“Oh, sorry.” Hugh looked over at Daniel and Anne. “She will heal, of course, so she cannot be allowed in our ranks.”

Sarah sat forward. “That’s not what I meant. Well, it is, but not entirely.” Then, because Daniel and Anne were regarding them with confusion, she explained, “This is the third—no, the fourth time he has said that.”

“Cripples’ corner?” Hugh repeated, and even in the torchlight she could see that he was amused.

“If you do not stop saying that, I swear I’m leaving.”

Hugh quirked a brow. “Didn’t you just say that I’m stuck with you for the rest of the evening?”

“You shouldn’t call yourself a cripple,” Sarah returned. Her voice was growing too passionate, but she was completely unable to temper it. “It’s a terrible word.”

Hugh, predictably, was matter-of-fact. “It applies.”

“No. It does not.”

He chuckled. “Are you going to compare me to a horse again?”

“This is far more interesting than anything going on inside,” Daniel said to Anne.

“No,” she said firmly, “it’s not. And it’s certainly not any of our business.” She tugged on his arm, but he was gazing longingly at Sarah and Hugh.

“It could be our business,” he said.

Anne sighed and rolled her eyes. “You are such a gossip.” Then she said something to him Sarah could not hear, and Daniel reluctantly allowed her to drag him away.

Sarah watched them go, somewhat confused by Anne’s obvious desire to leave—did she think they needed privacy? How odd. Still, she was not done with this conversation, so she turned back to Hugh and said, “If you must, you may call yourself lame,” she said, “but I forbid you to call yourself a cripple.”

He drew back in surprise. And, perhaps, amusement. “You forbid me?”

“Yes. I do.” She swallowed, uncomfortable by the rush of emotion within her. For the first time that evening, they were completely alone on the lawn, and she knew that if she allowed her voice to drop to its quietest register, he would still hear her. “I still don’t like lame, but at least it’s an adjective. If you call yourself a cripple, it’s as if that’s all you are.”

He looked at her for a long moment before rising to his feet and crossing the very short distance to her chair. He leaned down, and then, so softly that she was not certain she’d heard him, he said, “Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, may I have this dance?”

Hugh was not prepared for the look in her eyes. Her face tipped up toward his, and her lips parted with a breath, and in that moment he would have sworn that the sun rose and set on her smile.

He leaned in, almost close enough for a whisper. “If I am not, as you say, a cripple, then I must be able to dance.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered.