The earl clapped his hands loudly, jumping back quickly as Ophelia leaped to her feet, then held out a hand for Gillian.

“The groom is correct, Miss Leigh. Your horse is fine. Come with me.”

It took some doing, but Weston finally convinced Gillian that her mare was not really ill and just indulging in a bout of self-pity. He escorted her back into the house, through the long hallway and, without pausing, out the front door.

Gillian looked at the scarlet and black phaeton in front of her.

“Your aunt gave you permission to go for a drive with me in the park. I assume you are not adverse to taking the air, especially after having been confined with those dogs?”

“No, of course not. I’d be pleased to go for a drive, but I’m not dressed for it, my lord. You must allow me to change my gown.”

Noble’s eyes ran quickly over the thin blue muslin of Gillian’s dress, paying particular attention to the rounded curves of her breasts and the long length of leg outlined. “You look delightful. Come along now, my bays have stood long enough.”

Startled at the authority behind the softly spoken words, Gillian found herself accepting his hand and was boosted up into the phaeton. She made one last attempt at propriety. “My bonnet?”

The earl accepted the reins from his tiger and slanted a glance across at her. “Do you burn easily?”

Gillian grimaced. “No, I just freckle.”

“You don’t need a hat.” With a click, the lovely bays were sent on their way, and Gillian’s spirits soared. The Black Earl had paid a call to see her, to take her for a drive in the park. An afternoon drive, when all of society would be out seeing each other.

***

Gillian chattered excitedly as Noble skillfully maneuvered his team through the crowded streets toward Hyde Park. He listened with only half an ear, more concerned with the growing fascination he felt for Gillian than with paying attention to her babble about whatever it was women talked about.

“I don’t know why everyone in England believes that we live with the Indians, but I can assure you we do not. Although I did have the opportunity to discuss the old days with a very interesting Indian who was staying with a merchant on our street. The Indian gentleman shared the technique of scalping with me and even promised to give me one, but he never did.” Gillian sounded disappointed for a moment. “On the whole, however, Boston is a very civilized city.”

She seemed to expect some sort of response to whatever it was she was saying, so Weston murmured his agreement and continued to examine the problem his unwelcome attraction to her presented. It was surely madness that had allowed her to be constantly in his thoughts. She was a woman, merely a woman. Pretty, yes, lively and entertaining, true, but underneath her innocence and high spirits she was the same as every other woman—manipulating, conniving, and wholly untrustworthy.