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He had no cause to object. None. Joy was free to like whomever she pleased.

She’d even been kind enough to ask his opinion on suitors, though he’d spent most of the time inventing faults too ridiculous to speak aloud.

One of them, he now recalled, was that a certain gentleman bore the tragic disadvantage of resembling a trout.

He made his way to the refreshment table with more purpose than thirst, pouring himself a glass of lemonade that tasted too tart. He watched Joy from the corner of his eye. St. John had fetched her a pastry.

Pastry fetching? Was this courtship now?

Freddy sipped again and tried to recall if Joy had ever looked at him quite like that—eyes bright, mouth tilted in that wry half-smile. Of course not. They were friends. They had always been friends. She trusted him, confided in him, laughed with him…

…and now someone else was making her laugh.

He sighed and turned to find a young lady at his elbow, fluttering lashes and fan alike.

“Mr. Cunningham, how droll you looked during your waltz last night—as if your partner had stood upon your toe.”

“Only lightly,” he murmured, struggling to remember the chit’s name and unsure whether to smile or bolt.

He escaped to the edge of the room as soon as he could extricate himself, where the air was cooler, and watched as St. John made Joy laugh again. And then again.

It wasn’t jealousy, precisely. He didn’t want to be the one always bringing her pastries or quoting poetry. But he’d always imagined that if someone were to earn her admiration, it would be someone who—well, someone who already knew the names of her kittens.

“You look as if you have swallowed a lemon whole,” Maeve said, sidling up beside him.

“I am merely contemplating how swiftly one may become obsolete.”

“You? Never,” she said cheerfully. “But if you intend to watch like a hawk all afternoon, do try not to moult feathers all over the floor.”

Freddy offered a short laugh but said nothing. He looked again at Joy and tried to smile.

Just then, St. John bent towards Joy and said something, apparently in a low voice. Joy laughed, then stood up.

“Shall we take a turn about the park?” he heard St. John say.

Freddy stiffened. Oh, very well then. Driving in the park now, was it?

Before he knew what he was about, Freddy turned on his heel and made straight for Letty Partridge, who had been loitering near the refreshments like a decorative sculpture.

“Miss Partridge,” he said brightly, startling her so that her macaroon tumbled to the carpet. “Might I tempt you with a drive through the park?”

Letty blinked. “Why…yes. I would like that very much.”

He offered his arm. “Excellent. I find it the perfect cure for overheated parlours and over-zealous flirtations.”

She gave him a puzzled look, but Freddy only smiled. Whatever else the day brought, he would not allow himself to feel left behind.

He called for his curricle to be brought around, just after Joy and St. John had left.

After seeking permission from Lady Partridge, they set out, and soon the crisp wind was whistling by them as he hurried along, trying hard not to crane his neck in the most undignified fashion to see how far ahead they were.

They entered Hyde Park nearing its most fashionable hour, and Freddy immediately felt the energy and excitement of the throng around them.

Carriages rolled leisurely along the paths, riders trotted elegantly, and pedestrians wandered in lively conversation.

It took Freddy a moment to find Joy and St. John among the milling crowd, the Colonel’s black curricle blending with the vibrant scene.

Joy’s bonnet ribbons trailed like pennants, and her laughter carried on the wind.

Freddy narrowed his eyes. Was she—was she driving?

Indeed she was, perched on the seat of St. John’s curricle, ribbons flying and curls bouncing, reins confidently in hand. St. John lounged beside her, clearly besotted, offering no protest as Joy handled the reins with a devil-may-care flourish.

“Of course she would be. She is a great gun,” Freddy muttered, but noticed she was not wearing her spectacles.

“I beg your pardon?” Letty asked.

“I said this is great fun,” he replied quickly. “Capital weather.”

But he could not let them have all the attention. Freddy leaned forward and gave the reins a flick. “Shall we see what my greys can do, Miss Partridge? Hold tight.”

They flew down Rotten Row, horses stretched, hooves pounding, wheels a blur. Freddy grinned as the wind slapped his cheeks. Up ahead, Joy turned and spotted them.

Never one to back away from a challenge, she gave a delighted whoop and urged her team on. The race was on.

They drew alongside each other, shouts and laughter echoing through the park as startled onlookers leapt aside. Freddy tipped his hat at Joy as their curricles jostled for dominance.

St. John bellowed, “Mad woman!”

Freddy laughed. “Takes one to keep up!”

It was Joy’s turn to laugh—wild and wicked, the sound of utter freedom.

But as they reached the far end of the park, a cluster of spectators waved frantically. They slowed, and Freddy recognized the formidable figure of Lady Severn, Countess of Severity, as she was known in private circles.

“Mr. Cunningham! Miss Whitford! This is not Newmarket!”

Freddy winced. Joy’s eyes widened.

“We are to be scolded,” she muttered.

“Roundly,” he agreed as he reined in to greet the Countess. “Lady Severn.” He doffed his hat.

Lady Severn’s lorgnette snapped open like a guillotine. “Neck-or-nothing galloping in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour—what are you, a pair of circus equestrians?” Her words fell sharply, laced with proper outrage and disappointment.

“My apologies, my lady, we were merely giving the horses a run.” Freddy dutifully hung his head, murmuring apologies that he only half meant. Beside him, Joy pressed her lips together, eyes sparkling mischievously even as she meekly inclined her head to the lecture.

“A run?” she huffed. “It looked more like a bid for an undertaker’s custom. Miss Whitford, young ladies with marriage prospects do not drive as though chased by Bonaparte.”

Joy, still breathless, managed a nod. “I shall endeavour to remember, Lady Severn—though Bonaparte rarely keeps to The Row.”

That earned a scandalised gasp from two onlookers and a muffled choke of laughter from Freddy, quickly disguised as a cough.

“See that you both remember,” the Countess concluded, perfuming the air with disapproval before sweeping away in a rustle of bombazine and censure.

“Yes, my lady.”

Freddy glanced sideways at Joy, who was flushed and windswept, laughter still dancing in her eyes.

“It was worth it.”

“Entirely,” he said.

Once free from the Countess’s severe scrutiny, Freddy drew closer to Joy, feeling oddly buoyant. “That was exhilarating,” he said, unable to mask his grin.

“Utterly,” Joy agreed, laughter bubbling beneath her breath. She glanced at him slyly, her eyes dancing. “Though I suspect we have scandalised half the park.”

“Only half? Clearly, we must do better next time.”

Joy’s laugh, soft and infectious, buoyed him further. Yet just as Freddy basked in their shared camaraderie, St. John leaned forward, his charismatic presence dampening Freddy’s high spirits.

“Quite the show,” the Colonel said amiably, eyes lingering appreciatively on Joy. “You handle reins better than half my regiment.”

“High praise, indeed,” Joy replied, cheeks rosy.

Freddy forced a smile. “Perhaps next time, Colonel, you will demonstrate your own expertise.”

St. John chuckled warmly. “Gladly. But I fear I may pale beside Miss Whitford’s superior skill.”

Freddy’s heart sank again, realizing that St. John might be the very one to tempt Joy. Should he not be happy that there was someone else to make her laugh?