He wanted to prolong his time with her. To make it last forever. But try as he might, the brief moments they shared only seemed to pass that much more quickly. He could feel them slipping through his fingers like so much North Devon sand.

Even her scent—that bewitching hint of orange blossom that clung to her so sweetly—there was no preserving the magic it wrought on his senses. The fragrance evaporated from the air the second she left his presence.

“Are you going back to the stable this evening?” she asked.

He nodded. “I must.”

Betty’s milk was beginning to come in, but Neville wasn’t taking any chances. He intended to continue feeding Firefly warm cow’s milk from a teakettle for the next several days, until the foal was nursing successfully.

“I wish I could come with you,” she said.

“Can’t you?”

“Not this evening, no.” Her features settled in a pensive frown. She seemed distracted. Not entirely herself. As if something wasn’t quite right.

His old insecurities rose to the surface. Had he done something to upset her? Said something wrong? Something stupid?

He tugged at his cravat. His evening clothes were perfectly tailored. They nevertheless left him feeling awkward and constricted. He didn’t belong in a black evening suit with a cream silk vest and matching neckcloth, no more than he belonged hunched over a desk all day. He’d far rather be with the horses.

And she would too, he had no doubt.

Beautiful as he found her, she never shone so brightly as when she was helping him with Firefly. She smiled and laughed—finding humor in her missteps and fairly glowing at each small accomplishment.

“Perhaps in the morning?” she suggested. “Before Mrs. Bainbridge wakes?”

“At dawn?”

“We can meet in the kitchens again. Or I can come straight to the stable if you’d rather not wait.”

His heart pounded. “I’ll wait.”

There was something exciting about arranging to meet her. It felt illicit. Thrilling.

Though their time together was hardly a secret.

The entire household knew that Clara had been visiting Betty and her foal whenever she had a chance. No one had so much as batted an eye.

Which was a bit depressing, really.

Neither Mrs. Bainbridge, Mr. Boothroyd, nor even Justin seemed to suspect that there was anything going on between Neville and Clara. As if Neville could pose no possible threat to her virtue. As if the thought of romance would never enter his mind.

But it had entered his mind, almost from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her—and every moment since. Scarcely an hour passed that he didn’t think of her, whether in the house, the stables, or alone in his bed.