“I see,” Cecilia said. “Well, in that case I suppose you may come.” She glared at him, but in the depths of her mind she felt a fizzing, as if her traitorous wits had opened a bottle of wine.

Ned smiled sardonically. “Thank you, my lady.”

“But you have to behave yourself.”

His smile vanished. In three swift strides he was with her again and had his hand beneath her chin, tipping it up, before she could even catch her breath. She stared at him wide-eyed, pulse racing, as he bent toward her.

“Madam,” he said.

“Yes?” It was more an exhalation than an actual word.

“Of course I will behave.”

“You will?”

He began smiling again, slowly, like a finger slipping down her neck. “I give you my word as a scoundrel.”

“Oh. Er, good.”

He let her go, stepped back, his smile as crooked as his manners. Cecilia recalled Lady Armitage’s advice and squared her jaw, looked away to protect her heart, and envisioned shooting Captain Lightbourne down on her well-swept inner path to tranquility.

Except then she had to return in imagination and minister to him, hiring a doctor to tend his gunshot wounds, making a bed for him in Aunt Darlington’s guest room, feeding him soup spiced with herbal remedies Pleasance swore would not turn him into a vampire (although he might develop a craving for blood pudding), and lighting candles for his sake in church on Sundays. And as he lay sleeping, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones, his muscular chest rising and falling gently beneath his damp, transparent nightshirt . . .

“Damn!” Cecilia swore for the first time in her life, causing Ned to jolt with surprise. He turned away from the door of Lady Armitage’s drawing room and put a finger to his lips.

“She’s asleep,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cecilia replied. “That is, I stubbed my toe.”

“Inside your boots?”

“Yes. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With those eyelashes like that.”

“Um, all right.” He tried to wrangle his bemused expression into a smile. “Why don’t you stay here and guard the house, maybe have a bit of a sleep? I’ll go scout around and report back to you.”

“No.” She pulled black leather gloves from a pocket of her riding tunic and began to yank them onto her hands with such vehemence Ned expected her at any moment to break a finger. “Shall we proceed?”

He chuckled quietly, so as to not wake Lady Armitage, and gestured along the corridor. “Lead the way, madam.”

By the dim light of a lantern, they crossed the field toward the oak woods. Ned took the lead then, being more familiar with the nocturnal hazards of a meadow. With his guidance they avoided cow pats, thistles, sudden ditches, murky dark puddles, and an iron rake someone had left lying about just waiting for a comic moment. They entered the woods. They had not gone far among the trees before a sudden noise alarmed them; dousing the lantern, Ned pulled Cecilia behind the shelter of an oak. Silently, barely breathing, they listened.