If she were his lordship, she would stay well away from the Moon House for a day or so, build up the suspense over what his next tactic would be. Being able to see this so clearly was surprisingly no help in suppressing that suspense. When would the earl call, and what would his approach be? And how was she going to react to him if he tried to flirt with her again? She was annoyed that she was looking forward to the prospect. Doubtless it was simply the anticipation of an intellectual battle of wits.

‘Do you want me to try and find some shears, then, Miss Hester?’ Jethro was still waiting patiently, the tip of his nose red in the cold.

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ll likely be some time.’ Jethro made off round the side of the house, leaving Hester trampling briskly on thoughts of Lord Buckland. She stepped closer to the door to try to see what peering up from beneath would reveal. Yes, there was definitely a carving.

Without thinking, Hester hitched up her skirts and climbed the first two steps of the ladder. With outstretched arms she could catch hold of some trailing strands of ivy, but not enough; all that happened when she pulled was that it broke off short. With a mutter of irritation she climbed one step higher to the top of the ladder and reached up again.

‘That’s better!’ Now she could get a good double handful. Hester gripped, tugged and suddenly a mass about a foot square came away in her hands, the stepladder rocked on the uneven flags, she teetered, gripped harder on the ivy and felt it give way as she did so.

Should she jump? Or lean forward? Or… The ivy gave completely and she fell backwards to be caught neatly and lowered to the ground, her back to her rescuer.

Hands still gripped her securely, but gently, around the waist and Hester stood stock still. She could feel the man’s body steadying her-his thighs were hard against her and his hands were warm even through her clothing. To wrench away would be undignified. Mysteriously she had not the slightest doubt who it was who had rescued her. In a moment he would release her, but for the moment it was wonderful to be held and supported, for she was utterly breathless, no doubt from shock. It seemed a very long time since anyone had held her. Hester’s hands went to her waist, overlapping the large ones that encircled it. This really had to stop-at any moment someone might pass.

‘My lord!’

She was freed and spun round to face him, mingled indignation and embarrassment on her face. What was she thinking of? She should have freed herself instantly, not stood there letting him take liberties. No, that was not fair, all he had done was hold her steady.

A rangy bay was standing at her gate, the reins carelessly tossed over the gatepost. The earl was attired for riding-cream buckskins, boots, a heavy dark coat carelessly open- his hat, gloves and whip were lying on the path where he must have dropped them as he saw her start to fall.

In the open air he was even more attractive than inside, she decided, still searching for the right words to thank him and at the same time convey that his behaviour had overstepped the mark. His hair was ruffled by the wind, his skin was more tanned than she had realised, the riding clothes flattered his broad shoulders and long legs.

‘Thank you, my lord, but really…’ What was she going to say if he asked her how she had known it was him? That she just sensed it?

‘Really you would have preferred to break your head on the flags? Good morning, Miss Lattimer. It is naturally delightful to see you in the garden, but surely that lad of yours would be better suited to removing the ivy than you?’

‘I know,’ Hester agreed with a rueful shrug. He was quite right, she had been very foolish and extremely undignified. It seemed she was fated to present a thoroughly unladylike impression every time they met. ‘Jethro has gone for the shears. But there is something carved over the door and I wanted to see what it was.’

Lord Buckland stepped past her and looked up at the wall where the ivy was partly torn away. ‘You are quite right, but was it so urgent?’

‘When I want something, I am afraid I am usually somewhat impetuous,’ Hester admitted.

One dark brow quirked upwards and Hester was left with the flustered impression that she had said something provocative. ‘Very well, let me see what I can uncover.’ Before Hester could protest she found herself holding his coat while the earl stood on the top step and investigated the ivy.

His balance was really extremely good, she thought, staring absently at the play of muscles in his thighs and back as he shifted his weight to allow for the unstable steps. Then she realised what she was doing, blushed hectically and fixed her eyes on his hands instead. With a hard downwards yank a whole curtain of ivy and root came away, revealing the bare stone behind.

Unmistakable, despite the marring remnants of stem and birds’ nests, was n oval panel carved with a crescent moon, a solitary star caught on its lower horn.

‘The Moon House! Oh, how charming.’ Hester stared entranced at the carving. It was a simple thing, but somehow elegant and feminine like the little house itself.

‘Yes, work by a good carver.’ There was something in the earl’s voice that made Hester look sharply at his profile, but she could read nothing there besides interest as he ran a hand lightly down the curve of the moon. ‘Someone took pains with this house.’

‘I know, it feels loved,’ Hester remarked as he climbed down, tossing the armful of ivy to one side. ‘Goodness, look at the state of your clothes, my lord. I will go and get a clothes brush, I will not be a moment.’


She had thrust his coat into his arms and whisked inside before Guy could argue, leaving him on the doorstep. Somewhat impetuous! Yes, that was certainly one way to describe Miss Lattimer. And determined with it. Not that he could criticise either trait; it was impetuosity that had brought him down here and stubborn determination that was keeping him. That, and a speaking pair of golden brown eyes.

The newly polished door knocker caught his attention and he raised a hand to it. It was an unusual design: a bow, pivoted at the top and hung so that it would strike against a quiver of arrows at its base.

A crescent moon and a hunting bow-Diana’s symbols.

The cry from the casement above his head was sudden and short, cut off on a choking gasp. Guy took a rapid step backwards to stare up, but the window was almost closed and there was nothing to be seen. The silence that followed was almost as alarming and he shouldered his way through the door and took the stairs two at a time without conscious thought.

The room above the door was a bedchamber and to his relief Hester was there, alone and on her feet. She was staring through an open door, her clasped hands raised to her mouth as if to push back any further sound.

He reached her side and looked past her into a perfectly normal-seeming dressing room. ‘Miss Lattimer? Hester, what is it? What scared you?’

‘The pearls,’ she said with some difficulty. She unclasped her hands and pointed at the floor, which was strewn with small white globes.

‘You have broken your necklace,’ Guy soothed. Hers seemed a disproportionate reaction, it must be a much loved heirloom. ‘They will easily be restrung, there is no harm done. Let me call your maid to gather them up.’

‘She has gone to the nearest farm for eggs,’ Hester said stiffly. ‘I did not break it, I found it on the floor, broken, the first night we were here. The pearls were picked up and put in that bowl there.’ She pointed at a delicate china bowl on the dressing table. ‘That has not moved. How did they come to be spilt again?’

‘Perhaps your maid knocked them over this morning and neglected to replace them.’ She was shivering with reaction. Concerned, Guy put out a hand and touched her shoulder.

‘No, she came downstairs when I did, then went out without coming back up.’

‘Young Ackland? Your companion?’

‘He would not come into my chamber without asking first, whether or not I was here, and I know Miss Prudhome has not been upstairs since before breakfast.’

Guy looked at the window, closed almost to the top. No breeze stirred the heavy curtains; besides, what flapping curtain could scoop the pearls from a bowl, but leave it untouched?

‘Have you a cat?’

‘No.’ He felt her shoulder move under his palm, almost as though she was bracing herself. ‘I must pick them up.’ She took a step forward, then stopped on the threshold and froze.

To hell with the proprieties. Guy swept her off her feet, heeled the dressing-room door closed and took her to the chaise where he sat down, Hester on his knee, and demanded, ‘What was all that about? You are quite safe now.’

For answer there was a muffled hiccup from the region of his shoulder where she had buried her face. ‘I am not crying, and I am merely very cross with myself for being a ninny.’

‘No, of course you aren’t crying.’ Guy knew better than to agree with remarks about being a ninny. He had a sister.

Then, more clearly, ‘I am such a coward, I was not going to let it prey on my mind and at the first little thing I go to pieces.’

Now what to say? If he agreed that the pearls were a little thing, he was agreeing with her own self-criticism. If he said that, in fact, it was a mystery-and apparently a disturbing one-that would only frighten her more. It might suit his purpose for her to take a dislike to the house, but this was not the way to achieve it. Guy contented himself with gently rubbing her shoulders and murmuring, ‘There, there.’

It was a curiously pleasant occupation. Hester Lattimer fitted very nicely on his lap, her weight a positive thing. She was not heavy, but not frail either. His free arm tightened slightly around a slender, strong frame. She must ride, or walk a lot, he decided. Against his thighs and his chest she was deliciously soft and her hair tickling his nose smelt of rosemary.

With a sudden defiant shake she sat up straight and met his eyes. ‘I am sorry, my lord, you must think me a poor thing indeed, and a foolish one at that, starting at shadows.’

‘You know, Hester, once you have reached the stage of sitting on a gentleman’s knee, I do feel the time for formality is past. Will you not call me Guy?’

She looked startled, producing yet another shade of gold in those fascinating eyes. ‘I could not possibly!’

‘Well, you are sitting on my lap. I think calling me by my given name is a minor informality compared to that.’

‘So I am! My lord… Guy… please let me go.’

‘But of course.’ He opened his arms wide and added wickedly, ‘A pity, I was enjoying it.’

Hester, on the point of scrambling to her feet with more haste than dignity, caught his eye and twinkled back. ‘So was I. What a truly shocking thing to admit, but you know, it was so nice to be looked after again, just for once.’

Guy found himself smiling as she sat down again next to him, arranging her skirts primly around her legs as she did so. She was enchanting. That frankness, the mischievous look in her eye. But she was, he would stake a thousand sovereigns on it, no hoyden or flirt. She was simply honest, impetuous and had sustained an unpleasant shock. Now was not the time to pursue that remark about being looked after, but he stored it away for later thought.

Her hands moved convulsively in her lap before she made an obvious effort to still them and sit calmly. ‘Thank you for running to my rescue twice in one morning, my lord. Guy.’

‘It is my pleasure. Will you not tell me what frightens you so much about that room?’

She hesitated, then said calmly, ‘I had better begin with a little history.’

‘You know the history of the house?’ Guy prided himself on his self-control, but the sharp question was out of his mouth before he could stop it and he cursed inwardly at the surprise on Hester’s face.

‘No, not at all. I was only going to explain that it has been empty, unoccupied for about fifty years. I was surprised, for it has been well kept up in all the essentials-the roof is sound, the windows have been cleaned from time to time and, from the evidence of the hearths, regular fires have been lit to keep the damp at bay. But no one has lived here-which I do not understand.’

‘Were you given no explanation when you bought it?’

‘None.’ She shook her head, a little line of puzzlement between her dark brows. ‘Sir Edward Nugent was ailing when he agreed to sell and my man of business dealt entirely with his agent. We asked, of course, but the reply was that he had chosen not to sell it, yet could not find a suitable tenant.’