awoke slowly, aware first of something soft beneath me, then a low murmur of voices nearby. I could not make sense of where I was. It was not home; it didn’t smell like home. I knew I should open my eyes, but somehow I could not. So I lay still and listened to the murmur. It was very pleasant. It reminded me of something from my childhood—when I fell asleep in the carriage at night and heard my parents talking softly around me.

The carriage.

My memory came flooding back to me all at once, so vivid that I gasped out loud. The murmuring stopped, and I felt someone bend over me.

“Well? Are you finally coming to?”

The abrasive voice sounded vaguely familiar. I wrenched my eyelids open and looked into the no-nonsense face of the innkeeper’s wife. Close as she was, I could smell the garlic on her breath and count four long hairs growing from the mole on her cheek. Both served to waken my senses immediately.

“I thought you were going to faint,” she said, “and sure enough, you did.”

As I sat up, I felt an excruciating headache swell behind my eyes. I put my hand on my forehead and looked around carefully, trying not to move my head too much. I could see now that I was in some sort of parlor. A table in the middle of the room was set with food. There was a fireplace at one end and curtained windows along the long wall.

The woman’s beefy hands encircled my arms, and she pulled me to my feet. She led me to the table. “Sit down and eat,” she commanded. I obeyed her first order, grateful to be off my wobbly legs. She glanced behind me and asked, “Is there anything else, sir?”

I looked quickly over my shoulder and immediately regretted the action, as it made my head swim and the pounding intensify. I pressed both hands to my forehead as that hateful man said something to the woman—I hardly heard what—and she walked out of the room without a backward glance, closing the door firmly behind her.

The gentleman—no, he was not a gentleman; there was nothing gentle about him, he was just a plain man—did not leave with her, but he did approach the table so that I needn’t turn my head to look at him. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was watching me. It was very unnerving. I could only imagine how I must look after traveling all day, falling out of a carriage, lifting a bloody man, and then fainting. I grimaced at the thought.

He stepped forward and asked, “Are you hurt?”

I looked at him appraisingly. He looked genuinely concerned, which surprised me.

“No,” I answered, but my voice sounded rough, my throat as dry as stale bread. I reached for the glass at my elbow and drank, hoping to clear my head a little. I decided some food was a good idea and that I would just ignore the odious man until he left.

My plan did not work.

He was so obtuse he actually walked to the chair opposite mine and asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”

I wished I could think clearly. Where was my quick wit when I needed it? There was no civil way to refuse him, and I was too tired to think of a witty retort. I shook my head and watched him walk to the door. He opened it before sitting across from me. I felt instantly more comfortable, not even aware that I had been tense about being alone with a strange man behind a closed door. As I ate, the pounding in my head turned into a slight tapping, then the low hum of a dull headache.

The man did not eat at all. He only sat there and drank a little, all the while watching me as if I might fall off my chair at any moment. I was still intending to ignore him, but I found myself studying his face in quick glances. In the tumult of the earlier commotion, I had not noticed his features before. Now that I was at liberty to see him clearly, I was dismayed by how handsome he was. He had chestnut-brown, wavy hair and a solid jaw. I wondered what color his eyes were. He obliged me by looking up suddenly.

Oh. Blue. Yes, an extraordinarily handsome face, I thought, and then I realized that I had been caught staring at him. I quickly lowered my gaze, feeling my face burn. He was handsome. That made everything worse. The food had enlivened my senses, and I soon felt with full force the awkwardness of my situation.

Resentment flared within me as I remembered his snub and the way he had looked at me when I first entered the inn. He had undoubtedly thought I was some sort of common person beneath his notice. The fact that I had looked like an unkempt milkmaid did nothing to lessen the sting. It also did not help that he was not talking to me at all. Well, he thought he was dining with some vulgar person. Of course he would not make conversation. Arrogant, hateful man! Resentment and embarrassment burned into hot anger within me.

I glanced up at him from under my lashes. If a commoner is what he expected, then a commoner is what I would give him. He probably had no wit, like most handsome people. This would be easy.

“Thank you for the meal, sir,” I said demurely, imitating Betsy’s accent. I caught a brief look of surprise on his face.

“You’re welcome.” His expression was guarded, his eyes slightly confused. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, yes. Upon my word, I never had such a fine meal at home.”

He leaned back in his chair. “And where is home?” he asked. His voice was low and rich and very pleasant. I tried not to think about that.

“Oh, it’s just a little farm in the north part of Wiltshire County. But now I’m off to my aunt’s house, where she’s going to teach me to be a lady’s maid, which I think will be much better than milking cows.”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass as I took another drink. I thought I saw his lips twitch, but I was not sure.

“So you are... a dairymaid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many cows do you have?” he asked, a sly look flashing in his eyes.

I watched him carefully. “Four.” I wondered about that look.

“What are their names?”

“Who?” I asked, momentarily taken off guard.

“The cows.” He looked at me blandly. “Surely they have names.”

Did people name their cows? I had no idea. “Of course they have names.”

“And they are...?”

I saw an unmistakable twinkle in his blue eyes, and in that instant I realized with a start of surprise that he was playing with me. When he looked at me again, his face was carefully smooth, but his eyes looked too innocent. He was definitely playing with me. Well, he did not know how good I was at this game.

“Bessie, Daisy, Ginger, and Annabelle,” I answered coolly, challenging him with a look.

A look of pleasure passed over his face. “And when you milk them, you sing to them, do you not?”

“Naturally.”

Leaning toward me across the table, he gazed into my eyes and said, “I would love to hear what you sing to them.”

I gasped. Wicked, wicked man! I hesitated, not sure if I could carry this off. But then I saw a look of smugness in his expression. He thought he had already won! That settled it.

Hardly knowing what I was doing, I began to hit the table with one hand as I sang in a low voice, “Big cows”—thump—“lumps of meat”—thump. His eyes widened. “Give me milk”—thump—“warm and sweet.”

I stopped abruptly, pressing my lips together as I realized what I had just sung. The ridiculousness of it struck me forcibly, and I knew I could not go on without laughing. We stared at each other, locked in a stalemate, his eyes brimming with laughter, his lips trembling. My chin quivered. Against my will, a sound burst from me. It was a very unladylike snort.

He threw his head back and broke into a roar of laughter. It was the most infectious laugh I had ever heard. I joined him spontaneously, laughing until my throat ached and tears streamed down my cheeks. When I finally stopped, I felt a tremendous sense of release. I mopped at my face with a napkin.

“‘Lumps of meat’?” he chuckled.

“I was improvising,” I said.

He shook his head and looked at me with admiration. “That was... amazing.”

“Thank you,” I conceded with a smile.

He returned my smile for a moment, then suddenly leaned toward me across the table. “Shall we be friends now?”

I caught my breath. Did I want to be his friend? His eyes were lit up and warm and smiling into mine. “Yes.”

“Then, as friends, I must apologize for my behavior to you earlier. It was beyond rude—it was unpardonable—and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself for it. I beg you to forgive me.”

His sincerity cried out in every line of his face, every accent of his words. I had never expected my insult to be taken so much to heart. I was instantly contrite.

“Of course I will forgive you, if you will also forgive me for my rudeness. I should never have implied that you were...” I hated repeating the words, as I now realized how shockingly insulting I had been. I cleared my throat, looking down at my plate. “Not a gentleman,” I finished faintly.

“That was an implication?”

I glanced up at him.

He looked faintly amused, one eyebrow raised. “I feel sorry for the person you decide to insult.”

I grimaced, looking away with embarrassment. I was too much like Grandmother.

“But I deserved the rebuke, and you were right to deliver it. As a gentleman, I should have come to your aid no matter what your need. If I may offer a defense, though, I must clarify that my rudeness had nothing to do with you, and was simply a result of... trying circumstances earlier this evening. Your request, unfortunately, happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. But that is no excuse, and I am sorry that I added to your distress this evening.”

There was no smugness about him now. It took a strong man to say such things. I felt the honor of his humility, and I was strangely touched by it.

“Thank you,” I murmured. I did not know what else to say. I was completely disarmed.

“And you should know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “as entertaining as that charade was, nobody would have believed you were a dairymaid.”

“Are my acting skills so poor?” I asked defensively.

“I was not referring to your acting skills.” A small smile played around his mouth.

I tried to puzzle out his meaning, but without success. Curiosity tugged at me, leading me on when I should have shrugged off his comment.

“Then to what were you referring?” I asked.

“You must know.”

“No, I don’t.” I was frankly bothered by his refusal to explain himself.

“Very well.” In a voice as cool and detached as if he were critiquing a work of art, he said, “Starting at the top: your brow is marked with intelligence, your gaze is direct, your features are delicate, your skin is fair, your voice is refined, your speech reflects education...” He paused. “Even the way you hold your head is elegant.”

I was suddenly, excruciatingly self-conscious. I dropped my gaze, my face on fire.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly. “And then there is your modesty. No milkmaid could have blushed like that.”

To my mortification, I felt my blush deepen until the tips of my ears were tingling with the heat.

“Shall I continue?” he asked with a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“No, that is quite enough, thank you.” My grandmother would be having fits if she saw me right now. Inept did not begin to describe how I felt.

“Then may I ask you some questions?” He asked so politely that all I could do was nod.

He stood and walked around the table, stopping behind my chair to pull it out for me as I stood. Motioning toward two chairs angled in front of the fireplace, he said, “I believe you will be more comfortable by the fire.”

Hmm. He was thoughtful.

The fire crackled in welcome as we sat before it. I was pleasantly surprised to find the chair soft and comfortable, and I sank into it, suddenly aware of feeling sore and tired. He looked at the fire, and, now that I was at closer range, I took advantage of the opportunity to study him in more detail. In profile, as he was now, he looked youthful, with the firelight highlighting his fine features, his straight nose, the smoothness of his cheek, the soft curl falling over his brow. But that impression was dispelled when looking at him directly. There was a firmness around his mouth and a confidence in his eyes that defined him as a man who knew his place in the world: a man of authority.

The gentleman (I supposed I could grant him that title, if he continued to behave himself) asked, “Now that we have agreed you are not a milkmaid, would you mind telling me who you are?” He smiled so kindly, so worthy of my trust, that I felt no hesitation in confiding in him.

“Miss Marianne Daventry.”

His expression froze, his eyes narrowing as he looked hard at me.

I grew self-conscious under his scrutiny. “What is it? Do I look worse by firelight?”

A little smile touched his lips. “No, quite the contrary. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Daventry.” He turned his gaze back to the fire and said nothing more. I waited for a moment for him to finish the introduction.

“Do you intend to tell me your name?”

He hesitated, then said, very politely, “No, I would rather not.”