She dried her tears with her handkerchief, blew her nose, and raised her head.

And then she froze.

Mr. Archer sat on a boulder nearby, her valise on the ground at his side. His head was bare and his coat unbuttoned. He looked as though he’d been there for a long while.

A crashing wave of embarrassment rendered her speechless. She could think of nothing to say. Nothing to excuse her appalling lack of self-control. And that he should witness it! No one had ever seen her weep to such a degree before. No one in her family, nor of her acquaintance, would have believed her capable of doing so.

But now…

She could only look at Mr. Archer through swollen eyes, mortified at the thought of how thoroughly wretched she must appear.

As for Mr. Archer, he uttered not a word as he rose and went to the edge of the pond. He extracted a folded white linen handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat, and crouching down, dipped it into the water and wrung it out. When he’d finished, he came back to where she knelt in the grass, and sank down on his haunches in front of her.

Laura’s heart hammered as he took her chin in his fingers and tipped her face up to his.

He held the wet handkerchief at the ready. “If I may?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Mr. Archer didn’t wait for her permission. He didn’t seem to require it.

Her eyes fell closed as he blotted her face. His touch was soft and careful. Almost tender. She couldn’t fathom how such a big man could be so gentle. But she had no will to ponder it. She was too tired. Too weary in heart and soul.

The cool water was a relief on her hot eyes and cheeks. A breath shuddered out of her. She didn’t know how long she’d been holding it.

“There,” Mr. Archer murmured. “That’s better.”

As if she were a small child and not a woman grown! But she couldn’t find it in herself to be offended. Rather the reverse. The husky, soothing tone of his deep voice worked its way into the center of her being. Like the vibration of a finely made cello, striking a pleasant, echoing hum through her veins.

She raised a hand to her face to take charge of the handkerchief. Her fingers brushed his. “Let me—”

“Of course.” He relinquished his hold of it.

Laura finished mopping her face, holding the wet handkerchief over her eyes for another long while. She felt Mr. Archer draw back. Heard him get to his feet and move away from her. When she at last let the handkerchief drop, he was seated once again on the boulder, his back resting against the curving tree trunk behind him.

“The vicar’s horse—” she began, her voice the veriest croak.

“Grazing happily near the road.”