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“Propriety be hanged in this moment since neither of us cares for it. Clearly your adventurous spirit doesn’t balk at the idea of wandering at night, but mine does.

” He reached for the reins of his horse.

“Who knows what would befall you? You are soaked through as if you swam in a lake. Meanwhile, several tenants of mine are stricken with fever. What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you walk in the elements when I have a perfectly good horse?”

More lightning flashed white against the blackening sky, highlighting the sharp planes of the man before me.

Sobered by the mention of illness once again sweeping through the valley, I considered his admonishment while fidgeting with the satchel slung over my shoulder, which by now, must be quite sodden.

I feared the condition of my precious book.

But to ride a horse... and with him , no less.

“Please, Miss Littleton, a truce. At least allow me to escort you home,” he gentled his voice. “Shall I put you on Chaucer and lead you home?”

I eyed the large animal beside the viscount and stepped backward. It snickered and tossed its head as if to protest at such an indignity. I couldn’t deny that a walk would take far too long in this weather.

Lord Hawthorn eyed me as if to pierce my thoughts. “Chaucer is a gentle soul at heart. He won’t hurt you. Nor will I.”

“Chaucer, after the poet,” I murmured. “That is an adventurer’s name.”

“He loved chivalry, truth, and honor,” Lord Hawthorn replied , “freedom ...”

“And courtesy,” I added, recognizing the familiar words about the knight in The Canterbury Tales .

The viscount nodded with another barest hint of a smile. I found I almost liked it, despite my better judgment. How would a smile in full bloom change his stern features?

A sigh escaped me. “For the sake of my book, which is in danger of becoming waterlogged, and the glaring fact that Mrs. Eacher will never forgive me if I do not finish the ending, I accept your offer.”

He swung up on the horse, more limber than the first day I had seen him. Then he reached out and pulled me up to sit in front of him in one easy swoop that managed to knock the air out of my lungs.

The arm that held me felt as strong as an iron gladius.

I had never ridden so close to someone, not where I could feel each breath he inhaled and smell the sandalwood clinging to his damp skin.

Again, the gossip I had overheard in the apothecary swirled within my mind.

Lord Hawthorn’s father had been murdered and the surviving uncle deemed a rakehell.

Despite my boldness at accepting a ride, a tremor rippled through me. I did not know this man and I was certain to hear of my indiscretion as soon as I arrived. My only consolation was that, as usual, Father would not be home, and hopefully Mrs. Herriot remained occupied with her embroidery.

“Does this mean we are not at war, Miss Littleton?” The viscount’s warm breath brushed against the back of my neck as he guided Chaucer away from Medusa’s pool. My skin turned to gooseflesh in response.

“War? Whatever do you mean? Unless you wish to unfairly advance on Mr. Perry’s land, then yes, I shall raise the banner and do what I must to preserve the mosaics. They belong in a museum.”

A low chuckle rumbled behind me, but I dared not pivot to see his expression, for I would be far too close to those mahogany eyes likely glittering with amusement at my expense. Instead, I clenched my teeth, weary of being dismissed for my notions.

“You are singularly determined to uncover the past. Why?” he asked after a pause.

I swallowed hard as I tugged at my blue pelisse, yet any semblance of modesty was proving harder and harder to attain with the thin fabric clinging to my legs as if I were Aphrodite rising from the sea.

Why had I agreed to this ride? Surely, I could have bought another copy of my book on the next visit to London.

I had planned to make my defense of the dig within the safety of a parlor over tea and shortbread, not riding horseback during a storm with the brooding lord pressed against my back and his left arm about my waist. How uncomfortable, especially now that the rain had lessened somewhat, dripping down my nose and that horrid feather that refused to stay in place.

Yet, his question dug into the quiet corners of my heart, unearthing a strange rush of emotions.

“I believe the past should be studied so we can avoid the same errors today,” I began.

A rote, comfortable answer. Then, I added softly, “But the study of antiquities is more than a lesson. A story waits to be uncovered. I brush against lives spent in tragedy and loss and beauty and joy. Someone laid the mosaics of that pool with the greatest of care. A woman likely trailed her fingers in it on a hot summer day while dreaming of her future. Children laughed and played near it. When I discover something lost, no longer seen and without use, it brings a sense of...” Wonder.

Wholeness. Purpose. “They are not forgotten. They are no longer unseen or uncared for,” I finished, albeit lamely.

Clutching the pommel, I halted lest I share more than I had intended. The man behind me made no reply, but he shifted ever so slightly, brushing unintentionally against me as we trotted toward the parsonage. My pulse stuttered in response.

“You are quite the romantic, Miss Littleton. No wonder you wander the countryside like a woodland sprite in search of her fairy glen. How fortunate I am to have found you on such a dismal evening before your gossamer wings took ruin.”

His remark pricked more than it ought to. I ought to be used to being either ignored or forgotten while being left to my own devices. I was certainly used to being dismissed as fanciful. Did he mean the comparison to a woodland sprite as an insult, or had he only meant to clumsily flatter me?

“You have quite a remarkable history at Hawthorn Abbey.” I tried to change the subject and take the focus off myself, but as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake. Immediately, the arms about me tensed.

“That is to say, the abbey must hold fascinating stories reaching back to the monks who lived there. And then, before the abbey, the Saxons...” I hurried to add.

“Yes, a long history,” he finally agreed, his voice rough.

“Have you studied the history of your home?” I finally relented to my insatiable curiosity as he led Chaucer down a flooded path.

A puff of air, as if he sighed, brushed the back of my neck where a stray curl or two lay plastered against my skin.

“I have always thought the past was better left buried. Some things are not meant to be known.”

I wanted to ask more, but from the rigidness in his arms and the weariness in his voice, the topic remained forbidden, as if carefully secured within a locked box.

“I see the parsonage ahead,” he said.

In the distance, golden lights spilled from the multipaned windows set within the thick whitewashed walls, illuminating a stone path lined with wildflowers. Along with my father’s parked chaise.

Oh dear. Considering the previous exchange, I had made no effort to include myself in calling on Lord Hawthorn, preferring to leave the duty to my father. Had he called in my absence?

Lord Hawthorn secured his grip on my waist and for one startled moment, I turned and glanced at him, helpless to resist. Water droplets sluiced down his cheek and dripped off his chin. But his eyes... A long moment stretched between us until he deposited me on a muddy stretch of grass.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling disoriented. “For the ride.”

The front door to the parsonage flung open, and there stood my father, his eyes bright and owlish from behind his round glasses and his cravat mussed as always. I could only imagine the questions swarming within his mind.

“Lord Hawthorn, a pleasure.” Father sounded strained as he stood in the doorway instead of Molly, our maid, or Mrs. Herriot.

Unconventional to say the least, but I was not one to judge considering the state of my arrival.

“You have brought my daughter safely home. Please, come in from this horrid storm and let me properly thank you.”

Lord Hawthorn made no move to dismount. Instead, he gathered the reins. “Perhaps another day, vicar. I found your daughter on Hawthorn land. Miss Littleton has been most persistent in her efforts to uncover unusual antiquities.”

“Lord Hawthorn—” I began, fully intending to defend Mr. Perry’s right to his property, but the viscount held up a hand, which only made my ire boil hotter. I was no minion of the Navy or military to be ordered about.

“Good evening to you both.” Lord Hawthorn tilted his head in Father’s direction, cutting my protest.

“I called upon you earlier, but you were not home. I should like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.” Father shot me a warning look to hold my tongue.

Lord Hawthorn edged his massive horse back onto the beaten path. “I’ve been rather busy of late meeting the tenants, some who are ill.”

“I would be happy to go with you and provide any assistance you might need,” Father offered as he stepped beyond the door and into the rain. A wounded look flashed across his face and, judging from his tone, he had been surprised at the rebuff of his services.

“Soon,” the viscount said through gritted teeth as he swung his horse around. Chaucer snorted and I ducked out of the way, but not before the viscount smiled grimly at me. “Now that ride on Chaucer was nothing to fear, Miss Littleton, was it?”

I did not reply, far too aware of the tension sizzling between the lord and his vicar and me. Nor could I dismiss the fact that I had indeed accepted a ride with a man, unchaperoned.

After the sound of galloping faded, Father eyed my disheveled state. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared.