When they went to the village shops, Mr. Archer sat next to Henrietta in the barouche. When she played the pianoforte in the Edgington Park music room, he was at her side, turning the pages of her music. And when they strolled in the Edgington Park rose garden, he bent his head to Henrietta’s, sharing private words with her that provoked her blushes and laughter.

Laura wasn’t jealous. How could she be? She had no claim on Mr. Archer, and wasn’t likely to ever have one. She had no fortune to lure him. Nothing but her poor self and whatever meager attraction he felt toward her.

Not that it really mattered.

She had too much on her mind to care what Mr. Archer was up to with Henrietta.

Even so…after three days in company with him, his single-minded attention to her friend began to grate. How changeable he was! How utterly adept at playing the doting suitor. Was there nothing real about the man? Nothing meaningful or true?

He seemed a sinister chameleon, capable of changing his personality to suit his company. There was nothing of the honest gruffness she’d experienced in him when he’d hauled her out of the pond, nor of the gentleness he’d shown her when he’d dried her tears. He cast her no brooding glances, and showed no signs of the frustration he’d exhibited when he’d backed away from her under the yew tree. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing authentic about Alex Archer at all.

On Sunday, Laura saw him in church. He was seated in a pew at the front, along with George, Henrietta, and Squire Talbot. It was the pew reserved for the squire and his family, a seat of honor many rows away from where Laura humbly sat with her Aunt Charlotte.

After the service, Mr. Archer lingered behind to be introduced to some of the villagers.

Henrietta glanced back at him with a smug smile as she and Laura walked out of the church together. “He’s not as handsome as George,” she said, “but he is handsome.”

Laura didn’t know how her friend could say so. With his dark good looks and commanding height, Mr. Archer fairly put George in the shade. To Laura’s mind, there was no comparison at all. “Are you considering marrying him?”

Henrietta’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Marriage? My goodness, Laura. The things you say.”

“Well?”

Squire Talbot’s barouche was waiting ahead, the coachman seated on the box, and a footman poised to open the door for his mistress.

“He hasn’t asked me,” Henrietta said. “I’ve only known him a week.”

“A week in which you’ve been in his company every single day.”

“As have you,” Henrietta returned. “And you’re not in expectation of a proposal.”

“I’ve seen more of George, of late, than I have of Mr. Archer.”