“Good to be back,” Westhaven said. “My thanks for keeping an eye on things here, and Amery and his neighboring relations send their felicitations.”

“By that you mean, Greymoor recalled I outbid him for the little mare he wanted for his countess and has decided to let bygones be bygones.”

“He sent his felicitations,” the earl repeated, “as does Heathgate, who as magistrate provided us most gracious hospitality these past days while the fire was being investigated. Have we anything to eat?”

“I can see to that,” Anna said. “Why don’t you wash off the dust of the road, and I’ll have your luncheon served on the terrace.”

“Join us?” the earl said, laying a hand on her arm.

Her eyes met his, and she saw he would not argue, but he was asking. She nodded and made for the kitchen, trying to muster a scold for giving in to his foolishness. At Willowdale, she’d been a guest of the Marquis and Marchioness of Heathgate, as Heathgate served as the local magistrate. There she’d been treated as a guest and as the earl’s respected… what? Friend? His fiancée? His… nothing. Certainly not his housekeeper. Anna had allowed the fiction out of manners and out of a sense it was the last chapter in her dealings with Westhaven, an unreal series of days that allowed them a great deal of freedom in each other’s company.

And at night, he’d stolen into her room, slipped into her bed, and held her in his arms while they talked until they both fell asleep. He’d told her stories of growing up among a herd of the duke’s offspring on the rambling acres of Morelands, of his last parting from his brother Bart, and his suspicions regarding a second ducal grandchild.

She told him what it was like to grow up secure in her grandparents’ love, surrounded by acres of flowers and hot houses and armies of gardeners. But mostly, Anna had listened. She listened to his voice, deep, masculine, and beautiful in the darkness. She listened to his hands, to the patterns of tenderness and possession they traced on her bare skin. She listened to his body, becoming as familiar to her as her own, and to the way he used it to express both affection and protectiveness. She listened to his mind, to the discipline with which he used it to provide for all whom he cared for.

She listened to his heart and heard it silently—and unsuccessfully—plead with her for her trust.

“And there be our bird,” the dirty little man cackled to an even dirtier little boy.