“Is that where you acquired such a lamentable habit, from your uncle Ian?”

She winked at him. “It’s a secret. I’ll see you at tea.” As quickly as she’d invaded his privacy, she skipped right back out to the corridor.

The ensuing silence had a peculiar, relieved quality. Tye had just sat back down at his desk when Fiona poked her head around the doorjamb. “May I call you Uncle Tye? Aunt Hester said your real name is Tiberius, which would be a grand name for a bear, I think.”

“It’s a perfectly adequate name for an earl, but yes, you may call me Uncle Tye.”

She grinned at him, a huge, toothy expression of great good spirits, winked once more, and disappeared.

Tye stared at his stack of letters. He had not mentioned any kisses in those letters, just as Hester Daniels hadn’t mentioned her worthless excuse for a fiancé taking unseemly liberties or needing his head coshed.

Which left Tye pondering why his own head had not been coshed by that fair lady when he’d taken unseemly liberties. Why she’d kissed him on the cheek without any provocation on his part at all.

He picked up the pencil and started making a list.

“I have been foolish.” Dear Hester made this pronouncement in tones indicative of an impending bout of martyrdom, so Ariadne set aside her third husband’s journal and resigned herself to patience.

“I hope you at least had a grand time being foolish.”

The girl dropped into the rocking chair by the hearth—a feat Ariadne hadn’t attempted without assistance or planning for more than a decade. “I am not jesting, Aunt. I was very rag-mannered to Lord Spathfoy.”

Ariadne gave the kind of snort an old woman was permitted even in public. “That one. He could do with some rudeness. He’s handsome as sin, in expectation of a title, and wealthy to boot. I hope you took him down several pegs.”

“I kissed him.” A furious blush accompanied this confession.

“I’m envious. Did he kiss you back?”

“You’re envious?” Hester shot to her feet and started pacing the small confines of Ariadne’s sitting room—small rooms were easier to keep warm—leaving the rocking chair to bob gently, as if inhabited by a ghost. “I toss propriety to the wind when I know the fate of my good name is hanging by a thread, and you are envious? Spathfoy isn’t some younger son trying to cadge a dowry so he can keep up with his gambling cronies. He’s going to be Quinworth, and I’ve disgraced myself utterly, again.”

The girl was overdue for some dramatics. She’d been pale and composed for weeks, only rousing from her brown study when Fiona dragged her out-of-doors or Ian got her onto a horse.

“You are not to blame for Merriman’s mischief, Hester Daniels. He was a bad apple, as my fourth husband would have said. Spoiled rotten and contaminating all in his ambit. Do you know how many men I’ve kissed?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Such pretty manners. Do have a seat. You’re making my neck ache with all your stomping about.”

Hester popped back into the rocker. She was nothing if not considerate of her elders.

“I asked if you knew how many men I’d kissed.”

She looked guardedly intrigued. “Of course, I can’t know such a thing.”

“I’ve lost count as well, but I’ll tell you, Hester Daniels, from where I’m sitting now, waiting to shuffle off this mortal coil, it wasn’t nearly enough.”

“Aunt, perhaps in a former era, when society was less—”

Ariadne waved a hand. “Bah. Society has always delighted in catching the unwary in their missteps, and there have always been missteps. Old George ran a proper court, I can tell you. To bed at a reasonable hour, up early to ride for hours, and yet, look at his get. A crop of fifteen children. Even his princesses were not entirely chaste, and old King William had more Fitz-bastards than some people have fingers. Do you think you’re the first woman ever to steal a kiss? Merciful sakes, child, men are so blockheaded one must sometimes draw them a map.”

Hester’s brows drew down, suggesting Ariadne’s outlook wasn’t one shared by whatever tutors and governesses had raised the girl.

“But, Aunt, I enjoyed kissing him.”

“I kissed his grandfather once, the one he’s named for. The man knew a thing or two about comforting a widow—all in good fun, of course.”

“He’s named for a grandfather?”

Bless the girl; she didn’t hide her interest in even such a crumb of information as this. “He’s named for his maternal grandfather, a Lowland Scottish earl who knew how to turn a coin practically out of thin air. Quinworth’s wealth today owes much to the dowry and financial abilities Spathfoy’s mother brought to the match.”

“He’s never mentioned his parents.”

“They are cordially distant, as happens in the later years of many a dynastic match. Was Spathfoy flirting with you when you kissed him?”

“Yes.” An unequivocal answer, which suggested his strapping, handsome lordship had been engaged in more than pretty compliments.

“Then kiss him some more, for pity’s sake. You’re both at loose ends, he’s handsome, and who knows, you might form an attachment.”

“Aunt, one is supposed to form the attachment before one appropriates any kisses.”

She was so certain of this progression, Ariadne felt sorry for her. “And were you attached to young Merriman?”

Hester stared at her hands, which rested in her lap. Her expression was wiped clean of all intentional emotion, but Ariadne had buried four husbands, and the misgivings and griefs of women were familiar to her.

“This is your real worry, isn’t it? The man you gave your hand to, however temporarily, did not charm you with his kisses, and yet this arrogant intruder has you sighing and glancing on only a few days’ acquaintance.”

Hester sprang onto her feet again and went to the window. The girl spent a lot of time considering the views from various windows. “What if I am unnatural? What if I can only have feelings for things and people forbidden to me?”

Ariadne considered Hester’s poker-straight posture and the tension in her fists.

“What if you are completely natural, healthy, and attracted to one of the finest specimens of manhood I’ve seen in decades? What if he’s attracted to you, and what if you’re both sensible enough to explore the attraction—within reason?”

Hester turned to face Ariadne and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you encouraging this foolishness?”

“Yes. Yes, I certainly am. I am encouraging you to put the unfortunate situation with Merriman behind you. The man was a cad and an idiot. I suspect he rushed his fences with you and showed you the low cards in his hand far too plainly. Get back on the horse, my girl. Toy with Spathfoy’s affections all you like. He can manage for himself, and you might find you suit.”

“But what if he toys with mine?”

The question was bewildered, anxious, and sincere. Ariadne did not permit herself to smile.

“Then you enjoy it. And when he trots back to England in a week or two, you thank him for a few kisses and remember him fondly. All need not be drama and high dudgeon, Hester, and if you didn’t want to kiss a man like Spathfoy, I would be worried about you indeed. Now, we’ve missed our Gaelic since Spathfoy has joined us. Shall we practice?”

Hester rang for tea, and with the determined mispronunciation of the young and serious, started her daily session mangling the language of her own maternal ancestors—while being very clear about where her current interests lay.

“If you please, Aunt Ariadne, what else can you tell me about Lord Spathfoy’s family?”

The shame had caught Hester quite by surprise, as if she’d risen from a chair to stride across the room, only to find her hem caught under some malefactor’s boot.

She’d ridden over several miles of countryside with Spathfoy in silence, pondering his kiss—and her kiss—and feeling for the first time as if ending her engagement might have been among the better decisions she’d made.