“I just don’t want—”

“You crippled me, Honoria.”

It was a low blow, but an effective one.

“Oh, very well,” she said, giving up the fight. “If you must know, it was Gregory Bridgerton.”

Marcus stopped walking and looked at her with a touch of surprise. “Greg—”

“The youngest one,” she interrupted. “The youngest son, I mean. The one who is unmarried.”

“I know who he is.”

“Very well, then. What is wrong with him?” At that she cocked her head to the side and waited expectantly.

He thought for a moment. “Nothing.”

“You—wait.” She blinked. “Nothing?”

He shook his head, then shifted his weight a little; his good foot was beginning to fall asleep. “Nothing comes immediately to mind.” It was true. She could do a good deal worse than Gregory Bridgerton.

“Really?” she asked suspiciously. “You find nothing at all objectionable about him.”

Marcus pretended to think about this a bit longer. Clearly he was supposed to be playing a role here, probably that of the villain. Or if not that, then the grumpy old man. “I suppose he’s a bit young,” he said. He motioned to a fallen tree about five yards away. “Help me over there, would you? I need to sit down.”

Together they hobbled over to the long, thick log. Carefully, Honoria unwrapped his arm from her shoulder and eased him down. “He’s not so young,” she said.

Marcus looked down at his foot. It looked so normal inside the boot, and yet it felt like someone had wrapped manacles around it. And then shoved the whole thing in the boot. “He’s still at university,” he said.

“He’s older than I am.”

He looked back up at her. “Has he kicked any dogs lately?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, there.” He gestured with his free hand in an uncharacteristically expansive motion. “You have my blessing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do I need your blessing?”

Good Lord, she was difficult. “You don’t. But would it be so very painful to receive it, anyway?”

“No,” she said slowly, “but . . .”

He waited. And then finally, “But what?”

“I don’t know.” She bit off each word with remarkable enunciation, her eyes never leaving his.

He stifled a laugh. “Why are you so suspicious of my motives?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, all sarcasm. “Perhaps because you spent all of last season glowering at me.”

“I did not.”

She snorted. “Oh, you did.”

“I might have glowered at one or two of your suitors”—damn it, he hadn’t meant to say that—“but not at you.”

“Then you were spying on me,” she said triumphantly.

“Of course not,” he lied. “But I couldn’t very well miss you.”

She gasped in horror. “What does that mean?”