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Speech deserted her. Heat rose from her collarbones to her hairline. The throbbing in her skull battered a rhythm equal to horses’ hooves. When at last she managed to breathe, she found her reply woefully feeble. “Thank you.”

He offered his arm once more. “Come. Let us find Lady Westwood to see you to your pillow before the household concludes you have eloped with the Colonel.”

She managed a laugh and allowed him to guide her to a quiet place to await her escort home.

Pain notwithstanding, her heart felt strangely buoyant, as though she had stepped from solid earth onto a craft of which the destination remained undecided.

Freddy’s steady presence at her side, the remembered heat of St. John’s fingers, the lingering hiss of Letty Partridge’s laughter—all blurred together into something new and unsettling.

She did not know whether she liked it, only that she was vividly, terribly awake.

As Westwood and Faith joined them to see her home, Freddy returned to wish her goodnight. “Rest, Joy. Promise me?”

“I promise.” She hesitated, then rose on tiptoe to press a swift kiss to his cheek—nothing more than any sister might bestow. “Good night, Freddy.”

He touched the spot lightly, as though surprised to find it still warm. “Good night.”

When they had entered the carriage she leaned against the wall, spectacles askew, head pounding yet spirit oddly light.

Through the drumming in her temples rang one incontrovertible truth: whatever course her future followed—spinster, convenient marriage, or something unimagined—life had grown more complicated this night. And complications hurt her head.

Freddy meandered into his dining parlour at half-past noon, the hour to which he clung on mornings following a particularly late night.

Dobson, the invaluable valet-and-major-domo who presided over his bachelor establishment, intercepted his languid progress with a bow just shy of reproachful and deposited a steaming cup of coffee upon the small rosewood table by the south window.

The porcelain was hot enough to warm his hand, the aroma sharp enough to cut through the last vestiges of a headache.

Beside it lay Freddy’s paper, ironed as flat as any neckcloth and folded so that the leading articles could be surveyed with the least exertion.

He took an appreciative sip, accepted a slice of lightly buttered toast, and unfurled first the Morning Post’s Society sheet.

It was his invariable habit to skim first the turf results—of which there were none fresh, to his mild disappointment—and then the gossip columns, that he might be forearmed against any pronouncements likely to disturb the parental temper.

Lord Gresham, though fond of his only son, held decided views on decorum; Lady Gresham, though indulgent, possessed an imagination apt to magnify the vaguest rumour into a catastrophe.

Half the column was the usual tittle-tattle concerning heiresses, hothouse lilies, and naval promotions. But the next paragraph commanded his entire attention:

It is whispered that Colonel SJ—of His Majesty’s Life Guards and a decided favourite in certain drawing rooms—appears earnestly to be courting Miss J—— W——, who, to universal astonishment, donned a pair of spectacles at Lady Constance Houghton’s dinner last evening.

May this be the true cause of her well-acknowledged clumsiness upon the dance floor?

The next ball shall surely tell. We enquire further whether said infirmity likewise explains her notorious curricle race in Hyde Park.

Perhaps it was instead a runaway pair? Will the lady’s accessory start a new fashion—or is her newly enhanced dowry the lodestone attracting so gallant a suitor?

The print blurred. Freddy lowered the sheet so sharply that the edge caught the rim of his coffee cup, catapulting a scalding torrent across the tablecloth and—worse—onto his favourite waistcoat of indigo silk with silver embroidery.

A curse erupted, vehement and wholly unlike.

Dobson, who at the first tremor of the cup had sprung forward with a cloth, silently blotted the tidal wave before it reached the carpet, then produced a second napkin for Freddy’s aching fingers.

“Another cup, sir?” Dobson asked, as though gentlemen overturned their breakfast beverages for sport.

“Another cup—and the devil take the Post ,” Freddy muttered, dabbing at the waistcoat.

He flung himself into the armchair and glared at the offending column once more.

How dare they make sport of Joy’s spectacles, which he’d had a devil of a time convincing her to wear!

And this wretched scribbler presumed to attribute St. John’s attentions solely to her fortune!

If he ever discovered who wrote these columns, he would gladly wring their neck!

He wadded up the paper and thrust it aside.

If there lay a true attachment, Freddy desired nothing more fervently than Joy’s happiness.

He knew her merits, her kindness, her ungovernable delight in life.

But if St. John’s motives extended no further than purse and consequence, then Frederick George Marshall Cunningham would find the means—quiet or otherwise—to frustrate them.

Joy Whitford might be clumsy, headstrong, and, in his private estimation, the most bewitching female presence in London, but she should never be another man’s prey.

A brisk ride through the park dissipated some of his ill humour, though the thud of hooves upon Rotten Row invited recollections of that infamous race—Joy’s laughter on the wind, the Colonel’s approving smile, the sudden throb of fear that she might overturn her curricle.

By the time Freddy had winded his gelding and set off towards Berkeley Square, he had persuaded himself into a semblance of equanimity.

He would observe; he would weigh; he would not, heaven help him, behave like a jealous schoolboy.

The Square, with its plane trees and sober brick facades, looked serenely indifferent to his inner tumult.

Yet a splash of colour betrayed the presence he sought.

Outside Gunter’s fashionable confectioner’s clustered a small tableau: Joy Whitford, in a gown of sprigged muslin that fluttered about her ankles, Colonel St. John, immaculate in bottle-green coat, and two kittens—no longer the minuscule mites Freddy recalled but half-grown adventurers—twining about the lady’s boots.

Joy balanced a dish of ice in one hand, spectacles perched upon her nose, while she attempted—with mixed success—to allocate morsels of sponge cake between Cecilia and Mortimer.

Freddy slackened his pace, content a moment to watch unseen.

There was animation in her gestures: the deft bend to rescue a fallen spoon, the quick smile offered to a passing child, the rueful shake of the head when St. John proffered his own pocket handkerchief to stem dripping ice.

A curl escaped her bonnet and brushed her cheek.

He knew precisely how soft that curl would feel.

He had once teased her that it smelled of sunshine and horsehair ribbons.

She had threatened him with a riding crop.

Cecilia, meanwhile, launched herself upon Mortimer, who retaliated with all the swashbuckling dignity of a young lion.

In an instant, the pair were a rolling tumble of claws and exuberant tails, darting beneath the hooped skirts of a lady descending from her barouche.

The shriek Freddy anticipated never came.

Instead, Lady Marchmont—renowned for an appetite for scandal surpassed only by her love of exotic pets—uttered a delighted trill.

“Kittens!” she exclaimed, gathering the voluminous folds of her lemon-coloured silk and stooping with surprising grace.

Joy started forward, clearly mortified as St. John made an abortive reach, but Lady Marchmont had already emerged, holding Mortimer aloft like a trophy while Cecilia clung to the flounce of her gown.

“My dear Miss Whitford, these are splendid creatures. Do tell me they are in want of a good home?”

Joy, recovering from her blush, laughed, even though Freddy knew she’d had no real thought of parting with any of her precious darlings. “Indeed, my lady, they grow daily more mischievous, and Lord Westwood vows the house cannot contain them much longer.”

“Then I must have them—oh, yes, I insist. Sir Percival—” She referred to her long-suffering pug who stood at the door of her carriage wheezing. “—will adore the company.”

Freddy chose that moment to approach, doffing his hat. “Lady Marchmont, you are all charity. May I assist by disentangling Miss Cecilia from your—ah—ruffles?”

“Mr. Cunningham! Please do.” Her ladyship beamed, evidently pleased to have widened the audience for her benevolence.

Freddy effected the rescue, receiving only a modest scratch, and surrendered the wriggling tabby into Lady Marchmont’s arms. Introductions followed, during which Joy’s eyes—bright behind the spectacles—met Freddy’s with a sparkle of relief and something warmer he dared not name.

St. John greeted him too, courteously enough, though the lines about the Colonel’s mouth hinted at vexation. Freddy returned the salutation with equal civility, noting the faint smudge of raspberry ice upon the fellow’s cuff and feeling absurdly gratified.

Lady Marchmont soon rolled away in her carriage, promising dispatch of her footman and a basket presently. The trio left behind watched the barouche roll away. Joy exhaled sadly.

“Westwood will thank the heavens,” she said. “Six kittens were…rather a bounty.”

“Four now have homes?” Freddy asked.

“Yes, Lord Orville and Camilla remain, though Camilla shows every sign of adopting Lord Rotham whether he likes it or not.”

“Rotham will capitulate. He only pretends to be a tyrant. Speaking of tyrants,” Freddy said lightly, “may I hope Miss Whitford is tyrannized by no headache today?”

The question was innocent; the look he gave her was not. Joy coloured. “I am perfectly restored, thank you. A twelve hour respite from shining chandeliers works wonders.”

“And how are the spectacles?”

She touched the gold rims. “I have reconciled myself to their necessity. I find the world altogether clearer, though whether Society will forgive the eccentricity remains to be seen.”

“Society,” Freddy declared, “must learn to value clear sight above the mere appearance of it.”

St. John regarded him with an expression too bland to be trusted. “Miss Whitford’s appearance would never be dimmed by such.”

St. John seemed amused rather than repulsed by Joy’s antics. Freddy reminded himself that was a good thing.

“Have you plans for the afternoon, Miss Whitford? I thought to exercise Banbury and might prevail upon you and Nightingale to join us.”

St. John accepted this request with equanimity. “Alas, duty calls me to the Horse Guards, else I would enjoy watching her put the horse through its paces. Miss Whitford’s company is ever a pleasure.”

“Then you will excuse us,” Freddy said, offering Joy his arm, “I will escort her home.”

She thanked the Colonel prettily and permitted Freddy to accompany her, though he felt the tension in her silence.

“Am I guilty of abduction?” he asked, when distance made confidences safe.

“Not at all. I only happened upon him here with Faith, and she left me in his charge.”

“I should tell you,” he said, keeping his eyes ahead, “that the Post makes ignoble sport of you this morning.”

“I guessed as much by your expression when you first approached. Does it wound your pride that my foibles supply the scandal sheets?”

“It wounds nothing so much as my faith in mankind’s discretion.” He hesitated. “They speculate upon your dowry.”

Her shoulders lifted, then fell. “I cannot help what tongues wag. If St. John courts me because I am suddenly worth another ten thousand, better I learn it before sentiment complicates matters.”

“Has sentiment,” he ventured, “begun to do so?” Freddy felt as though his heart paused while he awaited her answer.

She was quiet for several beats, the sounds around them muted. At last she answered in a low voice: “I admire him. He is kind, attentive, and does not scold when I do something wrong. But is that enough? I am not certain.”

A curious lightness bloomed in his chest. “Then give yourself time. The Colonel is a man of consequence, yes, but also of ambition. Ensure his affection is constant.”

She turned to him. “What of you, Freddy? Has any particular lady tested the steadiness of your heart?”

“I daily surrender it,” he said, daring a grin, “to whichever filly runs swiftest.”

“That,” she replied, laughing, “is not what I meant.”

He sobered. “When I find the person who renders the rest of the world dull by comparison, I shall know.”

Her gloved hand settled on his sleeve, a light pressure, yet it sent awareness skimming to his fingertips. “Whoever she is,” Joy said softly, “she will be fortunate indeed.”

He had vowed to protect Joy’s happiness at any cost. He could not yet discern whether that cost might be his own.