“Excellent!” Stephen paused by the nightstand to light the candle with his own. “I shall await you in the breakfast room.”

“Excellent!” Chase muttered in a mocking tone, as Stephen closed the door. Good God, who in their right minds would choose to get up at this hour?

Chase sighed and stretched, then climbed out of bed, shivering a little in the predawn chill. Rubbing his arms, he crossed to the washstand to splash water on his face.

Why couldn’t he have been saved by a family of lazy gypsies? Or some worthless ne’er-do-well drinkers? Anyone who might understand the importance of morning sleep.

But no. Chase had to be kidnapped by a family of sheep farmers who took great delight in torturing him with their healthy, fresh ways. It was sickening.

He made his way to the wardrobe and found his clothes, dressing in the semidark. His fingers seemed to still be asleep, and he fumbled with his cravat. Finally, too tired to care, he just knotted the blasted thing à la Belcher, a ridiculous fashion aspired to by the younger dandy set. Thank God he was buried in the country and no one he knew would see him.

Mumbling to himself, he made his way downstairs where he could hear the family gathered in the dining room, talking with a great deal too much vivacity for so ungodly a time of the morning.

He pushed open the door and was immediately assailed with the rich smells of a large breakfast. Situated on the large sideboard were platters of eggs, ham, bacon, pheasant, and toast. He blinked at the abundance of it, then turned to find himself looking down at Harriet.

She was dressed in an old gown of faded blue cotton, the skirts a little shorter than was accepted so that the ankles of her boots plainly showed. Chase realized with a faint sense of astonishment that the plain gown she’d worn the previous day must have been one of her best.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

Chase found his tired lips curving into a smile. She appeared fresh and bright, her brown hair braided and pinned about her head. She smiled, her teeth flashing white and even.

“I hate to complain,” he said with a sigh, “but must you be so awake?”

“What else would I be at this time of the day?”

He glanced over her shoulder at the still-gray dawn that was just rising. “Day?”

Her lips quivered. “Morning, then.” Her gaze drifted to his hair. “I see you had to comb your hair in the dark.”

“I don’t like your hair, either,” he retorted easily. He didn’t. The too-plain style was far too severe for her face, which seemed all angles and eyes in the dim light.

A faint color brushed her cheeks as she touched her braids, then caught herself. “A pity, that, because the sheep like my braids and I’m much more concerned with how they feel about it than you.”

Sophia stood at the sideboard, a plate in her hand. “Harriet, don’t monopolize the conversation! Captain, what will you have? Some eggs? A pheasant? How about some ham? Baron Whitfield brought it to us just last week and it’s quite delicious.”