They arrived safely at the summerhouse. Lord Thatcham pushed the door open, reached to Philomena’s waist and lifted her down. At last, her feet touched solid ground. Lord Thatcham steadied her as she slid in the mud. His hands surrounded her waist and they laughed aloud, wet faces only inches apart.

Philomena’s stomach lurched. She would happily drown in his eyes. Lord Thatcham took a long breath. “Whatever were you doing out in weather like this?” He released her, his voice hoarse.

She breathed deeply, trembling. “I came from Jones’s Farm. It was not raining when I set off.”

“No, the storm came suddenly. How lucky it is that I saw you.”

She winced. “Did you see me fall?”

“Oh, yes. Flat on your face in the mud. I would not have missed that for all the world.” Lord Thatcham stepped back and slipped Thunder’s reins around a post. “He’ll be safe there until the storm ends. Now, let’s get inside, out of this rain, and see what we can do about you.”

Laughing, he pulled Philomena into the summerhouse. “You’re drenched. Ah, there’s the very thing.” He strode to a trunk set against the wall and opened it. “We keep blankets here in case we wish to picnic.” He sniffed one. “Not too musty, though it’s been out here all winter. At least it will keep you warm.”

Philomena took the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Lord Thatcham caught her hand. “No. You will take cold. You must take off those wet clothes.”

Philomena gasped. How dare he?

She stepped back, shocked, and he laughed. “Are you still afraid of the wicked Lord Thatcham?” he chuckled. She hesitated. He turned around. “Do not be. See, I am not looking. Be quick. Hang the wet garments over this wicker chair and wrap yourself in the blanket.”

She hurried to obey, a giggle rising in her throat. If only the Dowager could see her now.

“Are you finished?”

“Not yet.” She gave a final wriggle, dropped her wet outer garments on the chair and clasped the blanket to her. It was soft and dry. The sudden warmth caressed her skin. She shivered. “Oh, that’s better.”

Lord Thatcham turned around, still smiling.

“You are as wet as I,” Philomena commented.

“But nowhere near so muddy. In any case, I am used to the country. A drop of rain will not hurt me.”

Philomena could hardly speak for a lump that had formed in her throat. Her head throbbed. She coughed. “I would not wish you to take cold,” she murmured.

“Very well. Hand me that blanket and turn away, if you please.”

She heard Lord Thatcham tussling with his clothes. “You miss your valet,” she teased.

“Will you help, then?” he asked.