“No.”

“Ah.”

The pair stood looking at one another. Weston felt obliged to break the silence. He leaned in closer to her. “Gillian—”

At the sound of her name on those wonderful lips, the goose bumps trailed up her arms and down her back. She was willing to wager her entire year’s pin money that he was going to kiss her.

“I wouldn’t take that wager,” he said with a smile just before he leaned down and brushed his lips briefly against hers. The embarrassment she felt that she had once again spoken her thoughts was quickly drowned in the overwhelming surge of emotion generated by his touch. He stepped back, watching her carefully.

“Oh,” she said, words failing her. She wondered what he would do if she threw herself back into his arms and claimed the kisses she had been dreaming of the last few nights.

“Do you think it is possible, my lord, that one or both of us might die in the very near future?”

Lines appeared between the two lovely black wings that were his eyebrows. “Do you know something I do not?”

“No. I just think it is best to live one’s life to the fullest. I would hate to die leaving something undone.”

Weston stared at her for the count of seven. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “What is it you wish to do?”

“This,” she replied and threw herself on him. Unfortunately, having his newly betrothed fiancée spring upon him was the last thing the Black Earl was expecting at that moment and, caught off balance, he fell backwards against an incidental table, knocking over both the table and a large vase of flowers. The vase struck him squarely on the head, rendering him unconscious.

Gillian Anne Honoria Leigh married Noble Edward Benjamin Nicholas Britton, twelfth Earl of Weston, two days later by special license. The groom, presenting a dramatic picture with his forehead swathed in bandages, was dignified and appeared his usual expressionless self. The bride, owing to a somewhat stupefying state of shock, managed to get through the ceremony without maiming or disabling anyone.

Three

Gillian looked out the open window of the carriage at the figure of a large man riding a dappled gray horse, then back at the two large hounds residing on the seat across from her. She didn’t blame Noble, not really. Although she had arranged for Piddle and Erp to start a diet based mostly on rice, boiled chicken, and a variety of wholesome vegetables, there was no time to tell if the change was successful. They were still a bit much in confined quarters. One look at her traveling companions had prompted her husband of two hours to declare that he would ride his horse the distance to Nethercote. Although Gillian would have preferred getting to know him during the four-hour journey to his estate, she found it hard to fault his reticence.

Leaning across to open the other window, she returned to her corner of the carriage and continued watching her husband’s broad back.