Maggie didn’t care for the slower pace. It only served to emphasize the prolonged silences between them and the rather erratic beating of her heart. She cast about for something to say, deciding at length that she may as well be straightforward with him. “When you were in Italy—”

“During your come out—” he said at the same time. And then, “Forgive me.”

“No, please. What were you saying about my come out?”

“Only that I’ve heard that during your come-out season you received a great many offers of marriage.”

Maggie was taken aback but saw no reason to deny it. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“I also heard that you refused them all.”

“You seem to have heard a great deal.”

“Society will talk, Miss Honeywell. And when a subject interests me, I can be a prodigious good listener.”

“Is society still talking? My come out was nearly six years ago. I would have thought it all forgotten by now.”

“Nothing in London society is ever forgotten. The ton has the collective memory of an elephant.”

“Then I suppose there’s no use in denying it. Not that I would. There’s nothing so out of the ordinary about a young lady refusing all of the offers she receives during her first season, surely.”

“I understand there was a particular reason for your refusals. That you were, at the time, wearing the willow for another gentleman. A soldier.”

Maggie’s pulse accelerated. She ventured a glance at St. Clare. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, his jaw tense. “In a manner of speaking.”

When it became clear that she wasn’t going to expound on the subject, St. Clare asked, almost irritably, “Shall you tell me about it? Or must I call in a forfeit?”

“It means that much to you, my lord? I can’t think why. It’s ancient history.”

“You may mark it down to my abominable curiosity.”

Maggie knew enough of men to recognize the sound of jealousy when she heard it. The irony didn’t escape her. “As you wish. For the price of one forfeit, then. It’s true. I was wearing the willow for a gentleman. But I don’t know if he was a soldier.”

St. Clare scowled. “You don’t know?”

“He and I were childhood friends. We were parted very unhappily ten years ago.”

The horses suddenly broke stride, causing the curricle to lurch forward. St. Clare muttered a blistering oath as he caught up the reins more securely and steadied them.

“He was my first love,” Maggie continued. “My only love, really.”

St. Clare’s attention appeared to be fixed entirely on quieting the horses, but Maggie would have had to be blind not to notice the tension in the set of his shoulders. “Young lovers, tragically parted,” he remarked sardonically. “An all-too-common tale.”

“We weren’t lovers.”

“Of course not.”

“Not but that we wouldn’t have been had he stayed.”