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A melia was still reeling at her own foolishness as she descended to breakfast the next morning. It was not lightning she’d felt in the village when Matthew Love took her hand. It was a mundane little shock from rubbing fabrics together.

He was charming. So incredibly charming.

And handsome. His thick blond hair fell over his forehead, begging for her to brush it away from his brow.

She bit back a hysterical laugh at her own traitorous mind.

She’d experienced attraction before. She was twenty-eight years old and hardly made of stone.

She had enjoyed her share of stolen kisses on balconies and in gardens.

But she’d never truly dallied with a man—never been tempted. Her independence was always more important. After the control her mother had exerted over her life for the first twenty-four years… that independence was hard fought.

Amelia would happily go to her grave an unmarried, financially autonomous spinster. She had never, ever, not once, questioned the future she’d chosen for herself.

Until last night.

Until a golden-haired, laughing solicitor had touched her hand. Smiled at her. Made a clear and concerted effort to make her feel comfortable amid a group of strangers.

In a breathtaking instant, a different future had flashed before her eyes.

A future with children of her own, with a hand to hold hers.

With a true partner rather than a congenial companion.

And for one foolish instant, she’d allowed herself to consider it.

Until one of the Duchess of Burnham’s strange guests had jolted her back to reality.

Lord Love.

How could she have been so stupid?

The duchess, Lady Blake, had laughingly confirmed that Matthew Love was not a lord. Which meant the sobriquet was a jest. Amelia would have to be daft to miss the meaning. The handsome, charming Lord Love was a rake.

And Amelia had been a fool.

But not now. The morning was bright, her head was clear, and she had a letter to her sister tucked into her pocket. All would be well.

She had just reached the stairs when a pair of voices turned the corner behind her.

The deep timbre of Mr. Barnes’ voice was immediately recognizable.

Every time Amelia had floated to Miss Darrow’s side the evening before, the gentleman had been there, dancing attendance on her companion.

Amelia recognized the other voice as well—though she wished she did not.

She took the stairs two at a time, determined to secure a seat of safety.

The long table in the dining room was already half full with guests when Amelia arrived.

Miss Darrow spoke with Lillian Blake at one side, but her other was unoccupied.

And on the other side of that was Mrs. McTavish. Relief flooded Amelia’s chest—

“Good morning, Miss Darrow! You look in fine fettle today!”

Heavens. They’d caught her up.

Amelia aimed for the empty seat, but Mr. Barnes moved with the agility of a man half his age. He maneuvered himself into the seat at Miss Darrow’s side before Amelia had even made it halfway there.

She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself.

If she’d believed in bad luck, this moment would have been the confirmation that she was irreparably cursed with it.

Not a single seat remained at the table that would shelter her on both sides, which meant that when she finally did resign herself and sank down into a chair—

“May I join you, Miss Wartham?” Matthew Love did not wait for her acquiescence before sitting.

“If you want,” she said through tight lips.

“I do want,” he said without hesitation.

Heat flared on Amelia’s cheeks. She gritted her teeth. No matter how much jewelry she wore, it would never be enough to distract from the flushes that were constantly rising to her face with every rush of emotion.

And this time, it was foolish anger.

“And do you usually get what you want, Mr. Love?” she bit out between the footman serving her breakfast.

“Yes,” he said honestly.

He did not even glance down at his plate as it filled with food. Matthew made no attempt to hide his stare. Just like the night before, he regarded her with open interest.

Heavens, when had she begun thinking of him as Matthew rather than Mr. Love?

“How lovely for you,” Amelia bit back. “I cannot say that I have been so thoroughly blessed.”

“I suppose the good Lord had to hold back in some regards. He could not gift one woman with everything. It would be unfair to all the others.”

Amelia blinked. A compliment. A sweet one. A rake’s attempt to seduce her, no doubt. He is called Lord Love , she reminded herself as she speared a bite.

“Are you so complimentary to all of your sister’s female guests?” she asked in a low voice. But not low enough.

“Female, male, equine, canine,” Lady Blake interjected from across the table. “That is why he is called Lord Love—because everyone cannot help but love him. He is so annoyingly pleasant.”

Amelia choked on her toast. Matthew’s eyes widened, genuine worry lighting the bright blue irises. Amelia coughed through it, unable to do anything but accept the tea he offered her.

He was called Lord Love not because he was a rake, a scoundrel, or a profligate pursuer of women. He was called Lord Love because he was so lovable . Heavens above. He was still being nice to her, even after she’d been rude to him. Repeatedly. What must the duchess think? The other guests?

To Amelia’s relief, all of them had returned to other conversations once they’d ascertained that her death was not imminent. Amelia sipped the tea and wished the floor of Lady Blake’s dining room would swallow her up. It might be the only way to hide the burning red on her cheeks.

*

Amelia avoided Matthew after breakfast by flying up to her room under the pretense of needing to pen a note to her sister.

A poor excuse because she not only had said letter already written and waiting in her pocket, but because it prevented her from departing to post said letter.

She paced away the morning in her room. Once enough time had passed for potential embarrassment to fade, she descended the stairs once more.

She knocked on Miss Darrow’s door but had no response.

Unsurprising. Miss Darrow would never choose a quiet morning in her room when a house full of interesting guests beckoned.

The manor was eerily quiet as Amelia descended the stairs. What were her odds of finding someone who could procure her a conveyance into the village?

Lady Blake appeared from the back of the house. Perhaps her luck was finally turning.

“Miss Wartham! I was just about to send someone out to fetch you. The rest of our party has already started for the lake.”

“The lake?”

“A picnic luncheon,” Lady Blake said, lifting her arm. Golden loaves poked out from the basket hanging there.

Amelia fidgeted with her bracelet. “I was hoping to go into town to post a letter to my sister, alerting her to our delay.”

“Of course! Leave it with one of the staff and they can take it into town.”

“I’d prefer to post it myself,” Amelia said. She had no reason to distrust the duchess’s household staff, but it would nag at her if she did not see to it herself.

The duchess’s golden eyebrows drew together, the feminine mirror of her brother’s. Then they smoothed and a smile lit her face once more. “That is perfectly well. Come and eat some luncheon, and we will send you into town directly after.”

Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but her stomach growled traitorously before she got a word out. Lady Blake’s smile widened. She closed the distance between them, looping her arm through Amelia’s and drawing her out the door.

“I hope those clouds do not ruin our picnic,” her host said as they started across the lawn. “Though some of my guests would probably find frolicking in the rain even more entertaining.”

Amelia inhaled sharply. She tried to cover it with a little cough, but Lady Blake was already chuckling.

“You do have a rather… diverse assortment of friends,” Amelia remarked.

The duchess laughed harder. “You could have chosen a much more disparaging word, so for that I am thankful. Tarin and I have worked hard to cultivate a place of peace. Away from the pressures of London and the ton , we hope that our guests can relax. A true holiday.”

Amelia scanned the tableau before them as they walked toward the lake.

She was not looking for Matthew, she reminded herself.

Not after she’d embarrassed herself so thoroughly at breakfast. Assuming he was the worst sort of rake, only to be told that he’d earned his moniker by being so kind .

She intended to stay well clear of him—and any residual embarrassment—for the rest of the week.

The bachelor poet lay flat on his back in the grass, staring up at the sky.

An abandoned journal lay beside him. He did not glance in their direction as they passed, fully absorbed by whatever he saw in the sky.

By the picnic blankets, there were multiple easels set up, attended by both the widower and Mr. McTavish.

Was that Miss Darrow standing at the third?

With Mr. Barnes at her side? She’d never seen the woman so much as sketch a flower. But there she was, holding a paintbrush and giggling girlishly.

“It is quite unique,” Amelia admitted. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the copse on the far edge of the lake, where there was shade and quiet and no other guests.

“But there are too many people?” Lady Blake guessed.

Amelia blushed. “I apologize, Your Grace, I did not mean to imply—”

Lady Blake waved her hand. “Please, call me Lillian. Titles intrude upon the peace. And no offense taken, I assure you. If you find peace in solitude, then seize it.” She held out the basket she’d carried from the manor.