That afternoon, just as he’d threatened to do, St. Clare paid a formal visit to Beasley Park in company with his grandfather. It was the polite thing to do when one was newly arrived in the district, paying calls on acquaintances from town. Everything aboveboard and proper.

Indeed, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it at all. Nevertheless, when climbing the wide stone front steps of Beasley Park, St. Clare felt distinctly out of his element.

As a boy, he’d never been admitted to the house through the front doors. He’d been obliged to use the side entrance by the kitchens. Maggie may have relented on this point, but the rest of the household had not. Nicholas Seaton was never permitted to forget his place. He’d belonged below stairs, with the servants.

“You belong with me,” Maggie had said.

The memory of her words—of her kisses—heartened him as he applied the brass knocker to the door.

“A pleasing prospect,” Allendale remarked, glancing about the grounds. “Surprising.”

St. Clare’s mouth curved. “You expected a tumbledown country pig farm?”

Before Allendale could reply, the door was opened by a footman in dark green livery. He was a young man, and one who St. Clare didn’t recognize.

“Viscount St. Clare and the Earl of Allendale to see Miss Honeywell,” St. Clare said. “We’re expected.”

The footman looked at each of them, glanced past them to the earl’s stately carriage, with its crest emblazoned on the door, and then—with a deferential bow—bid them enter. After taking their hats and gloves, he ushered them up the stairs and into the drawing room.

Maggie stood from the sofa as they entered. She was wearing a simple muslin dress with a ribbon sash at her waist. Her hair was caught up in a high knot, a few strands left to curl about her face. She looked extraordinarily young and extraordinarily beautiful.

St. Clare’s heart thudded hard. He felt the same warm, vaguely breathless feeling he did whenever he looked at her. As if his surroundings had narrowed to a point, his entire world reduced to a single person. To her.

He endeavored not to show it and flattered himself that he succeeded. It was bad enough to be accused of behaving like a lad with his first woman. He wouldn’t allow himself to act the part.

“Miss Honeywell,” he said, bowing. He swiftly dispensed with the introductions.

Not that either of them appeared to be listening.

His grandfather approached Maggie without preamble, responding to her neat curtsy with a stiff inclination of his head. “Miss Honeywell, at long last. I understand you’ve thoroughly ensnared my grandson.”

“No more than he’s ensnared me, my lord,” Maggie replied without missing a beat. She gestured for them to sit down.

Allendale sank into a chair, his attention fixed on Maggie as she resumed her seat on the silk-cushioned sofa.