Maggie’s lips were still swollen from his kisses, her body still warm from being held against his. She was slow to register the change in his demeanor. He’d drawn himself up to his full, intimidating height. He looked every inch the disdainful, cold-blooded aristocrat. He sounded like one, too. Indeed, his words, when he spoke them, hit her like a dash of icy water.

“Do not mistake me, ma’am. Your willingness is very tempting, and I have half a mind to encourage it, but my reputation is black enough already without perpetrating such a ruse. Besides, I flatter myself that I have no need to pretend to be another man in order to seduce a pretty girl.” His lip curled into a faintly mocking smile. “This Nicholas of yours was a fortunate fellow to have inspired so much devotion, but alas, I am not him.”

“Yes, you are.” Her temper sparked to life. “Do you take me for a fool? Did you think I wouldn’t know you? I recognized you from the moment we met. Why in heaven do you suppose I swooned?”

“Because you’re unwell,” he said.

Maggie flinched, and then, in typical fashion, bristled with outrage. How dared he? Using her illness as a means to win an argument! It was a tactic often employed by Fred, and one she deemed wholly unworthy of the man standing before her now. She opened her mouth to tell him so.

Just then, her attention was arrested by the sight of St. Clare’s tiger. The boy was watching the two of them with undisguised interest as he walked the horses.

Maggie felt a rush of mortification. Had he heard her call his master Nicholas? Had he seen them kissing? Her cheeks flamed. She turned abruptly away from St. Clare and walked briskly across the grass.

St. Clare was at her side in an instant, silently offering his arm. She took it grudgingly. “Enzo understands only enough English to mind my cattle,” he said as if reading her mind.

“Oh? Is he blind as well?”

“I’m afraid not. But you needn’t worry that he’ll tell tales. Even if he could come up with enough English to gossip amongst the servants, he wouldn’t lower himself to do so. He’s loyal to a fault.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Miss Honeywell—”

“I recognized your handwriting, you know.” She felt him tense slightly against her as they walked. “How could I not? I was the one who taught you how to read and write. Did you imagine for even one second that I’d forgotten?”

“You are mistaken,” St. Clare said quietly.

“And how did you know that I wasn’t the one who responded to your note? No, you needn’t answer. It’s plain enough. After all those hours spent writing out words and phrases for you to copy in your copybooks, my particular style of handwriting must be emblazoned on your brain.”