Her chest was beginning to feel heavy, her heart pounding harder as her lungs worked to accommodate the strain of walking and talking.

“I’d begun to convince myself that you couldn’t be him,” she said, hearing the first traces of breathlessness in her voice. “That it was merely a strong resemblance. I told myself that the real Nicholas would have come to find me. That the moment he set foot back on English shores, he’d have made for Somerset. He wouldn’t have spent a month in London gambling and engaging in duels.” She shot him an accusing glance. “But it wasn’t just any duel, was it? It was a duel with Frederick Burton-Smythe. Apparently, your hatred for him has outlived your love for me.”

St. Clare’s expression hardened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me! Tell me which parts I’ve got wrong!”

“Everything. That’s what you’ve got wrong. Everything.”

“I don’t pretend to understand how you came to be here, or why it is you’re pretending to be a viscount—”

“I am a viscount.”

He said it with such conviction that Maggie almost believed him. Almost. “If you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, why did you seek me out? You must have known that I’d recognize you.”

“You sought me out,” he reminded her. “To beg for Burton-Smythe’s life, if you’ll recall.”

“Not then. After that. At the theater and today and…” Maggie faltered. “If I’m a stranger to you, then…why did you kiss me?”

“If you must ask me that, I can only assume that you’ve vastly underrated your charms.” St. Clare looked down at her with studied nonchalance. “Consult your glass. You’re an uncommonly beautiful girl. What gentleman wouldn’t kiss you if given encouragement?”

“And I encouraged you, did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

Her brows knit together. “No… Perhaps… I don’t know! Are you trying to provoke a quarrel? Or is it simply that you wish to hurt me?”

A shadow of some unidentifiable emotion passed over his face. “I wouldn’t hurt you. Not now. Not ever. If you believe nothing else, you must believe that.”

“You have hurt me every day for the last ten years. You have broken my heart.”

Color rose in St. Clare’s face. Once again, he turned away from her to stare out at the grassy path ahead of them. His profile might have been carved out of stone. “I beg your pardon. I’ve behaved badly. That kiss was entirely my fault. I apologize for any distress it may have caused you.”

“And now you’re mocking me.”

“I am not—” He broke off, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like a frustrated oath. “This conversation is madness. Complete and utter madness.”