She turned decisively and left him standing in front of a sheep paddock in perfect bewilderment.

Alva walked quickly down the street, the exertion steadying her, forcing her to breathe steadily. A few townspeople watched her as she passed, but their regard was more curious than hostile. Since most of the stories about her had run in European papers, read widely by New York society and hardly at all by people in small towns several hours north, she hoped she’d simply be less shocking here.

That was what she needed to focus on: her new life. Her goals: Settle into Hyde Park. Finish the renovations. Finish the book. Get another book contract. Start a life that relied on only her.

Professor Samuel Moore was not on that list. So why had she let herself act as though he were today? She’d laughed at his jokes. She’d gotten in his buggy. She’d told him her problems. She’d almost told him about Alain, for heaven’s sake.

And when he’d told her he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, she had simply stepped into his arms without a second thought. The idea someone wanted to protect her, to stand beside her, to face her problems with her …

And that kiss. She hadn’t been kissed in many years—perhaps that was why it had felt so extraordinary, like spending forty years in the desert and stumbling, out of nowhere, into an oasis. Of course, for all she knew, kisses were like that in general. It wasn’t like she had a great library of them to pull from. Alain’s kisses, so long ago it was like thinking about something that had happened to a different person, had been thrilling more in their illicitness than in their technique or passion. Not that she could have known the difference at sixteen.

The familiar stabbing began in her stomach and she forced herself to speed up, concentrating on the warmth in her muscles and the slight perspiration on her skin. Her corset made it impossible to take a deep breath; by the time she reached the edge of her rental property there were little gray dots at the edge of her vision.

There was a buggy in front of her house.

The man didn’t listen, Alva thought, trying to catch her breath and hurry at the same time. He was absolutely impossible. And the deep, sudden pleasure that was erasing all memory of pain in her stomach was misguided and traitorous. Pain was an honest emotion. It told you when something was wrong, kept you safe. Pleasure, on the other hand … pleasure was deceiving. She had to remember that. Still, she almost ran up the front steps and into the house. The banging door startled her maid, a stout blond girl named Liza, who was in the process of hanging a coat in the front closet.