In his thirty-some years on earth, Nick had done more kissing than he could remember. Kissing was fun, sweet, and harmless. He enjoyed it; the ladies enjoyed it; he suspected even his horse enjoyed it.

But kissing was also meant to be forgettable. No more worthy of recall than a pleasant meal, a good book, an enjoyable walk in the garden. Nick kissed his lovers, his sisters, his friends, his grandmother. Lately, he’d kissed his father a time or two, hoping each one was not a kiss good-bye. Nick kissed babies—babies were particularly fun to nuzzle and kiss and tickle—he kissed his horses and his cats and his cousins.

So why should it matter that he’d stolen a kiss from this Leah person, who was bound for holy matrimony with the odious Hellerington? He’d meant it as a little gesture of encouragement to her and himself both, a kiss for luck, as he’d said.

Nonetheless, lying in the acreage of his bed, surrounded by mountains of silk-covered pillows and the softest of linen sheets, Nick felt a growing unwillingness to let a disgusting old man have a taste of the lady, much less a husband’s claim on her. From the place inside Nick that would have killed to protect a sister or a friend, a place that had been tempted to violence on behalf of beaten animals, Nick felt a growing desire to spare the woman the fate that had moved her to tears.

His fate was sealed. He would marry a calculating little jade, and that was that.

Her fate, however, he could still influence.

Tossing aside the covers, Nick got up and found a dressing gown to cover his nakedness. The room was cold—Nick liked it cold. He lit some candles and found writing supplies in his escritoire. A note to his solicitors came first, asking them to attend him at their earliest convenience.

Then a note to Benjamin Hazlit, discreet investigator for the privileged few who could afford him. If anyone could bring Nick what he sought regarding old Hellerington, it would be Hazlit.

Those decisions made, Nick returned to his bed and let Valentine’s music drift over him once more. Val was sad about something; that was as clear as the tones of the piano’s lovely middle register.

Ah, well. Nick closed his eyes. What a gift it must be, to be able to turn sadness to beauty. He thumped his pillow one last time and let his imagination conjure up the memory of a sweet, soft, lingering kiss between strangers.

Nick thought of spring and autumn as feminine—changeable, unpredictable, lovely—and winter and summer as masculine—entrenched, reliably trying, challenging, not for the faint of heart. April qualified as spring, and this morning, she was wearing all her glory. The sun shone in beneficent abundance, a hint of softness graced the air, and in the park, daffodils bloomed in profusion along with the occasional precocious tulip. The distance to his grandmother’s house might have encouraged another man to ride, but Nick had already taken Buttercup out for her morning hack, and he liked to move about whenever possible.

Then too, he needed time to think, to consider Valentine’s question from the previous night: Were there any young ladies available this Season to whom he might offer marriage? Unpleasant topic to contemplate, but—

“I beg your pardon!”

Instinctively, Nick reached out to steady the lady into whom he had very nearly plowed.

“My apologies,” he murmured, catching a hint of lily of the valley fragrance, though it wasn’t coming from the petite blond squirming to retrieve her balance.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The little blond peeked up at him with a tentative smile from under her bonnet brim. “I was intent on getting to the ducks. I should have been watching where I was going.”

Nick stepped back and tipped his hat with a little bow.

“I am at fault.” He smiled down at her, then included the lady’s maid in his smile. “I was lost in thought and cannot even claim the topic as interesting as hungry ducks.”

Not a lady’s maid, but rather, a youthful maiden aunt who could indulge in an alluring perfume but no longer needed—or afforded?—a fashionable wardrobe. Still, there was something about the other woman that drew Nick’s interest, and not simply because she had lovely brown eyes, a bit of height, and lustrous dark hair framing a serious, pretty face.

Nick marshaled his manners. “If I may be so bold: Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston at your service, ladies, and again my apologies.” The blond glanced askance at the taller woman, obviously uncertain of the proprieties.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the taller woman said, her tone cultured, a little husky, and liltingly soft.

Five innocuous words, but it was enough. That soft, almost amused voice, the poise of it, and the charm… Nick knew immediately who she was, and drew in a slow, steadying breath. The lily of the valley scent connected with memories of their previous meeting and made the pretty day a shade closer to glorious.

“Whom was it my pleasure to nearly knock insensate?” Nick kept his smile in place, though it was arguably rude of him to ask when they hadn’t been introduced. Still, he could not abide to tip his hat and saunter away.

“Ladies Leah and Emily Lindsey,” the taller woman replied. She bobbed a curtsy, and her companion did likewise. Lady Leah gave not a hint of familiarity in her tone, gesture, or expression.

Not a hint of rejection, either.

“Might I impose my escort on you as far as the duck pond?” Nick offered. For good measure, he smiled disarmingly at the footman who hovered a dozen feet away, looking uneasy. “It’s a lovely day, and I would rather spend it in the presence of pulchritudinous ladies such as Mother Nature and yourselves than hurry to my destination.”

“You flatter prettily,” Lady Leah said, clearly more amused than impressed. “We will take pity on you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the footman. “John, Lord Reston will escort us to the pond.”

John nodded, apparently relieved that Lord Reston—all seventeen damned stone of him—presented no threat to his charges.

“I am on my way to see my grandmother,” Nick volunteered, winging an arm at each lady. “This puts me in line for a scolding, which is what grandmothers enjoy most with grandsons like me. I’ve been in Town almost ten days, you see, and I’ve yet to call on her. What shall I say was my excuse?”

“You could tell her you’re getting over a spring ague,” the blond said. Lady—Nick floundered for a moment mentally—Lady Emily. “It was nasty damp until last week.”

“That would serve, except she knows I’m seldom ill.”

“You could tell her you dreaded the scolding and waited for a suitably cheering day to make your bow,” the older sister said.

“The truth?” Nick affected a puzzled frown at Lady Leah. “With my grandmother? I will consider it as a novel approach. Do you ladies often come to feed the ducks?”

He kept up a pleasant, easygoing patter of nonsense talk, something he could do without thinking. As they chatted and strolled slowly toward the water, Nick studied his companions.

In the bright light of day, Leah Lindsey was revealed to be no longer in the first blush of youth, consistent with her disclosures the previous night. There was knowledge in her eyes, of things unpleasant and unavoidable. She carried herself with a well-concealed hint of caution, her grip on his arm cosmetic, unlike her sister’s.

The younger sister was innocent, Nick concluded. Probably not yet out, and happy to lark around in the park on a pretty day. This was the one for whom Leah was being sacrificed, and yet there was no enmity between the sisters. If anything, Leah was protective of her younger sibling.

Nick approved of that, though it wasn’t his place to make such a judgment.

Lady Emily held out a gloved hand. “I’ll take those bread crumbs now, John.”