Because nothing had. She would put it—him—the kiss—entirely from her mind.

*   *   *

Hart walked home, turning over the events of the evening in his mind. He hadn’t planned to kiss her. Oh, who was he fooling, of course he had. Just to test his theory.

He hadn’t planned on . . . that.

Fire and innocence and rebellion and . . . he didn’t know what else. Surprise.

What a mass of contradictions she was.

Graceful dancer, passionate music lover, outspoken animal defender—outspoken everything—and loyal to her family. He hadn’t missed how swiftly she’d leapt to the defense of Lady Rose’s husband, who she’d only known a short time.

Lady Salter’s words came back to him. I had thought, your grace, that marriage to a young woman of good family, an independently minded young woman who would not hang off your sleeve, a girl who wants nothing more than to retire to a country estate and be left to breed horses, dogs—and possibly children—would be exactly what you required. A wife who would keep out of your way and give you no trouble.

The last—no trouble—was clearly nonsense, but at least she wouldn’t bore him. She wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him—not by his title, not by his manner. And obedient was probably the last adjective one would apply to her. That would have to change, of course, but from everything he’d learned about Lady Georgiana Rutherford so far, the rest was true.

His main reason for marriage was to get an heir. Did it really matter what his wife did after that? Especially if she wanted to live in the country, raising her horses and dogs and children. Leaving him to get on with his life. It would be better than having a wife cuckolding him in London, as many married men had.

There was about her the air of a free spirit. Could she be tamed? Would he want her tamed, or was that part of what currently appealed to him?

He thought of how she appeared on horseback. A magnificent horsewoman, a veritable young Amazon—born for the hunt, of course, though she didn’t believe it. And yet, what she’d said about hunting—it wasn’t the usual sentimental claptrap some ladies bleated on about. There was passion and fury beneath her convictions. Mistaken as they were.

She didn’t know what she was talking about. Get her out on that stallion of hers one crisp winter’s morning, with the hounds baying and the excitement of the chase alive in the air. He could just see her—

Hart stopped dead in the street, staring blankly into the shadows between two gaslights.

He had seen her. Dammit, it was some years ago, but now he’d made the connection, it was all coming back to him.