“Quickly!” Murien said, hurrying to sit by the fire. She picked up her discarded embroidery frame and adjusted her skirts. “He’ll be here any moment!”

Fiona took her place across from Murien, and together they waited. The footsteps walked closer…louder and louder. They paused outside the door, and then began to fade away.

“Blast it,” Murien whispered. “I thought that footman of yours was going to direct him in here!”

Fiona stood. “Just wait. I’ll fetch him myself.” She smoothed her own gown of pink muslin before crossing to the door and opening it.

It wasn’t Devon who was walking away, but Malcolm. He turned on hearing the door open, pausing with one foot on the lowest step. He’d had a smile on his face, but when he saw her, it faded from sight.

Her heart ached. At one time, he’d lit up every time she walked into the room. She swallowed her disappointment and made a quick curtsy. “My lord.”

He nodded, his handsome face grave. “Lady wife.” His gaze flickered past her to the door. “How goes your campaign?”

“Better than yours, I dare say. Which you would know if you had breakfast at a decent hour. Neither you nor our guest was there.”

A faint hint of smugness crossed his face. “St. John and I agreed to eat earlier than usual so that we might have a morning ride. Then he went to visit Kat.”

“You should have told me about that,” Fiona said, wincing a little at the petulancy she heard in her own voice.

Malcolm smiled, that bright flash of teeth and a crinkling of eyes that always made her want to smile back.

He was a handsome man. He wasn’t tall, but then she liked that, for large people overwhelmed her. He was quicksilver and charm, a lethal combination where Fiona was concerned.

She realized she missed him, missed their morning breakfasts together, missed his visits to her room…Tears threatened to well.

To hide her distress, she said, “Murien and I were waiting on St. John. I just saw him in the courtyard.”

“I fear you are going to lose this wager before you even begin it. He seems quite taken with Kat.”

Fiona stiffened. “Indeed, I am not. In fact—”

Footsteps sounded once again, this time slower and more shuffling. The elderly footman led Devon up the stairs. He bowed on seeing Fiona. “I was told you were expecting me.”

She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Indeed I was. Pray come in. Murien and I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” With that, she drew St. John to the drawing room door.