His gaze sought out Gemma in the crowd. He found her taking a tin cup from Bing at the refreshment table. It was likely spring water, for the bilberry juice had run out long ago and even the mountain of cakes had been reduced to a scattering of crumbs.

Gemma had gone to war, as had Bing. The survivors of battle had found each other, even down to Bad Pony. Was that the reason he felt he could truly understand Gemma, when most people seemed rather incomprehensible to him? Even among Worthingtons he was a wolf amongst the lambs, trying his damnedest to look fluffy and white instead of dangerous and dark.

Gemma wasn't afraid of his dark. She might be a bit leery of her own, however. The blackness of war had changed her, stretched her, challenged and frightened and expanded her.

No wonder her crown didn't quite fit.

CHAPTER 23

Chapter 23

CABOT HANDED BUTTON A cool tankard of spring water. Button thanked him with an absent-minded smile. Cabot turned to see what held Button's attention.

Atalanta Worthington dashed by them, a boy of about six years chasing close behind. The child hadn't a hope of catching long-legged Attie. Yet Attie allowed herself to be tagged, and when the little boy sprinted off giggling with glee, Attie chased him in a leisurely manner. It was a kind way to play with a small child. That was why Button was staring.

Attie wasn't kind. She had her own somewhat irregular code of ethics, but falsifying herself in any way did not apply.

"Ah." Cabot turned back to Button. "How very worrisome."

Button blinked sadly at him. "Could she be developing some latent sense of decorum?"

"God, I hope not. How dull." Cabot was not alarmed. Atalanta Worthington had decided to don some local feathers. She was very likely studying the Yorkshire species, the way her sister-in-law Francesca Worthington studied the inherited traits of animals.

Button smiled sympathetically at him. "I'm sure you are finding this evening terribly mundane, after the entertainments of Town."

Cabot turned away to set his own tankard down on a nearby bench. Button often mentioned Cabot's exciting existence in London, imagining him off having steamy affairs with all his "friends." Button tried to accommodate this allegedly racy lifestyle by giving Cabot many of his evenings free.

Never. Not once since he encountered Button had Cabot had a "friend." There'd been a few casual encounters before that night, sometimes for fun, sometimes for security, but after the first cup of tea, after the first quarter-hour of Button's lively chatter flowing down over his own silence, after mere minutes of Button's generosity and kindly charm, Cabot had known.

It was Button. Always. Only. Forever.