Maggie’s eyes closed. Her pulse was soaring just as it was used to do when one of her hunters was approaching a particularly treacherous fence. That unique mixture of fear and joy and primitive exhilaration. It was mother’s milk to a Honeywell. Her lips parted softly in breathless anticipation.

But before St. Clare could capture her mouth, he froze. The sound of carriage wheels and faraway laughter drifted on the afternoon breeze. He gave a short, rueful laugh. “The fashionable hour has begun.”

Maggie stiffened. She wasn’t a young miss just out of the schoolroom whose reputation must be zealously guarded, nor was she one of those unfortunate souls whose every movement was governed by the dictates of propriety. Nevertheless, there were rules.

She was an unmarried lady sitting with an unmarried gentleman. Sitting intimately with an unmarried gentleman. And not just any unmarried gentleman, mind. The Viscount St. Clare. The very man who had put a bullet through Frederick Burton-Smythe’s shoulder.

She gave an inward groan. George Trumble had warned her about the gossip, and what had she done but gone and thrown fuel directly onto the fire.

“We must go.” She pulled away from him, rising so quickly that she nearly toppled over on the skirts of her pelisse.

St. Clare was up in a flash, steadying her. “Easy,” he murmured. “They’re a few minutes away yet. We have time.”

“To exit the park completely unobserved?”

“That, I’m afraid, would be impossible. But there’s time yet to get you and your reputation safely back in my curricle. After that, we shall be nothing more than another couple out for an afternoon drive.”

“But everyone is already talking. If Fred hears—”

“What does that signify?” He swept up her bonnet and placed it back on her head, swiftly tying the ribbons before she could formulate an objection. “Burton-Smythe isn’t your father.”

“No, but…Beasley Park and my money and…Papa’s will…” She looked up at him. “Oh, you don’t understand how things are now!”

St. Clare paused a moment in the act of putting on his own hat. His mouth was set in a grim line. “No, likely not. But I very soon shall, make no mistake.”

Chapter Nine

The Earl of Allendale had often remarked upon his grandson’s extraordinary cold-bloodedness. It was a trait St. Clare had learned in hard school. Never to be a slave to his Beresford temper. Never to let emotion get the better of reason. In most cases, he’d discovered, an icy reserve could disarm an opponent more effectively than harsh words or a show of physical strength.

Still, he’d never been entirely certain whether his grandfather approved of his glacial demeanor.

Until now.