She gave him a cool look. “My aunt is recovering nicely, thank you, and the baby is a healthy boy.” She glanced down at her dog. “I was just going to take Finn for a short walk. Can you wait?”

Hart glanced down at the dog. “I will accompany you. We can talk on the way.”

She nodded and they crossed the road and entered the park. “It’s just a short walk,” she repeated. “We’ve already ridden this morning and he had a good run then.”

They strolled along, making desultory conversation—the weather, the approach of summer, dogs—while the dog followed up fascinating smells. Passers-by eyed them curiously. Hart could see the speculation in their eyes. Impertinence. He gave a cool nod to those he knew, sufficient to be polite but with a clear intention not to engage in conversation.

Lady George didn’t look at anyone; she kept her gaze on her dog. Was she reluctant to be seen with him? Was that what she was going to tell him? That she wanted to be released? Or was it a simple—and understandable—reluctance to face any more gossips?

Hart was in a fever of impatience. He wanted to get to the point of his visit, but it was impossible to have any kind of significant conversation while they waited for a dog to finish christening trees.

Lady Georgiana seemed in a world of her own, thinking deeply about something—was she deciding whether or not to marry him, or was it something else? Did he even figure in her thoughts? He couldn’t tell.

He’d thought of nothing else but her all night. She’d forgotten he was coming.

It was a lowering reflection.

Finally they returned to Ashendon House. Lady Georgiana led him to the drawing room, ordering tea on the way in. The dog came too.

Hart tamped down on his impatience while the butler brought in tea and cakes and a dish of what looked like rusks. Lady Georgiana poured it out, handed him his cup and held out a plate of small iced cakes.

“No, thank you.” He set his cup on a side table, untouched.

“Would you prefer biscuits? Cook baked some ginger nuts yesterd—”

“Nothing to eat, thank you. Lady Georgiana, have you given our situation any thought?”

She fed her dog a rusk. He waited, his temper rising.

“I have given it some thought, yes,” she said eventually.

“Because you do realize that if we break off the betrothal, you will be the one to be blamed. You have already endured unpleasantness from some of the harpies in the ton, and this will likely be even worse. You will be called a jilt. Or worse.”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “No, I didn’t even consider it.”

That surprised him. “Well, it’s true, and before you make any hasty decision—”

“I will honor our betrothal.”