With a terse nod, he gestured for her to precede him. He’d oblige the duke and duchess and then break away at the first opportunity. All was not forgiven or forgotten and he had no intention of paying heed to anything this charlatan had to say. He’d put all his hopes in coming here . . . and they’d been most miserably dashed.

She swept past him and he followed, closing the doors after them. He didn’t glance back at the duke and duchess. He expected it was the last time he would ever see them. Just as this was the last time he would ever see Miss Langley.

He had no room in his life for the likes of her.

Chapter 6

Nora strolled sedately through the gardens with Sinclair beside her, a veritable sycamore tree. She was accustomed to people towering over her. She was the shortest of her three sisters, and there weren’t many adults who did not stand above her. It should not have unnerved her that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, but then everything about this man unsettled her—ever since she had dropped in on him at the pond.

And it turned out he was her Colonel Sinclair.

No. Not her colonel. He was not her anything. Only her nightmare come to life. She snorted. Indeed, that he was.

She had looked forward to his letters over the years. Above all her other correspondence, there had been something special about his communications. Excitement had thrummed through her when she tore through his envelopes and unfolded the crisp parchment to read his heavy scrawl.

Colonel Sinclair always took the time to share something of himself, where he was, how he and his men were spending their days. He could paint pictures with his words. His description of the rugged mountains of Greece and, more recently, the lush jungles of Bengal Duars, had fed her soul.

Confronted with the reality of him now: young and virile and handsome and heir to a dukedom . . . was jarring. She had thought the personal details, the humor and wit in those letters originated from a crusty old soldier. The mistake was hers. He had never stated his age. She had simply assumed. Incorrectly assumed.

She should never have carried on for so long with him. She had corresponded with others while also pretending to be Papa. It had seemed harmless and become a rather ordinary thing, penning letters and signing his name. An ordinary thing, but something she now keenly regretted.

Sinclair didn’t speak. His gaze scanned the gardens as though searching for something . . . an escape perhaps. He had wanted to leave. Her sister and Warrington had put a stop to that, however, and thrust her upon him.