“Julia doesn’t approve of me, full stop. However, she did, admittedly most reluctantly, divulge your whereabouts once I had assured her I would be on my very best behaviour.”

Margaret bit back a laugh. “I have been trying to discover from her why I should be wary of you, but to no avail.”

“Come—my brother must have said something. Did he call me a fop?”

“He did. And Julia said that you are not what you ought to be,” she risked.

Lewis gave a snort of laughter. “That, I will admit freely, is perfectly true. Though the same thing, I understand, could be said of you, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I can see from your expression that you do. Ought I not to have mentioned it?”

Margaret put her hand to her heated cheeks, shaking her head. “What have you heard about me?”

“Enough to whet my appetite.”

She eyed him narrowly, her amusement tempered with wariness. “Are you always so—so forthright with people you have just met?”

“No, only those who interest me. I am the epitome of Victorian reserve and good manners with bores.”

She couldn’t help it—Margaret gave a peal of laughter. “I am flattered,” she said, tucking her hand into his arm.

“And I am vastly relieved. I have high hopes of you, Lady Margaret. I do hate to be disappointed, but I am aware—as my brother will attest—that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Talking of which, I am thirsty after my walk. Shall we take some refreshment at the Leicester Arms before we return to Powerscourt?”

“A cup of tea would be most welcome, Mr. Wingfield.”

“Lewis, please, since I am quite determined we are to be friends, and I was rather thinking of a glass of strong porter.”

“I can’t go into a tavern and sup ale!”

“No? Well then, go and sit down by the river and I’ll bring a jug out. There’s a lovely spot. . . .”

“I know it. You go and purchase our ale, then, and I will see you there.”

It was five minutes later when he emerged, and Margaret had settled herself on the sunny riverbank. Lewis was twenty-five, she knew, but she would have guessed at something closer to her own age. His dark-brown hair was worn long, parted in the centre, waving down over his ears. Like his elder brother’s, his hairline was already receding to reveal a high, smooth forehead. His jaw was smooth, too, with no trace of a beard. He was not handsome, his nose being rather too big, his mouth rather small, but he had an infectious smile and a gleam of mischief in his eyes that Margaret found vastly appealing. Though his slim figure was soberly dressed, his red necktie hinted at a tendency towards ostentation, and there was, in the way he carried himself, something of the feline grace of a ballet dancer.