Celia swung her pretty bonnet by its ribbons as she and the other women walked along the road leading away from the village. It was a lovely day. The sun flitted between a few puffy clouds and the air was warm and sweet with the aroma of wildflowers.

Some ladies lamented not making use of the Ravenswood stables and their comfortable carriages, but Celia did not mind the physical exercise. She relished the opportunity to stretch her legs. Turning her face toward the sun’s rays, she squinted, wondering if one of the darker clouds might hold a sudden afternoon storm. While she admitted a love of walking in the rain, it was an activity best undertaken with the proper outerwear.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll become hopelessly freckled, Lady Celia?” Lady Lydia West inquired. “A lady should always protect her skin when in the sun. An application of Olympian Dew can only accomplish so much.”

“Not worried at all,” Celia replied, giving her hat a few extra twirls. “A few freckles should hardly be considered flaws. I honestly don’t understand why they are.”

“Says the girl without a single freckle,” Ivy laughed. “Knowing your habit of going without hat or parasol, I find it vexing you do not possess a single spot on that perfect complexion of yours.”

“You are too kind, Lady Ivy.” Celia grinned at her friend. “And you know very well your freckles are enchanting.”

“Ravenswood certainly thinks so.” A dreamy expression crossed Ivy’s face when speaking of her husband.

“Celia, I overheard Sir Beeson declare your skin to be the exact likeliness of thistle weed milk,” Sara teased.

“A compliment I could live the rest of my life without hearing ever again,” Celia said dryly.

“He once compared the shade of my hair to that of a dying primrose.” Lydia examined a lock of her pale blonde hair with a frown. “Perhaps he means to be poetic, but rarely do his words come out that way.”

“He means no harm, truly.” Ivy smiled at the group of ladies and linked her arm with Celia’s. “I believe his earnestness is genuine.”

“What of Mister Rose?” Lydia asked Ivy with a tilt of her head. “He is a most interesting person, for all his scowling and habit of ducking into the shadows when a lady approaches. Is it true Lord Ravenswood saved him during a drunken brawl behind a Paris brothel after which he promised your husband eternal gratitude as repayment?”

The sudden resentment rising in Celia’s throat was surprising, her muscles tensing with some unknown emotion. Why would Lady Lydia inquire of the man when he was hardly one of their social standing? Worse, why should Celia even care?

“Mister Rose’s story is not mine to tell, and I’ll not betray his loyalty to my husband or myself by gossiping of his past.” Ivy glanced at Celia, her brow knitting the tiniest bit. “True, he is one of our closest friends and a valued, although unconventional, member of our family, but he is also an extremely private man.”