Later that night, finally alone in the bedroom that had been hers for as long as she could remember, Kit stood at the open window and gazed at the pale circle of the moon, suspended in night’s blackness over the deep. She’d never felt so alone. She’d never felt so free.

Kit was astonished at how easily she slipped back into her Cranmer routine. Rising early, she rode her mare, Delia, then breakfasted with Spencer before turning to whatever task she’d set herself for the day. The afternoon saw her riding again, before evening brought her back to her grandfather’s side. Over dinner, she’d listen to his account of his day, giving her opinions when asked, shrewdly interpolating comments when she wasn’t. Between them, the six years of separation were as though they’d never been.

From that, Kit took her direction. It was useless to wail and gnash her teeth over her aunts’ perfidy. She was free of them-free to forget them. Her grandfather was in good health and, she’d learned, would remain her legal guardian until she was twenty-five; there was no chance of her aunts interfering again. She would waste no more time on the past. Her life was hers-she would live it to the full.

Her daily tasks varied from helping Mrs. Fogg about the house, in the stillroom or the kitchen, to visiting her grandfather’s tenants, who were all delighted to welcome her home.

Home.

Her heart soared as she rode the far-flung acres, the sky wide and clear above her, the wind tugging at her curls. Delia, a purebred black Arab, had been a gift from Spencer on Kit’s eighteenth birthday. Since he’d taught her to ride and had always taken enormous pride in her horsemanship, she hadn’t placed any undue emphasis on the gift. Now, she saw it as a call from a lonely and aching heart, a call she had not, in her innocence, recognized. It only made her love Delia more. Together, they thundered over the sands, Delia’s hooves glistening with wave foam. The sharp cries of gulls came keening on the currents high above; the boom of the surf rumbled in the salt-laden air.

Word of her return spread quickly. She dutifully sustained visits from the rector’s wife and from Lady Dersingham, the wife of a neighboring landowner. Kit’s tonnish grace impressed both ladies. Her manner was assured, her deportment perfection. In the faraway capital she might hold herself insultingly aloof, but at Cranmer, she was Spencer’s granddaughter.

Chapter 2

On the afternoon of her third day of freedom, Kit donned her green-velvet riding habit and asked for a sidesaddle to be put on Delia. When with Spencer or alone, she’d taken to riding astride, scandalously dressed in breeches and coat. The clothes had been made for her years before; Elmina had let down the hems and remade the breeches to fit. The coat was an old one of her cousin Geoffrey’s, recut to her slighter frame but still loose enough to disguise her figure should the need arise. Now that her hair was cropped, leaving the flame-colored curls rioting about her head, she hardly needed the protection of the old tricorne that completed her highly irregular outfit. When garbed in her male attire, a hat shading her features, her sex was moot.

Today she was bound for Gresham Manor. Her closest friend, whom she hadn’t seen in years, lived quietly there with her parents. Amy had never had to go to London. She’d contracted a suitable alliance with a local gentleman of acceptable birth and reasonable fortune; that much, Kit knew from her letters. Amy’s gentleman was with Wellington’s forces in the Peninsula; their wedding would take place once he returned.

Kit rode up the long drive of Gresham Manor and directly around to the stables.

“Miss Cranmer!” The groom came running to take her horse’s bridle. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute there, miss. Back from London town, are ye?”

“That’s right, Jeffries.” Kit smiled and slid from Delia’s back. “Is Miss Amy in?”

“Kit? It is you!”

Turning, Kit barely had time to verify that the figure descending on her was indeed Amy, golden hair in fashionable ringlets, peaches-and-cream complexion still perfect, before she was enveloped in a warm embrace.

“I saw you ride past the library windows and wondered if Mr. Woodley’s sermons had sent me to sleep, and I was dreaming.”

Kit laughed. “Goose! I’ve been back only a few days and couldn’t wait to see you and hear all your news. Is your fiancé back yet?”

“Yes! It’s the most wonderful thing!” Amy gripped Kit’s fingers, her eyes shining. “First him-now you. Clearly the gods have decided to be especially kind.”

Amy drew back, holding Kit at arm’s length to study her elegant attire, the short velvet coat, clasped with gold frogs, and the gracefully sweeping velvet skirts. Amy’s brown gaze returned to Kit bobbed curls, and she grimaced. “Drat! You make me feel positively dowdy. I don’t know whether I’ll introduce you to George after all.”

Kit laughed and drew Amy’s arm through hers. “Fear not. I’ve no designs on your fiance-very likely he’ll be either terrified or disapproving of my wild ways.” They started for the house.

“George,” Amy declared, “is utterly sensible. I’m sure you’ll approve of each other. But I’m dying of curiosity. Why are you back? And why didn’t you write and warn me?”

Kit smiled. “It’s a long story. Perhaps I should meet your mother first, then maybe we can find a nice quiet nook?”

Amy nodded; arm in arm, they entered the house. Lady Gresham, a motherly woman who ruled her household with a firm but benevolent hand, had always had a soft spot for Kit. She insisted the girls take tea with her but, beyond extracting the information that Kit was still unbetrothed, made no effort to learn more of her recent past.

Eventually released, Amy and Kit took refuge in Amy’s bedchamber. Settled in the billows of the bed, Kit smiled. She and Amy had been closer than sisters since the age of six; six years’ separation, bridged by letters, hadn’t dinted their easy familiarity.

At Amy’s prompting, Kit recounted the tale of her aunts’ machinations and how they’d contrived to hold her for six long years. “If it hadn’t been for my cousins, I’m sure their persuasions to marry would have been a great deal more drastic. Once, they locked me in my room for two days, until Geoffrey appeared on the doorstep and insisted on seeing me.” Kit grimaced. “After that, they were reduced to nagging. But when they wheeled in the earl of Roberts, I decided enough was enough. The man was old enough to be my father!” Kit frowned. “And he was altogether…not nice,” she ended lamely. “After that, my aunts finally conceded defeat and declared me unmarriageable. So I was allowed to come home-I knew Gran’pa would at least give me houseroom.”

Amy sent her a stern look. “He was heartbroken when you left. I did tell you.”

Kit’s eyes clouded, violet hazed with grey. “I know, but my aunts were very clever.” A short silence fell; Kit broke it with a sigh. “So now I’m finished with London and with men. I can live very happily without either.”

Amy frowned. “Is it wise to go that far? After all, who knows what delicious gentleman might be lurking around the next bend in your road?”

“Just as long as he stays out of my road, I’ll be satisfied.”

“Oh, Kit. Not all men are old dodderers or fops. Some are quite personable. Like George.”

With a “Humph,” Kit turned on her stomach and propped her chin in her hands. “Enough of my affairs. Tell me about this George of yours.”

George, it transpired, was the only son of the Smeatons of Smeaton Hall, located some way beyond Gresham Manor. He was twelve years Kit’s senior; she could not recall meeting either him or his parents before.

“It’s reassuring knowing I’ll not be too far away,” Amy concluded. “We must have you and your grandfather over for dinner and introduce you to George and his parents.”

Noting the happiness shining in Amy’s face, Kit agreed with what enthusiasm she could. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that Amy was head over heels in love with George, and that soon Kit would lose her best friend to matrimony. Amy chattered on; eventually, a frown tugging at her brows, Kit broke into her narrative. “Amy,why do you want to marry?”

“Why?” The question stopped Amy in her tracks. Then, realizing Kit meant the question literally, she marshaled her thoughts. “Because I love George and want to be with him for the rest of my life.” She looked hopefully at Kit, willing her to understand.

Kit stared back, violet eyes intent. “You want to marry him because you love him?” When Amy nodded, she asked: “What’s love feel like?”

Brow furrowed, Amy considered. “Well,” she began, “you know all about the…the act, don’t you?”

“Of course I know about that.” They were both country bred-such matters were inescapable facts of country life.

“But what’s that got to do with love?”

“Well,” Amy continued, “when you love a man you want to…do that with him.”

Kit frowned. “Do you really want to do that with your George?”

Blushing furiously, Amy nodded.

Kit’s brows rose, then she shrugged. “It seems such a peculiar undertaking-so undignified, if you know what I mean.”

Amy choked.

“But how do you know you want to do that with George?” Kit focused on Amy’s face. “You haven’t, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t!” Amy stiffened.

“How then?”

Drawing a deep breath, Amy fixed Kit with a long-suffering look. “You can tell because of what you feel when a man kisses you.”

Kit frowned.

“You’ve been kissed by a gentleman, haven’t you? I mean, not one of your relatives. What about your London gentlemen-didn’t they?”

It was Kit’s turn to blush. “Some of them,” she admitted.

“Well? What did it feel like?”

Kit grimaced. “One was like kissing a dead fish, and the others were sort of hot wriggling things. They tried to put their tongues in my mouth.” She shuddered expressively. “It was awful!”

Amy bit her lips, then drew an unsteady breath. “Yes, all right. That’s probably just as well-that means you don’t want to go to bed with any of them.”

“Oh.” Kit’s face cleared. “What should it feel like if I do want to…” She gestured. “You know.”

“Sleep with a man?”

Kit glared. “Yes, damn it! What does it feel like to want a man to make love to you?” She turned onto her back and, dropping her head into the pillows, stared upward. “Take pity on me, Amy, and tell. If you don’t, I’ll probably die ignorant.”

Amy chuckled. “Oh no, you won’t. You’re just in the doldrums, what with your aunts’ machinations and all. You’ll come about and meet your man.”

“But I might not, so just tell me. Please?”

Amy smiled and settled beside Kit. “All right. But you must remember I haven’t had much experience of this either.”

“You’ve had more than me, and it’s only fair to share.”

“And you’ve got to promise you won’t be shocked.”

Kit came up on one elbow and looked into Amy’s face. “You said you didn’t…”

Amy blushed. “I-we haven’t. It’s just that there are…well, preliminaries, that might be a bit more than you expect.”

Kit frowned, then dropped back onto the bed. “Try me.”

“Well-when he kisses you, you should like it for a start. If you’re revolted, then he’s not the man for you.”

“All right. He’s kissed me, and I like it. What then?”

“You should want him to go on kissing you, and you should like it when he puts his tongue in your mouth.”

Kit bent a skeptical look on her friend.

Amy frowned. “It’s true. And you should feel all hot and flushed-like having a fever only nicer. Your knees tend to go weak, but that doesn’t matter because he’ll be holding you. And for some reason, you can’t hear very well when you’re kissing-I don’t know why. It’s just as well to remember that.”

“Sounds like a disease,” Kit muttered.

Amy ignored her. “Sometimes it’s a bit hard to breathe, but somehow you manage.”

“Wonderful-suffocation as well.”

“He might kiss your eyes and cheeks and ears, too, and then move on to your neck. That’s always nice,”

A distinct purr was slowly infusing itself into Amy’s soft voice; Kit blinked.

“And then,” Amy went on, “depending on how things are going, he might touch your breasts, just gently, sort of squeezing and stroking. It always feels as if my laces are too tight by that stage.”

Kit stared, openmouthed, but Amy was well launched on her subject.

“Soon, my nubbins go all hard and crinkly, which is a rather odd feeling. And then comes the hot flushes.”

“Hot flushes?”

“Mmm. They start in your breasts and move down.”