“Yes, I daresay it is.” Maggie raised a gloved hand to press against her flushed cheek.

If Bessie were here, she’d warn Maggie that she was working herself up into a state. That all of this excitement was going to send her straight into a swoon. And it was true. But it wasn’t only the excitement. She’d walked too far with Jane this morning, and now, already weakened, she was walking again with St. Clare.

Was it any wonder that she couldn’t catch her breath?

“Perhaps I am mad,” she said. “I suppose I must be to mistake you for Nicholas Seaton. Stark raving mad. You shall have to keep clear of me from now on. You shall have to cut my acquaintance.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort.” He paused before adding, “I mean to court you.”

If he’d taken out a mallet and struck her on the head, she couldn’t have been more astonished. “Court me? But…why?”

“Why does any gentleman court a lady?”

“You can’t mean…?” Marriage. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. It was ludicrous. Unthinkable.

And utterly impossible.

In six months’ time she was to marry Fred. She had to marry Fred. There was Beasley Park to consider. The house, the land, and the tenants. It was her home. Her birthright.

He was too late. Nicholas Seaton had finally come back to her, and he was too late.

“I believe I’ve rendered you speechless,” St. Clare murmured.

Maggie gazed vacantly around the park. Her head was swimming. How far had they walked? There were no carriages about them, nor any other person out for an afternoon stroll. Where was Enzo with the curricle? Gracious, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were on fire.

“There’s a fallen tree just up ahead that will serve as a seat.” St. Clare’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Can you make it that far? Or shall I carry you?”

Maggie’s eyes flew to his. “I am not ill!” The exclamation—which she’d intended to be forceful—came out weak and breathless. She cringed at the sound of it. Good lord, what must he think?

But as St. Clare stared down at her, the expression on his face left no doubt that he recognized the flush in her cheeks and the hitch in her breath for exactly what they were. “Four nights ago, when you fainted in my grandfather’s library, your maid admitted to me that she’d once been your nurse. She said that, if not for her care, you might have died.”

“It’s true that Bessie was my nurse. But it was many years ago and…” Maggie looked ahead of them to the broken trunk lying just outside a cluster of trees.

St. Clare put his arm around her waist. “A few more steps.”