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Usually, he rather enjoyed his good fortune of the female variety. Then there were situations like this, when a friend had his sights set on a particular female or two, and neither happens to be a tantalizing, amber-eyed mystery woman—and a widow to boot.

“I did so enjoy our exploration of the maze this afternoon, Mr. Thurgood,” Miss Applegate said, batting her lashes.

“As did I,” Miss Egerton chimed, tapping her closed fan to his forearm in an attempt to pull his gaze toward her. “How-ever did you discover the path leading us to the exit so swiftly?”

“The truth is—” that he’d applied all his wit to the task, hoping to resume his conversation with Mrs. Jones. Alas, she and her employer had quit the scene by the time he’d navigated out of the maze. “—It was as much Harrison’s doing as my own.”

“Oh?” the ladies replied in unison, switching their attentions to Harrison, who flushed a dull red even as an ear-to-ear grin split his face.

“It was nothing,” he denied, puffing out his chest a bit. “Did I mention the maze located at Worley Manor?”

Caden seized the opportunity. He clipped a bow. “If you’ll excuse me? I promised Lord Fenton I’d discuss…” Drawing a blank he coughed into his fist, flashed a grin, and took off for the open terrace.

Half way across the parlor, he skidded to a halt. Her.

He stared at the vision of Mrs. Jones in a curve hugging gown of muted gold. Sans bonnet, she wore her lush hair pulled back, not in any kind of intricate coiffure, but secured in an elegant knot at her crown. A few artful tendrils hung loose to frame her heart-shaped face.

Standing off to the side, apart from the crowd, she looked the picture of grace and, somehow, as if she she’d rather be anywhere else. He half expected her to wedge herself between the massive potted palm whose fronds she fingered, and the carved column it camouflaged.

Where was her tottering, old employer, he wondered, with a snort of laughter, recalling her earlier attempt to rid herself of him. Him.

Ah. Lady Wentworth stood talking with Lord Fenton a mere stone's throw away—also eschewing the bulk of the crowd, he noted. In any case, he saw an opening for him to approach Jones and meant to seize it.

Grinning, he drew the champagne flute to his mouth. Ah, yes. He'd drained the glass.

“She’s a looker, I’ll grant you. ”

Caden’s gaze slid from Jones to the dark-haired man of a similar age with himself who'd sidled up beside him. He recognized the man. He would not call him precisely a friend. “Lord…Hardasher, isn’t it?”

Hardasher’s upper lip curled in a semblance of a smile, and he inclined his head. “Quite right, Mr. Thurgood. We met last year at the Huntford affair.”

Huntford affair. Sounded familiar, though he couldn’t conjure the specifics. Last year’s--and the year’s before for that matter-- affairs, comprised of an endless round of parties, soirees, and balls, starting with the London Season, and carrying on through one Summer house party to the next.

This year promised to be more of the same until his brother returned from abroad, posted the banns announcing his engagement to a woman of whom no one had ever heard, and Caden raced home to Derby. Then the fun really began.

“Summer party?” he guessed.

“Quite right.” Hardasher's eyes trained on Mrs. Jones.

Caden quirked a grin, though the man’s intent scrutiny rubbed him wrong. He gestured with his empty flute toward Jones. “Lord Hardasher, do you, by chance, recognize her?”

His focus never wavered. “I can’t say as I recognize her, though I did note something familiar about her the night of the reception, when I spotted her standing alongside the dowager duchess.”

“She is the lady’s companion.”

“Is she, indeed?” The sly edge to Hardasher’s tone drew Caden’s hackles. Without a by-your-leave, he started toward Jones.

Annoyed, Caden followed. He would head-off any nonsense on Hardasher’s part—the least he could do considering Jones had saved his life.

The dinner gong sounded .

Hardasher paused mid-stride. His head pivoted, then locked in place.

Caden followed the direction of Hardasher's gaze to the redoubtable Lady Wentworth, clearly en route to Jones.

Caden could almost read the poor sot's thoughts. He had no desire to tangle with the dowager duchess of Wentworth.

Sure enough, he hesitated one moment longer, tugged at the lapels of his waistcoat, then veered to join the mass exodus from the parlor.

Caden continued his now leisurely approach.

Before he reached them, Lord Hammond, recently named Earl of Whittenmore, appeared, proffering his arm toward the dowager in a courtly manner.

As the lady of the most consequence in attendance, a high nobleman would need to escort her into the hall.

Lord Hammond fit the bill nicely. Certainly Caden, the Claybourne spare, would never do.

He’d make an excellent escort for Jones, however.

“Lady Wentworth, Mrs. Jones, Lord Hammond, good evening.”

Jones’ face angled up toward him. Her amber eyes glowed as if they stole all the light from the stuttering candle flames illuminating the grand parlor. “Good evening, Mr. Thurgood.”

Four words, welcoming enough, and yet, those eyes. He first thought he detected a glint of pleasure at his arrival. Then he read dread in their depth, or something akin to it.

He couldn’t decide if he was vexed or amused. Certainly confounded. Women liked him.

Lady Wentworth shifted, dragging Hammond with her to bring the four of them into a semi-circle. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She , at least, seemed happy to see him.

“Mr. Thurgood, delighted you appear to suffer no ill effects from this morning’s mishap.” Eyes still trained on Caden, she directed her next words to Hammond. “Mr. Randall whacked him with a skiff this morning, if you can imagine. Mrs. Jones and I discovered him and she rushed to his aid.”

“Very impressive,” Hammond commented, slanting an appreciative leer at Mrs. Jones.

Caden resisted the urge to step in front of her. Evidently no man alive was proof against the woman’s charms.

She appeared oblivious, seemingly more concerned with smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirts than noting any appreciative looks aimed in her direction.

“Mrs. Jones, may I escort you into the dining hall?” Caden proffered his elbow. “An extension of my thanks. Again.”

Lady Wentworth nodded her regal head once in approval. She spared a moment to eye Jones down the length of her nose as if countermanding any argument before nudging Hammond to lead her away.

Caden swiftly understood why she’d sent the silent reproach. Unless he read the scene wrong, and he didn’t see how he could, Jones meant to refuse his invitation.

Why, for God’s sake? What had he ever done to her? Perhaps he’d been slightly, incrementally, forward. But she was a widow, and this was a Summer house party. Most women would be flattered. If you do say so yourself, an irritating inner voice--sounding very much like his brother's--scoffed.

His neck prickled with heat. Embarrassment, he realized. Lowering his arm, he cleared his throat. “Unless you’d rather—”

“Thank you, yes,” she said in a breathless rush, almost as if she forced the words out. She placed her small, gloved hand into the crook of his elbow .

Relief akin to a shot of strong whiskey infused his entire body. He covered her hand with his and sent, he hoped, a blithe smile. “Shall we?” She gave a small nod and he started for the parlor door.

Society dictated high ranking guests enter the dining hall soon after the host and hostess, to then take their seats near the head of the table.

Caden, though a Claybourne man, suffered no such constraints. He strolled along, Jones at his side, inclining his head toward other pairs to precede them.

Soon the number of milling guests dwindled to a mere handful. Caden had the sudden inclination to fill one of this afternoon’s baskets with wine, bread, and cheese, and disappear in the garden maze till dawn.

Not that she’d agree to join him. What was it about the woman that awakened the mischief maker inside him?

He got another whiff of her intoxicating scent, woodsy and floral, elegant and stirring and felt his groin tighten. He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan.

“Mr. Thurgood?”

He gazed down at her upturned face, locking eyes with her. His insides tightened. “Mrs. Jones?”

“Is there some reason you wish to delay dinner?”

Yes. “Whatever do you mean?”

One corner of her mouth quirked upward and wry amusement danced in her eyes. “As my father used to say, if we moved any slower, we’d travel—”

“—In reverse,” Caden finished for her, stopping dead in his tracks. An instant shock of deja-vu blanked his mind. He turned his gaze toward her, mouth open to explain.

Her face had lost all color. She ripped her hand free of his arm.

“Mrs. Jones, are you quite all right? ”

She stumbled backwards, practically tripping over her skirts in her haste to put distance between them.

What the devil?

“I…no. I have the headache. Goodnight.” Fisting her hands in her skirts, she turned and fled, her pace just shy of a run.

He stared after her, utterly bemused. There was no getting around the truth. The woman wanted nothing to do with him. It was the oddest thing. A woman whose interest he’d actually set out to engage shunning him .

Fine. He would not trail after her like some desperate puppy.

He did not chase after any woman. Jaw clenched, he took one determined step toward the dining hall and stopped when he felt an object under his boot.

He glanced down. Noted a mound of material that looked like…

satin? Stooping low he scooped up what had to be one of Jones’ evening slippers.

Rising, he tucked the lone slipper into his inner jacket pocket. Dinner could wait.