“You’re right, of course.” Hunt opened his mouth to add something, appeared to think better of it, and cleared his throat roughly. “I’ll leave you here to finish your, er . . . conversation.” As he withdrew from the room, however, it seemed that he couldn’t keep from ducking his head back in and asking Marcus cryptically, “Once a week, did you

“I don’t want to talk to Mother or Father just now. But I need to know what Westcliff told them. If you could manage to find out—” “Say no more,” Daisy replied promptly, striding to the door.

As he hurried through the hallways, a host of irrelevant thoughts flashed through his mind. How cavernous the house seemed when it was devoid of guests, with its miles of flooring and infinite clusters of rooms. A grand, ancient house with the impersonal ambiance of a hotel. A house like this needed the happy shouts of children echoing through the

St. Vincent shot Marcus a glance of bright mischief. “God spare me from ever letting a woman put a ring through my nose—and worse, appearing so bloody pleased about it.”

The good news is that your husband seems to be on the way.” “If so, the bastard is late,” Lillian retorted, causing Daisy and Evie to laugh.

“Because you’re mine now.”

“I like a long bat,” Lillian argued, even as he adjusted her hands on the willow handle. “The longer the better, as a matter of fact.” A distant snicker from one of the stable boys caught her attention, and she glanced at him suspiciously before turning to face Westcliff. His face was expressionless, but there was a glitter of laughter in his eyes.

“He’s longing to find his true love—he just doesn’t know who you are. But very soon, he’ll find out you’re the one he’s been waiting for, and then—” “He’ll run away screaming.”

“You’re making me afraid to go back to my own dinner table.” “You should be!” she replied emphatically, and he could no longer restrain a deep laugh.