The old woman harumphed. “There’ll be a proper interview, you know,” she warned, evidently feeling that Bliss was assuming too much.

“Yes, naturally,” Bliss answered, and then she moved around the two women to offer her hands to Jamie and smile up at him with tender devotion.

Jamie looked at her quizzically for a moment, then said, “The carriage is ’ere, Duchess.”

Bliss allowed herself to be ushered away, holding her royal-blue velvet cloak close around her as they stepped outside into the cold. Spring would arrive soon; the night air didn’t have its usual wintry bite.

She balked at the sight of the carriage—it was the one she’d refused to ride in that very morning. The familiar driver tipped his hat and smiled. “Good evenin’, mate,” he said to Jamie. Another nod, formal and brisk, had to pass as a greeting to Bliss.

When Bliss would have resisted, Jamie grasped her elbow in steel-hard fingers and fairly thrust her over to the door and inside the richly outfitted rig. “You said we were going to supper!” she accused, ruffled.

“And so we are,” Jamie told her, his nose not even an inch from hers. “It’s time you got the straight of what’s goin’ on ’ere.”

When his words sank in—they were having supper with the elegant Peony Ryan—Bliss dived for the door on the opposite side of the carriage, but for all her haste she was too slow. Jamie caught her by the back of her blue silk skirts and pulled. Hard.

Bliss landed smartly on the seat. “You’re just lucky you didn’t tear my dress, you bloody idiot!” she cried, pushed beyond all semblance of decorum.

“What sweet memories you bring back, Duchess,” Jamie said, confident in his strength and his sheer cussedness. “Didn’t you say something similar to that”—he paused to raise one of her hands to his lips and kiss it elegantly—“on the morning we met?”

“I called you a bloody fool,” Bliss said, wrenching her hand free and settling back in the seat, arms folded across her chest. “And I meant it, too.”

The corner of Jamie’s mouth quirked. “I ’ave no doubt that you were sincere, love,” he replied as the carriage lurched out into the evening traffic.

Bliss sat up very straight and moved to one side so that there was a small distance between herself and Jamie. “I don’t suppose it matters that I hate the idea of having supper with Peony Ryan.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Jamie answered smoothly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bliss folded her arms and bit down hard on her lower lip. Because having a tantrum would do no good at all, she focused her thoughts on tomorrow’s interview with Mrs. Minerva Wilmington. She would wear something dignified, businesslike. . . .

A sensation of almost intolerable loneliness swept over her at the prospect of leaving New Zealand—and Jamie. This, when he didn’t even want her, and insisted on rubbing her nose in the fact that he kept a mistress!