If I didn’t follow his hounds, I would miss him. If I missed him, more months would pass. More seasons. Another year. I couldn’t bear the thought.

My heart labored. If I left, the countess would pound the pudding out of me.

I whirled back to the window and gritted my teeth. “Then a pounding it shall be.”

2

Knowing full well the consequences of what I was about to do, I should have felt the devil’s claws digging around in my stomach. I should have been terrified.

But laughter swelled in me. My cheeks ached to hold it in. The prospect of seeing the only person who ever truly loved me sent my heart into a dizzying whirl.

With no time to spare, I gathered the skirts to my hips and sifted through cotton and ruffles, grunting until my fingers found the buckle at my waist.

When the pannier hit the floor, I tore off the stockings and darted to the bed. From beneath the frame, I removed a linen-wrapped package and carried it to the door.

The master of the house was visiting friends in the New York colony. Since he and his wife traveled with most of the servants, my departure might go unnoticed.

Creeping barefoot into the hall and down the stairs, I evaded detection. Good fortune followed me into the drawing-room, past the study, and through a maze of companionways. Not one person, from footman to butler to liveried maid, thwarted my getaway.

Until I reached the blue parlor and the sound of my mother’s voice.

“When will you return to England, my lord?”

“Within a month,” he said. “Sooner if there’s a wedding to anticipate.”

“You won’t find a more suitable bride. And since her grandfather was an earl, she has excellent breeding.”

“I look forward to making her acquaintance. She was quite stunning from my view on the pier.”

Hidden around the corner, I bit down on my cheek.

What could his lordship possibly find stunning about a fourteen-year-old girl?

I hugged the package to my chest, paralyzed by the sudden image of his wrinkly old penis in an unrelaxed state.

Run, Bennett. Go!

The parlor’s massive wooden door propped open, giving its occupants a direct view of my path to the main rear exit. But I’d grown up here and knew every chamber and passage.

Veering left, I ducked at the approach of the porter’s limping footsteps. Another hallway brought me into the path of a housemaid, and I dashed into a closet. Then I crawled on hands and knees through the busier parts of the estate, following the aroma of plum cake baking in the kitchen.

There, I rose to my feet and peered inside.

Fire flickered beneath the spit. Syllabub glasses sparkled. Mutton stew bubbled in the kettle, and the cook maid—a young native woman—hummed a foreign tune.