Contrary to her resolve of the night before, by the next day Julia found herself going about in what could best be called a daze. She could not stop thinking about Robert Carstairs to the point she could think of nothing else. During the morning she told herself she absolutely was not going to meet him at the ruins as he requested. By noon she was considering the possibility she might see him just one more time. What harm would it do? Then she would never see him again.

By mid-afternoon, not only had her resolve completely crumbled, she was trying to decide which of her paintings she should take to Swindon Abbey. Frames were out of the question, but many of her paintings had never seen the light of day and were rolled up and put away. She chose five of what she considered her best and rolled them together, after which she bathed and called upon a rather perplexed Yvette to help with her gown and hair.

“You are dressing for dinner rather early this evening,” commented Yvette, helping her into a simple gown of light-green calico.

“I suppose I am.” Julia hated having to sound so vague, but with a houseful of sharp-eyed relatives, plus servants who always knew everything, carrying out any sort of deception was never easy.

But she managed. During a quiet moment in the late afternoon, carrying her roll of paintings, she slipped from the house. What would one more meeting hurt? She would see Robert Carstairs one more time and that was positively all.

When she reached the ruins, she discovered Robert sitting on the same stone slab where they’d sat before, his long legs stretched comfortably before him. He rose to greet her, not seeming at all surprised she had come. “Ah, you brought the paintings.” He took the roll of paintings from her hand. “Let’s have a look.”

One by one, he laid them on the flat part of the slab and examined each carefully. “Beautiful,” he said of her special favourite which featured swirling clouds over the ancient stone monks’ quarters. “The depth makes me feel as if I’m there.” Another painting featured the still-intact south-west tower of the church, its dark stones etched against a brilliant sunset. After he scrutinized it carefully, he remarked, “Excellent! What harmonious colours! Your remarkable talent oozes from every brush stroke.”

By the time he finished, she was positively glowing from his praise. “You’re very kind,” she said.

“You’re a gifted artist. I’m surprised no one has recognized your work.”

She smiled dryly. “I shall only be recognized for my ‘work’ when I manage to find a husband.”

“Ah yes, we mustn’t forget old Charles.” He shrugged with disinterest. “But let’s not think of him right now.”

“I’d rather not.”

After he re-rolled the last of her paintings, they sat on the slab and continued to chat. She did her best to fully engage in whatever inconsequential topic they were discussing, but she found herself so aware of his presence she soon realized there were, in essence, two conversations going on. One had to do with the obvious — their spoken words; the other, so much more subtle, had to do with the intense waves of attraction that coursed back and forth between them. She could tell from the admiration gleaming in his eyes he found her desirable. In turn, his very nearness so made her senses spin it was all she could do to nod politely and respond in a normal voice.

At last, in the midst of his description of some ancient abbey, he stopped abruptly. Drawing in a sharp breath, he clasped her upper arms and declared, “Enough of this farce. You know I’m deucedly attracted to you, don’t you? So much so I—” He bent forwards as if to kiss her.

Finally. She pursed her lips, eagerly awaiting the crush of his mouth upon hers, but instead he abruptly dropped his hands and pulled away. Muttering a “Damn it,” he stood and walked a few steps from the slab. For a long moment he remained with his back to her, staring at the pink and gold streaked remnants of the sunset. Finally he turned to face her. “We can’t do this,” he said, his voice thick with intensity. A touch of irony in his words, he continued, “You must forgive me, Miss Winslow. I fear your charm and beauty are so compelling I was carried away and momentarily forgot you belong to Charles.”

“I do not belong to Charles or anyone else,” she sharply declared, keenly disappointed he hadn’t kissed her.

“Are you not betrothed to my brother?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You haven’t?”

“I told him I would like to think about it.”

He thought a moment. “But surely you will.”

“Whether I will or whether I won’t is none of your concern, Mr Carstairs. Suffice to say that at this moment I am most definitely not betrothed to Lord Melton or anyone else.” She pointed to where he had been sitting. “Now will you please come back and finish what you started?” She was astonished at herself. Never in all her twenty-two years had she spoken so boldly to a man, but she so badly wanted him to kiss her that at that moment she didn’t care.

Her answer seemed to satisfy him, for he swiftly returned to her side, seized her in his arms and crushed his lips to hers. She kissed him eagerly in return, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still. She found the touch of his lips such a delicious sensation that when they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she immediately wanted more. Their lips met again. They continued on in a series of slow, shivery kisses that put her in such a world of dreamy intimacy she forgot time, place and every admonition her mother ever gave her.

Her heart lurched with excitement when he leaned her back on the slab and she felt his hand slide up her side. As it slid ever higher, a delicious current of wanting ran through her. His hand had just cupped her breast when—

“Bleaaah!”

Startled, they abruptly pulled apart and looked to see where the sound had come from.

“It’s one of the goats,” said Robert. They both broke into laughter at the sight of the bearded animal only a few feet away, at that moment engaged in munching on a shrub.

Sanity returned to her befuddled brain. She sat up and smoothed her hair. “What were we thinking of?” she asked, fully aware she would surely have continued had the goat not intruded.

He inhaled deeply. “You’re right. What were we thinking of?”

She saw that darkness had fallen. “I must be getting home. My family will be wondering where I am.”

“Of course.”

Thoughts of her family quickly returned her the rest of the way to stark, cold reality. What if the goat hadn’t come along? Would she and Robert have stopped? What if she had actually made all-the-way love with Robert Carstairs? Good grief, was she about to? The man had got her so hot with desire, so aching for his touch she doubted she could have mustered the strength to say no. In fact, she’d been so carried away she suspected the word no would not have even crossed her mind.

“We had best not see each other again,” she said.

“Nonsense. I’ll meet you here tomorrow. Make it two o’clock. Bring your horse. We’ll go riding.”

The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself she must never again be alone with Robert Carstairs, not if she valued her reputation and, in fact, her entire future. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.” He bowed slightly, his eyes full of mischief. “I value your friendship, Miss Winslow, as I hope you do mine. From now on we shall meet as friends.”

“Nothing more?” she asked, highly sceptical.

“Nothing more. I give you my word.”

Deep in her heart she didn’t believe him, but she could not bear the thought of not seeing him again. “Tomorrow. We’ll go riding — just for a little while, and just as friends.”

For Julia, the days that followed were the happiest of her life. She and Robert went riding every day, following the beautiful trails that led through the thick bordering woods or along the nearby river. Occasionally they passed Hatfield Manor’s gamekeeper’s lodge where Robert said he was staying.

“You don’t stay with Charles in the mansion?” she had asked.

“I told you Charles bores me to distraction,” Robert had replied with a grin. “I prefer to be alone and, besides, my stay is only temporary. I shall be leaving for London soon on business.” He’d feigned a lecherous expression and enquired, “Would you care to visit me in the gamekeeper’s lodge? You’re welcome any time, you know. We would be entirely alone.”

She’d laughed as he intended, but the very thought of being alone in a secluded place with Robert Carstairs gave her a secret shiver of delight.

Robert always brought along the makings of a picnic in his saddlebag. Every day they would stop at some beautiful spot along the way to eat and just talk. “Thanks to Charles’ cook we’ve got bread, cheese, fruit and chicken,” he told her the first time they stopped. “And—” he held up a sterling silver hip flask “—a bit of brandy to keep us warm in case a storm should strike.”

They talked of many things: her art, the buildings he’d designed, the ancient monasteries he’d visited and what he would do to restore them. True to his word, he made no further advances. On the surface she was grateful, yet secretly she yearned for his touch — more each day if that were possible — to the point where she thought she would scream if he mentioned one more time what good “friends” they were.

But she was well aware the idyllic days she was spending with Robert must soon end. So far she had managed to keep their trysts a secret, but how long could that last? And what did it matter? The two weeks Lord Melton was spending at his hunting lodge were nearly at an end. Soon he would return, ready to hear her answer.

Late one afternoon when Julia arrived home from a delightful afternoon with Robert, her grandmother summoned her to the drawing room. “Sit down, Julia.” Spying the sketch pad in her granddaughter’s hands, she lifted a sceptical eyebrow. “So you’ve been out sketching the ruins again?”

Julia immediately caught her meaning. Every time she’d left the mansion to meet with Robert, she’d made a show of bringing along her sketch pad. She hadn’t used it once. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she began, but her grandmother raised a hand.

“A rumour has reached my ears that you’ve been out roaming the countryside with Robert Carstairs. Is that right?”

Julia nodded. She could never lie to her grandmother. “How did you know?”

“How could I not know? Did you think such a juicy bit of gossip would escape the servants’ notice? Not that I care what you do, but your mother is sure to find out. Soon, I suspect, and you must be prepared. Are you in love with him?”

Julia was not given to excess, but her grandmother’s abrupt question caused her to burst out, “I adore him, Granny! Robert Carstairs is everything I ever wanted in a man. He’s a talented artist, as well as an architect. He has a love of the old monastic ruins, just as I do. Sometimes we talk about them for hours. We talk about all sorts of things. He’s never boring, he’s—”

“Slow down, missy,” Granny said with a smile. “My, my, he must be a remarkable man indeed. Have you kissed him?”

Julia felt a slow blush creep over her cheeks. “Yes, I kissed him, and it was … it was …”

“You needn’t go on. I get the point. What about Lord Melton?”

In the wake of her grandmother’s penetrating question, Julia’s euphoria quickly slipped away. “How can I marry Lord Melton when I have fallen madly in love with his brother?” She shook her head in dismay. “But if I don’t marry him, I’ll break Mother’s heart.”

“You must make a decision, and soon.”

“But I’m not sure what to do.”

“It’s simple. Either you follow your head or you follow your heart. Has Robert Carstairs proposed?”

“No, but I think he loves me.”

Granny shook her head in sympathy. “You poor girl, such a dilemma.”

“I’m meeting Robert tomorrow. Lord Melton returns the day after.” Julia gave her grandmother a rueful smile. “By then I’ll make my decision. If it kills me, I won’t be one of those wishy-washy women who can’t make up their minds.”

That night Julia lay awake staring into the darkness. Talking to Granny was one thing, but what, in reality, was she going to say to Robert? After all, he had not proposed, nor had he declared his love for her. In fact, since that never-to-be-forgotten kiss that the goat interrupted, he had behaved like a perfect gentleman, truly being nothing more than a friend. Perhaps that was how he thought of her — as just a friend. But if that were true, what were those messages of attraction and passion she had seen deep in his eyes when they talked? Had she been mistaken?