The sun was sinking along the horizon as she made her way to the gazebo, and already the air was getting that flat quality to it—the colors less vivid, the shadows gone. She told herself that their meeting meant nothing, that she was simply doing him a favor, collecting his letter so she might leave it on a table in the front hall and then feign surprise with all the rest when it was discovered. And it probably was nothing. She was not going to be throwing herself at him again; her last attempt at passion had surely fulfilled whatever quota of mortification she was due for her lifetime. And Thomas had given her no indication that he wished to pursue their romance further. Not now that he’d lost Wyndham.

He was so bloody proud. She supposed that was what came of living one’s life as one of the twenty or so most powerful men in the land. She could tear her heart from her chest and hand it to him, tell him she’d love him until the day she died, and he would still refuse to marry her.

For her own good.

That was the worst of it. He’d say it was for her own good, that she deserved more.

As if she’d ever valued him for his title and riches. If this had all happened just last month, before they’d spoken, before they kissed…

She wouldn’t have cared.

Oh, she’d be embarrassed, she supposed, the next time she went to London. But there would be plenty who’d say she made a lucky escape, not to have married him before he lost the title. And she knew her worth. She was the reasonably attractive, intelligent (but not—oh, thank you, Mother—too intelligent), well-dowered daughter of an earl. She’d not remain on the shelf for long.

It would all have been perfectly acceptable if she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.

Him. Not the title, not the castle. Him.

But he would never understand that.

She hurried across the lawn, hugging her arms to her body to ward off the evening chill. She’d taken the long way around so she would not pass by the drawing room window. It occurred to her that she was getting quite experienced at sneaking around this house.

There had to be something funny in that.

Or at the very least, ironic.

Or maybe just sad.

She could see the gazebo in the distance, its white paint visible in the dimming light. It would only be another minute before—

“Amelia.”

“Oh!” She jumped a foot. “Dear heavens, Thomas, you gave me a fright.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Not here.” The gazebo was still many yards away.

“My apologies. I saw you and it seemed impolite not to make myself known.”