“What do you think, Braddon?” Miss Arabella asked dreamily. She used the earl’s first name because she believed in maintaining terms of the greatest intimacy with all male friends of her current amour. And the minute Patrick walked out of the library with his brother she realized that in fact her particular amour might be a thing of the past. Patrick appeared to have family problems. Arabella shuddered. She hated family problems: so dreary, so tiresome, so unromantic.

“Think of what?”

“Think of my slippers!”

Braddon stared at them. This is why he never got anywhere with women. What could a person say about shoes?

“They’re very … they’re very small.”

Arabella shot him an annoyed look. This one was a lout, that was for sure. But he was looking at her so anxiously that she relented.

“Well, Braddon,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. “Since Patrick took himself off without even bothering to say a word, why don’t you join me?”

And it was a good thing she extended that invitation. Because around an hour later, when Vorset appeared to offer drinks and refreshments, he announced that the Earl of Sheffield and Downes and his brother had both galloped off without mentioning when they might return.

“Well, I like that!” Arabella said, her eyes filling with easy tears. She turned to Braddon, who was sitting very close beside her. “Isn’t that the rudest thing you ever heard? I didn’t have to accompany that bounder all the way out into the country. Men line up by the theater door every night just to ask me to dinner!”

“I know,” Braddon said, taking Arabella’s hand. “I was one of them.” He stared soulfully into Miss Arabella’s eyes, and she felt herself perk up a bit.

After all, as she confided to her maid later that night, one man is much like another, aren’t they? And while Patrick was more handsome, Braddon was much more amenable. Shoes—hats—everything was so expensive these days!

As a silvery slip of the moon swung into the sky above the dark forest lining the road, Patrick reached out and jerked on his brother’s reins. Alex’s horse was lathered with sweat and panting heavily, his sides blowing in and out painfully as they drew to a halt.

“We must stop now, Alex.”

Alex shot him a ferocious glance. Patrick calmly ignored it, leading his horse off on a road to the right whose crooked sign read Buffington, One Mile.

“Buffington has a decent inn,” Patrick shouted back over his shoulder.

Then he stopped and wheeled his horse about, sensing that his brother wasn’t following him down the Buffington road.

“For goodness sake, man! She’s not going anywhere; Charlotte is pregnant. She’ll be there waiting for you, and a few hours won’t matter.”