And then they were there, and Maggie was sinking gratefully onto the tree trunk, gloved fingers tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet. “I can’t breathe,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.

St. Clare sat down beside her. “Let me.” Ignoring Maggie’s faint protests, he untied the ribbons himself and gently lifted her bonnet from her head. “Better?”

Maggie nodded weakly. She closed her eyes and took a breath. And then another and another. Bit by agonizing bit, the frenzied beating of her heart slowed and the constrictive heaviness in her chest began to ease. “I felt as if I was suffocating. Forgive me. I shall be all right directly.”

She exerted all of her will toward calming herself. Toward breathing. It was soothing really. Being out of doors like this. The breeze rippled through the trees and she could smell the scent of horses and fresh, damp grass. And then there was St. Clare, the strength of his presence at her side so big and warm and comforting.

He’d fallen into a brooding silence. It was some time before he spoke again, and when he did, it was in tones of grave self-reproach. “I shouldn’t have taxed you to walk with me. And I certainly shouldn’t have argued with you while you did so. I find I must apologize once again.”

She looked up at him in order to respond. Her heart skipped a beat. While her eyes had been closed, he’d removed his tall beaver hat. He was watching her now, tousled golden hair glistening in the afternoon sunlight and gray eyes fathomless beneath deeply knit brows. Next to him, Maggie felt small and vulnerable and disconcertingly female. Worst of all, as she met his gaze, she had a sudden, visceral memory of his warm lips closing over hers. It sent a shiver up her spine.

“Good grief,” she said, flustered. “I hope I’m not yet so infirm that I can’t walk across the grass leaning on a gentleman’s arm. I’ve already given up riding, driving, and most every other activity that brings me pleasure. If I’m now too frail for walking, I can’t think what’s left for me.”

“And yet…you claim you are not ill.”

“Nor am I. Not now, at any rate.”

“When?” he asked quietly.

“Three years ago.” Maggie answered his next question before he could ask it. “It was influenza. And according to our village doctor, it has left me frail and enfeebled with a set of what are, apparently, the weakest pair of lungs in the West Country. It’s why I haven’t attended any balls since I came to town. I can’t manage dancing any longer, or any manner of overexertion. I daresay you’ll be lucky if I don’t expire in your curricle on the journey back to Green Street.”