste. “I am grateful to have been an object for your humour,” he gritted.

With an observable effort, she regained control. “I am sorry,” she apologised again, wiping her eyes with the edge of her shawl and looking somewhat rueful.

“Miss Bentley? Miss Bentley!” a voice from the back of the house called.

“Coming, Cook!” the girl—Miss Bentley—called back. “Would you care to come into the house and tidy yourself up?” she asked politely.

“No, thank you,” Fitzwilliam replied coldly. “I wish you a pleasant evening.” He turned on his heel.

“Good-night, Mr Cat—er, Mr Colonel.” She gave another small giggle, and then a sigh. “Drat. And that was my favourite bowl, too.”