She pushed aside the covers and stood up, wincing a little as her feet hit the ground. She wriggled her toes experimentally against the carpet. How stupid could she be, she reflected with the same disgust. Of course her feet were bruised even if they weren’t cut. And that was bound to affect her plans for the day.

“Dottie, do we have any witch hazel or arnica?” she asked, going into the bathroom. “My feet are a bit bruised.”

“I’ll bring you some, miss.” Dottie straightened from testing the temperature of the bathwater. “I think there’s arnica in the still room. What clothes shall I put out for you this morning?”

Petra considered. “The bronze silk shirt and cream skirt, I think. I’m expecting guests later this morning so I won’t be going out until this afternoon.”

She lay back in the hot water, reflecting on how much about the previous evening’s encounter she wanted to share with Diana and Fenella. Not so long ago the question would never have arisen, she’d have told them everything, down to the smallest detail, but things were a little different now. They would still want to know, still be interested in whatever was going on in Petra’s life, but now there were aspects of their own married lives that they would not share with one another. Petra understood that, and she would never pry into those marital nooks and crannies, but she felt that her own life was still an open book for her friends; she had no one whose secrets with herself were sacrosanct.

And that made her wonder if her own affairs seemed trivial now to her friends. But they could still amuse themselves, still play the games that had always given them so much fun. Developing a plan of well-deserved revenge on Guy Granville would be a happy diversion. After that kiss, which he’d treated with such careless flippancy, the baron deserved everything they could come up with.

Petra rose dripping from the water and reached for a bath towel. Her spirits were restored and she was hungry. She dried rapidly and, pushing her arms into the wide kimono sleeves of a silk negligee, went back to the bedroom.

Dottie was setting a round table in the bow window that looked over the small walled garden at the rear of the house. The fragrance of fresh coffee mingled with the heady scent of wall flowers rising from the bed beneath the open window. A bee buzzed lazily in the wisteria framing the window. Petra sat down and shook out her napkin. “Thank you, Dottie. I seem to be ravenous.” She tapped the top of her egg to crack the shell.

“I found witch hazel,” Dottie said, shaking a small bottle. “Mrs. Evans said it’s better than arnica for bruises.”