Lydia slipped on her sabots, pulled the thick woolen cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the marketing basket. It was a warmer day in this long, cold winter, and Lydia had been cooped up for too long. Elinor tended to be too protective, but a trip to the market was among her allowed single excursions, as long as Jacobs kept an eye on her. The sun was shining for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and she almost thought that spring might be a possibility.

Most importantly, she needed an escape from the tiny house, from the specter of Lady Caroline’s imminent death, from Elinor’s constant worry, from Etienne de Giverney’s oppressive presence.

She knew what he wanted. She could feel the full weight of Elinor’s approval, of Nanny’s concern. He would make an excellent husband—there was no denying it. He was handsome, not unkind, with a good living that could support them all if need be. With the devilish Viscount Rohan behind him, he was better than she could have hoped for.

And she would say yes, once he brought himself to ask for her. She would marry him and sleep in his bed and bear his children. And no one would ever guess that she dreamed of someone else.

But that was in the future, and Lydia was a firm believer in not borrowing trouble. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” were words she believed in, and this day was filled with sunshine and blue sky and she had money enough to buy fresh bread and cheese.

Elinor would have a fit if she knew Rohan’s daily largesse included French livres. Nanny had enough sense to confiscate the money before Elinor noticed, and she’d built up a tidy little nest egg, enough to cover some of the small pleasantries of life.

The great market of Les Halles was only a brisk ten-minute walk away. Lydia could almost feel sorry for poor Jacobs, struggling to keep up with her. She slowed her pace, ignoring the energy that felt ready to burst free. She’d been kept bottled up for too long, like old champagne, and soon enough she’d be put back in, to molder away. Right now she wanted to dance, to breathe, to run through the streets…

She came to an abrupt stop, her empty basket still swinging on her arm. She glanced behind her, but there was no sign of Jacobs—she’d managed to out-pace him again. And directly ahead of her, staring up at a row of buildings that overlooked the busy street, was Mr. Charles Reading.

She had absolutely no doubt it was he, even though she’d only seen him on that one, brief occasion when she’d been so worried about her mother and Elinor she shouldn’t even have paid attention to him.

But paid attention she had. She’d looked up into his scarred, beautiful face and felt something she’d never felt before, a treacherous softening inside her, an urge to move closer, to touch his face, to…

For his part, he’d seemed to barely notice her. Oh, he’d been politely flirtatious when he’d first arrived, but she well knew what lay behind men’s eyes when they looked at her. She’d known Etienne’s covetousness from first glance, she’d known Rohan’s lack of interest, and she knew just how respectful or licentious men’s glances were.

But Charles Reading eluded her. He’d said all the right things, smiled at her so charmingly, and yet when she’d tried to look into his dark eyes she saw nothing familiar.

What a delicious irony, she thought. She was so used to men falling all over her that she simply accepted it as her due, and the first man who didn’t was the first man she wanted.

Nanny Maude would tell her, if she were fool enough to talk to her about such a thing, that she was a silly, vain girl, and the only reason she was obsessed with him was because he didn’t care about her. Elinor would be practical and tell her that Mr. Reading probably only enjoyed the company of other men, carefully skirting the issue. So she didn’t bother discussing it with anyone. Which probably made his hold on her imagination even stronger. If she’d simply been able to talk about her feelings she might have moved past them days ago.

And now, here he was, staring up at the rooftops across the way as if he’d find the Holy Grail up there.

She was half tempted to turn and walk the other way. She could feel an unexpected flush rise to her cheeks, and she put one gloved hand up to cool it. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. It was a very good thing that he had no interest in her. It meant she could talk to him without being worried about untoward advances.

Maybe he did like only men.

Lydia squared her shoulders, put her bonnet more firmly on her head and started toward him, a determined smile on her face.

He must have sensed that someone was approaching. He spun around before she reached him, and one hand had gone instinctively to the sword that hung at one hip. Most gentlemen wore swords as part of a fashionable toilette. She had the strong feeling that Mr. Reading knew how to use his. And then he recognized her.

“Miss Lydia,” he said, sweeping off his hat. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” His voice made it sound anything but. “How did you find me?”

She curtsied, wishing she’d listened to her first instinct and gone the other way. “Mr. Reading,” she murmured. “In fact, I was heading for the market. I had no idea you would be anywhere near here.”

“No, of course you didn’t. I beg your pardon.” An uncomfortable silence fell.

“What were you looking for?” she said. “Perhaps I could help you find it?”

“Unlikely,” he said, replacing his hat. She wished he wouldn’t—in the bright sunlight it put his face in shadow, the ruined beauty of it, and his eyes were unreadable. “Lord Rohan was shot when he was driving through this area. I was trying to figure out where the shooter stood.”

“He was shot?” Lydia said, panicked. What would Elinor do? What would they do without his charity? Thank God Nanny had squirreled away the money. “Is he dead?”

“Of course not. Didn’t your sister tell you? It wasn’t much more than a graze. It happened over a week ago, just after we left your house, and he’s already mostly healed. He thinks it was an accident. I’m not so certain.”

“He has so many enemies, then?”

“Enough.”

Another uncomfortable silence. Lydia knew she should move, should say something, should ignore this exceedingly uncomfortable pull that was drawing her to him.

Clearly he despised her. He wouldn’t even look at her—his gaze was focused somewhere past her shoulder. Nanny would tell her this was good for her. At that moment it felt like pure misery. “I should continue to the market. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Reading,” she said, wishing she could sound as unruffled as Elinor.

Something in her voice caught his attention, and he frowned. “Surely you aren’t out alone, Miss Lydia?”

She glanced around her. Still no sign of Jacobs. “Of course not. Jacobs is somewhere behind me—it was such a beautiful day that I’m afraid I was a bit too exuberant in my walking, and I lost him. I’m certain he’ll catch up with me by the time I reach the market.” She held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Reading.”

He took her hand, but didn’t release it. “I’ll accompany you to the market, if you’ll permit me.”

“There’s no need…”

“I’d be remiss in my duties as a gentleman if I allowed you’d to continue alone,” he said in that polite, distant voice. “A young lady as beautiful as you shouldn’t be traveling alone. I would be desolate if anything happened to you.”

Flirtation by rote. She couldn’t manage Elinor’s icy smile either, though she could try. “There’s no need to pretend you have any interest in me, Mr. Reading. I realize I’m not to your particular taste, though you say all the right things. I do assure you there’s no need to accompany me—I’ve been to the market on my own or with Jacobs any number of times and nothing untoward has happened. If you’ll release my hand…”

She tugged, but he tightened his grip, and beneath the brim of his hat she could see his smile. “Does everyone fall at your feet, Miss Lydia?”

“In truth, everyone but you, Mr. Reading,” she said ruefully. “Nanny says I’m vain, but I’m not. It’s simply an accident of birth that I’m pretty. It’s no great accomplishment on my part. My mother was pretty, and knowing her, I expect my father was as well. So people smile on me, and men flirt with me. Except for you, Mr. Reading.”

He tucked her hand under his arm, starting forward, and she had no choice but to fall into step beside him. “I flirt with you, Miss Lydia,” he said easily. “If you haven’t recognized it as such I must have become suddenly gauche, and I do beg your pardon. I will endeavor to improve my skills. Shall I tell you how exquisite your golden curls are? Your delicate British complexion? That you move so gracefully angels would weep in jealousy, that your smile brightens every encounter? A sonnet, perhaps?

‘Miss Lydia’s eyes

Are something divine

A delicate prize

’Twill never be mine.’”

“I don’t think much of that,” she said frankly. “It sounds as if you want my eyes gouged from my head and placed on a pillow. Or a plate,” she added.

Reading made a muffled sound, which in someone else she might have thought was a laugh smothered by a cough. “I’m afraid that most of my instant poetic efforts tend toward deliberately obscene doggerel, composed for the entertainment of one’s drinking partners. If you want a true sonnet you’ll have to wait while I write it down. I wouldn’t want to give you less than your due.”

Each flirtatious remark seemed forced, but he still kept her arm captured, his hand on hers, pressing against his forearm, and for some reason she still felt as if she were dancing on air. She tilted her face up to the sunshine, drinking it in. “I give you leave to stop flirting, Mr. Reading. I still don’t believe you. Tell me about Lord Rohan. Is he in much pain?”

She could feel the tension in the muscles beneath her hand. “I would suggest, Miss Lydia, that you cast your gaze elsewhere. Lord Rohan is naught but trouble, and he’s moved his gaze beyond pretty virgins such as you.”