“Stop laughing!”

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all.

Her brows came together in a hilariously ferocious scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” He stepped forward and offered her his hand. It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do.

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him for one second, that much was clear.

“Well, I live close by,” he amended. “This path ambles back and forth across the property line.”

She took his hand and allowed him to help her up, brushing the dirt from her skirts as she rose. But the ground had been damp, and bits of earth clung to the fabric, eliciting grumbles and sighs from Honoria. Finally, she gave up, then looked up, asking, “How long have you been here?”

He grinned. “Longer than you’d wish.”

She let out an exhausted groan, then said, “I don’t suppose you’d keep this to yourself.”

“I shan’t breathe a word,” he promised, “but who, exactly, were you attempting to attract?”

She scoffed at that. “Oh, please. You are the last person I would tell.”

He quirked a brow. “Really. The last.”

She gave him an impatient look.

“Past the queen, past the prime minister . . .”

“Stop.” But she was hiding a smile as she said it. And then she deflated again. “Do you mind if I sit back down?”

“Not at all.”

“My dress is already filthy,” she said, finding a spot at the base of the tree. “A few more minutes in the dirt won’t make a difference.” She sat and looked up at him with a wry expression. “This is where you are supposed to tell me I look as fresh as a daisy.”

“It depends on the daisy, I think.”

At that, she gave him a look of the utmost disbelief, the expression so familiar it was almost comical. How many years had she now been rolling her eyes at him? Fourteen? Fifteen? It hadn’t really occurred to him until this moment, but she was almost certainly the only woman of his acquaintance who spoke frankly with him, healthy doses of sarcasm included.

This was why he hated going down to London for the season. The women simpered and preened and told him what they thought he wanted to hear.

The men, too.

The irony was, they were almost always wrong. He’d never wanted to be surrounded by sycophants. He hated having his every word hung upon. He didn’t want his perfectly ordinary, identical-to-everyone-else’s waistcoat being complimented upon for its remarkable cut and fit.

With Daniel gone, there was no one left who truly knew him. No family unless one was willing to go back four generations to find a common ancestor. He was the only child of an only child. The Holroyds were not known for their procreative prowess.

He leaned against a nearby tree and watched Honoria, looking all tired and miserable on the ground. “The party was not the success you envisioned, then?”

She glanced up, her eyes questioning.