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She pursed her lips, thoughtfully considering his question. “No, I do not think so. In the past, yes. But not today. We are entering a new age. Many of the rules from our fathers’ and grandfathers’ times will need to be bent, if not broken.”

Deveraux nodded. “I thought you would not hold with the past. Any woman who would dress in man’s clothing must be republican-minded.”

There was a teasing gleam in his eye that Leona, showing great forbearance, refused to feed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips twisted wryly. “Mater artium necessitas. Necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Latin yet! I am impressed—as I know you meant me to be.” He held up his hands. “For the nonce, I retire from the lists, chastened.”

Leona relaxed and smiled. “I don’t know if I should allow that. Isn’t it the better military strategy to get the enemy on the run?”

“If first you are certain that the enemy is in full retreat and is not luring you forward to be squeezed into obliteration from the flanks.”

“Ahhh. Yes, a possible scenario. Thank you for the lesson.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. He swung one long leg over the arm of his chair in a shockingly casual manner and set it to swinging as he sipped on his sherry.

Leona felt uncomfortable in the silence. She downed the last of her sherry and fidgeted in her chair. “Where are Lucy and Mr. Fitzhugh? I should hate to leave the horses standing.

Deveraux laughed. “If you stay here a while, Miss Leonard, you will discover that my sister is rarely on time and never before-times. It was worse before that Jewitt harridan of hers arrived, so I take comfort in small ways and scarce notice anything less than half an hour.”

“What does Mr. Fitzhugh have to say to his fiancée's habits?”

Deveraux looked at her wryly. “You have perhaps noticed David’s sartorial elegance? . . . Come to think of it, can’t but help notice it in comparison to me.”

Leona noticed but did not know what he meant, for to her, his restrained attire suited his large frame admirably. In comparison, Mr. Fitzhugh’s attire looked almost fussy. Of course, she could not admit that to Mr. Deveraux!

Deveraux lolled his head back against the chair cushion and spoke lazily. “He and Lucy are well matched. We used to say that one day Fitzhugh’s regiment would miss a battle while he dallied in his tent straightening a sash.”

“You know, of course, that I could call you out for that,” David Fitzhugh said amiably from the library doorway.

“You could, but if you were so inclined, you would have done so two years ago,” Deveraux said without turning his head to look at him. “Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought my sister in with you?”

Fitzhugh laughed as he strolled into the room.

Deveraux nodded, then turned toward him, swinging his leg to the floor and sitting up straight. “I have lately begun to wonder who will be the latest for your wedding—Lucy or you.”

“Considering taking bets?”

Deveraux scratched his chin. “It has possibilities. Might set me up quite nicely, what do you say?”

“I say Lucy might have something to say about that.”

Deveraux winced. “You’re right. Best not to tease the she-devil. Last time I did I got a rather large vase pitched at my head.”

“A vase?” Leona asked, trying to imagine the delicate and feminine-looking Lucy throwing a vase at anyone.

“Yes. She hit me, too. Always did have a good throwing arm on her. Take that as a word to the wise, friend.” He rose from his chair and clapped David on the back.

“A point well taken.”

“What is a point well taken?” Lucy asked, entering the library. She was a vision of elegant loveliness in her midnight-blue riding habit trimmed with light-blue velvet. She had a jaunty little hat of matching light blue with darker blue feathers perched on top of a mass of black curls.

“Nothing important,” reassured David Fitzhugh, grinning broadly.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” countered Leona. “Your brother was warning Mr. Fitzhugh that you have a good throwing arm.”

“That’s torn it,” Deveraux complained.

Lucy sighed mockingly. “That vase story again, Nigel? Haven’t you—in all these years—been able to think up something better than that old tale?

What my dear brother conveniently forgets to mention is that I was but eight or nine at the time, standing less than ten feet away, and he had his back to me.

Furthermore, dear brother, you made an irresistibly large target. ”

“He still does,” retorted David Fitzhugh. “Always was a wonder how he survived those battles in Spain.”

“The French never had a chance to see me. The sparkle from your polished buttons reflected the sun into their eyes,” Deveraux drawled.

“This conversation reminds me of my brothers’ altercations.

They tended to last indefinitely. I think, before you two gentlemen become thoroughly enjoined, I should remind you that the horses are waiting,” Leona said dryly.

Without pausing to see if they were coming, Leona and Lucy swept out of the room and outside to where a grizzled old groom and a couple of stable boys held the horses.

Not to Leona’s surprise, the two gentlemen followed them out. She smiled to herself. Deveraux came up behind her to toss her into the saddle of a prancing dappled-gray Andalusian.

“Managing again?” he growled as he settled her on the sidesaddle. He steadied the horse with a quick pull on the bridle.

Leona gathered her reins, hooked her knee around the pommel, and straightened her skirts before answering. “I see it as relieving what promised to be a long session of unrelenting boredom.”

“Based upon your own vast experience.”

She inclined her head, then pulled on the reins to turn the horse away.

A chilly smile curved up the corners of Nigel Deveraux’s lips.

Miss Leona Leonard was far too independent and clever for her own—or anyone else’s—good.

It was all the fault of those worthless brothers of hers.

Edmund Leonard he knew more by reputation, but Captain Charles Leonard he knew too well.

He was a parasite. He quite happily took everything anyone did for him as if it were his due, the thought of returning the favor never entering his head.

No doubt Leona managed Lion’s Gate without compensation.

Deveraux wagered she also invested what little of her principal she had on the assumption that when she turned Lion’s Gate's financial status around, her brother would reward her for her efforts. Deveraux doubted that eventuality. Any money Leonard gave out would be to tradespeople to supply his wants. Of course, if the news Jack Randall—Damnation! He must remember to think of Randall as Lord Keirsmyth now. It was difficult to do, for almost as much as he did, Randall hated inheriting his title. Every day Deveraux prayed for Brandon’s recovery, for he feared inheriting his brother’s place.

He did not want it. He wanted his brother to live, damn it!

The duty his brother set on his shoulders weighed his spirits, but he was duty-bound.

With a smile, he remembered Randall’s inventive and colorful swearing on learning of his cousin’s passing.

They had all steered a wide path around his tent.

Now he was Marquess of Keirsmyth and head of the family, which he less than affectionately termed parasites.

Though he sold out, he spent much of his time yet abroad—far from his encroaching relatives.

If the news Keirsmyth passed on in his last letter from Brussels were true, Leonard was about to get leg-shackled to a wealthy Belgian widow.

With Leonard flush in the pocket, where would that leave his sister if he decided to sell out—which, with the change in fortunes, Deveraux was sure he would do, and do it before the Iron Duke came up against Boney on the battlefield.

It would be like Leonard to return to England, take up residence at Lion’s Gate, and proceed to lord it over the neighborhood, leaving his sister to find her way or to play the role of unpaid housekeeper.

Dash it all, she probably would, too, for it seemed the clever Miss Leonard was quite blind to her brother’s faults.

But of what use would it be to try to tell her that?

Talking wouldn’t pay the toll, not with Leona.

She was like a young horse given her head too often.

With the bit firmly between her teeth, she was not likely to respond to overtures to stop her headlong gallop to heartache.

There had to be someone else to whom she could turn over the Lion’s Gate's responsibility before she was thoroughly abused.

A family solicitor, a retired estate agent, a relative, someone!

He kicked his horse into a canter to catch up with Leona, determined to draw her out and get some answers.

Leona loved the wind’s caress and the warmth of the sun.

She cantered easily down the cart track that led from the manor park toward the river she’d seen in the distance from her bedroom window.

The countryside was fresh from yesterday’s rain, the smells of wood and grass and damp earth heavy in the air.

Tall beech trees lined the track, their branches majestically bare of leaves.

In summer, the little road was undoubtedly a shady avenue, relieved only by patches of dappled sunlight filtering through the tall trees.

The sound of the horse’s hooves' rhythmic clump-clump as they hit the damp ground was soothing. It invited emptying the mind of cares and joining with nature.

Leona smiled. Then suddenly, she was laughing with a heady, joyous feeling of complete freedom.

The feeling took her by surprise. It was freedom from responsibility and duty.

It was freedom from the burden of caring for others.

Those were the cornerstones upon which she built her life.

She should have felt bereft. Instead, she felt light and incredibly happy.

She didn’t understand it, but neither could she stop smiling.