Jon’s decision was made. He would call at the rectory as soon as he was back at Fratcombe Manor.

Beth was glad when her solo ended and she could resume her place in the rectory pew. Glad, too, that Jonathan had not returned, to hear her sing and to wonder yet again if her memory loss was some kind of fraud.

If only it were! Then she might have some certainty about who she was. There were those dreams-nightmares, sometimes-in which she saw bits and pieces of memories, of places, even of people, but none of it made any sense at all when she woke up.

But last night’s dream had not been like that. It had been full of colour and scent, almost more vivid than life itself. Because of him. Because of Jonathan. She had been dreaming about Jonathan.

‘Let us pray.’ The rector’s voice recalled Beth to her devotions. She knelt and began to pray, fervently, for deliverance from the man who was haunting her. The man she had not dared even to address as her ‘friend’.

The service passed more quickly than usual. Beth knew she had made all the responses, though she could remember none of it. But it was over. The rector was standing in his normal place outside the door, exchanging kind words with everyone, asking after missing parishioners, the sick and the old. From inside the church, he was only a dark silhouette. Beth watched from the far end of the aisle, waiting for her turn to leave. He was such a good man. No wonder the whole district loved him.

‘I think we may go now, Beth, dear,’ Mrs Aubrey said at last, nodding towards the empty doorway. ‘I wonder if the rector has invited any guests?’ she added, as an afterthought. After divine service, he made a habit of inviting needy souls to eat in the rectory kitchen. It was part of God’s charitable purpose, he always said, and his wife did not disagree.

For once, there seemed to be no unexpected guests waiting around when the two ladies emerged, though it was difficult to see clearly. Beth blinked and screwed up her eyes against the sudden dazzle. It had been over-cast when they went into church, but now the sky was a bright, clear blue and the slight breeze was warm from the early autumn sunshine, contrasting with the cool airiness from which they had come. Beth let her shawl drop, closed her eyes and turned her face up into the warmth.

‘Beautiful, is it not?’

That was not the rector’s voice. Jonathan! He had returned!

Beth stepped back so quickly that she almost tripped over her skirts.

A strong arm held her up. ‘You must take more care, Miss Beth, or you will fall. Wait until your eyes are accustomed to the light before you start prancing about.’

He was still holding her arm. She could feel the strength of his fingers through her muslin sleeve. And the warmth of his body-

‘Miss Beth? Is anything amiss?’

She forced herself to turn to look at him. Jonathan. The face from her dreams. This time, he was not surrounded by vibrant colour but starkly outlined against the venerable grey stone of the church. And still he was beautiful.

‘Lord Portbury,’ she said softly, trying to withdraw her arm from his clasp without seeming to struggle. ‘We did not look to see you in Fratcombe again so soon.’ That sounded suitably polite. And distant, too.

‘I’m afraid I arrived too late to attend divine service this morning. I was apologising to the rector, but he will have none of it.’

‘Do you tell me, Jonathan, that you have been travelling on the Sabbath?’ Mrs Aubrey wagged a finger at him. ‘Fie on you, sir. I hope the rector has reproved you soundly.’

‘Unfortunately not, ma’am.’ He was grinning like a naughty schoolboy.

‘No, indeed,’ the rector put in, ‘for what good would it do? But you may take him to task yourself, Caro. I have invited him home to dine with us.’

It was almost over. He must go soon, surely? He seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time to drink a single cup of coffee.

Beth concentrated on listening to the rector’s words. And trying to avoid Jonathan’s eyes.

At last, he rose from his place by the rector and crossed to the table where Beth sat over the tea and coffee pots. He was simply doing her the courtesy of returning his empty cup. Now, he would certainly go!

He seemed a little hesitant. He stood over Beth, but made no move to put down his cup. He half-turned to glance at Mrs Aubrey, and then back to Beth. His behaviour was most disconcerting, and it was making Beth’s inner turmoil even worse. She had known and admired him as a decisive man. What had happened to him during his absence from Fratcombe?

The thought settled around her like a shroud. He was going to announce that he was about to marry again. Yes, that must be it. It was common knowledge in Fratcombe that his mother had been inviting all the most eligible young ladies of the ton to visit King’s Portbury. Even a duke’s daughter, according to the lodge-keeper. Beth told herself it was only what he deserved. He had an ancient title and needed a wife of suitable rank. A duke’s daughter would suit admirably.

Beth tensed her muscles, held her breath and waited for the words she was dreading. She was resolved that she would not betray, by the slightest blush or blink, that his news was a disappointment. For who was she, the supposed Elizabeth Aubrey, to believe she had any claim on such a man? She was, as he said, a foundling. A nobody. Not even high enough to be a friend.

‘Mrs Aubrey, you and the rector have given me the friendliest possible welcome on my return, by inviting me to your table. I am truly grateful. But I wonder if I might impose on you even more? I should very much like to take a turn round your garden before I return to the Manor.’

What on earth was he talking about? Walking round the garden? At the beginning of October?

‘I could not help but notice that some of your trees are looking very fine in their early autumn colours. Especially in the late afternoon light.’

‘I did not have you down as a garden lover, Jonathan,’ the rector said with a hint of laughter in his gentle voice. ‘But even if it be a recent conversion, I will not deny you.’ He made to rise. ‘My dear, will you-?’

Mrs Aubrey shook her head, settling herself more comfortably.

Jonathan quickly raised his hand. ‘Forgive me, sir, Mrs Aubrey, I did not mean to impose my whims on you. Pray do not disturb yourselves on my account.’

The rector nodded and sank back gratefully into his seat. ‘I am sure Beth would welcome a chance to take a stroll, after sitting for so long listening to an old man prosing on.’

‘Come, come, my child,’ the rector said, when Beth began to protest, ‘we cannot let our guest wander our shrubberies without escort. Spare my old bones, if you would be so good.’

Beth knew she was about to lose. She threw one pleading glance at Mrs Aubrey, in hopes that the old lady would change her mind and accompany them, but Mrs Aubrey was gazing at the rector with concern.

‘I am a little tired, Caro, that is all. Sunday is not a day of rest for the clergy, you know.’ He chuckled. ‘I am saving my strength for evensong.’

Mrs Aubrey seemed to be reassured, for her features softened. She turned to Beth instead. ‘And you, my dear. Do make sure you take a wrap with you. The afternoons soon grow chilly at this time of year.’

Beth nodded and looked around for her shawl. She had had it earlier, but in the confusion of the moment, she could not remember where she had laid it down. Before she could move an inch, Jonathan came forward with it in his hands and stroked it round her shoulders without even asking leave. His touch was so caressing that her skin began to burn. Her mouth was suddenly too dry to say a word, even though she knew she ought to upbraid him for taking such a liberty.

He was smiling down at her. ‘Shall we, ma’am? Before the sun goes down and we lose the last of the warmth?’

She gave a tiny nod. It was the most she could manage. Together they strolled out through the French windows and into the garden.

They had gone the length of the shrubbery path before Beth forced herself to break the silence. ‘For a garden lover, sir, you are paying remarkably little attention to the turning trees.’ She had not meant it to sound like an accusation of bad faith, but it did. She could not help herself. She was barely in control.

His voice, when it came, was strained. ‘Miss Aubrey. Miss Beth. I was hoping for a moment’s private conversation with you. My excuse was clumsy, I am afraid.’ He stopped dead. Beth had no choice but to do the same. He took a sideways step so that he was standing in front of her. ‘There are…er…things I need to say to you.’

Beth’s heart began to beat very fast. He was going to do her the courtesy of confiding his plans in private. That was more than she had looked for. He really was treating her like a friend. A tiny spark of warmth flickered around her heart but quickly died. This friendship would be doused as easily as an uncertain flame.

He was gazing out over Beth’s head towards the trees and the graveyard beyond, but he was focused on nothing. ‘I…er…I have decided that I must remarry. It is essential, given my position in society. There needs to be a Countess of Portbury. And…er-’ He glanced down into Beth’s face at that moment. She saw the hint of embarrassment in his eyes, though he was not blushing.

Beth’s emotions might be in confusion, but she was not fool enough to mistake his meaning. He needed a wife, and then a son.

‘I have considered carefully. I find I do not hold with these new-fangled notions of love.’ He was trying to sound matter of fact and uncaring. Perhaps, when it came to marriage, he was both of those? ‘I do not believe in such things. A man must choose a partner who suits him in every way-a lady who will grace his table and take charge of his household, a lady who will create a comfortable, restful home, a refuge where a man can take his ease.’

A refuge? It was clearly of huge importance to Jonathan. Beth was not quite sure why that should be. Perhaps it was to do with his time in Spain? It was strange that such a strong man could also seem so vulnerable.

He took a deep breath. It would be now. He was going to tell her the name of the lady he had chosen to share his peaceful refuge. ‘I can tell from your face that I am making a mull of this. Forgive me. It is not often a man puts such thoughts into words. I was trying only to describe…to set out what I seek. I would not, for the world, mislead you about my motives.’ Abruptly, he took both her hands in his. It was a gesture of kindness, the gesture of one friend to another. But now he was silent, waiting for her to speak.

Beth gulped. ‘I…I never doubted your intentions, sir,’ she said. It was a rather bald reassurance, but it was the most she could manage.

‘No, you would not. You see good in everything, and everyone.’

Beth felt the beginnings of heat on her neck. Such a simple compliment, but she was blushing. He was still holding her hands in his. She looked down at them, just as he gave her fingers a tiny squeeze. That was a shock. Beth jerked her gaze up from their clasped hands to his face.

‘Beth, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. Her head began to spin. Soon she was swaying on her feet. I am going to faint. But I never faint.

He caught her by the shoulders as she staggered, and then he steered her to the bench beneath the massive beech. Its leaves were beginning to turn brown, but most of them still clung to the parent tree. He guided her onto the seat and unceremoniously pushed her head down between her knees. ‘I have shocked you. It was not my intention.’

After a few moments, she straightened. Her eyes were very wide, and very dark in her ashen face. ‘It is unkind of you to make a may-game of me, sir.’ Her voice cracked. She looked away.

Good God! She did not believe he meant those words, the most difficult for any man to utter. Jon had been standing over her, watching her, worrying. Now, he threw himself on to the seat beside her and seized both her hands. He was not about to let them go until he had received his answer.

‘Beth, I value your good opinion far too much to do any such thing. We are friends, surely? Friends do not… Beth, I would never mock you. My proposal is utterly sincere. You are the most restful woman of my acquaintance. I know it is a rather bloodless union that I am offering you, but there must be honesty between us. I will not attempt to dupe you with false protestations of love. For you are not an empty-headed chit who takes her notions from the pages of the latest romantic novel. You are sensible, and practical. I had hoped that my offer would tempt you: a home of your own where you could be mistress; a proper station in society. It would give you certainty, Beth. You would have your rightful place. Will you have me?’