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youthful and inexperienced. She couldn't understand why. The men she knew, young and old alike, had all seemed to find her attention something to be desired, whereas Patrick Hardy treated her with complete indifference. Why? Had his years in Venezuela affected him to such an extent that he no longer required any form of feminine companionship? Julie had said he was devoted to his work. Was she right? Or was there some woman back in – where was it he said he worked? – Maracaibo? – waiting for him? Ruth realised she found that idea totally unacceptable …

      Hooking her thumbs into the low belt of her trousers, she scuffed her heels impatiently and he turned back to her.

      “What's wrong? Are you offended because I refused your invitation?”

      Ruth's dark lashes lifted. “And if I was?”

      He tugged absently at his ear. “Then I should apologise, of course.”

      She still had the distinct impression he was mocking her, and it was infuriating. But before she had chance to reply the maid returned to clear the table. Turning to her, Ruth said: “Do you know if Miss Julie is up yet? We're going riding.”

      The maid put her tray down on the table. “I took Miss Julie's breakfast in to her half an hour ago, miss, but she wasn't at all well. She said she had a terrible headache after the party last evening. I'm sure I don't know whether she'll be fit to go riding.”

      Ruth sighed in exasperation, and without a backward glance she marched out of the morning room and took the stairs two at a time. At Julie's door she composed herself for a moment before tapping lightly on the panels, and at Julie's: “Come in!” she entered, closing the door behind her.

      “Oh, hello, Ruth,” Julie exclaimed, putting a hand across her forehead. “I hoped you'd come. I feel awful!”

      “Yes, so the maid just informed me. What's wrong? Didn't you sleep well?”

      “Oh, yes, I slept all right. It's just this terrible migraine of mine. You know I get it from time to time. Well, I think all the noise last night must have started it off again.”

      “I see.” Ruth thrust her hands into her trousers’ pockets. “So you won't be going riding.”

      “I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Ruth.”

      “Don't be silly. It's not your fault. But it's a glorious morning. Frosty, of course, but the sun's breaking through.”

      “Well, you go if you want to,” suggested Julie. “Ask Mike to join you. He could use my horse.”

      “I doubt whether Mike is even awake yet,” replied Ruth dampeningly. “Don't concern yourself, Julie. I shan't go. I might even decide to drive back to town after all.”

      “This morning?”

      “Why not? There's not much else to do.”

      “Oh, dear!” Julie propped herself up on her elbows. “Don't do that, Ruth. I've had my tablets and I'll probably be fine by lunchtime. Why don't you stay over until tomorrow? You've got no particular reason to get back to town, have you? You can always telephone your father.”

      Ruth hesitated. “I don't know,” she began.

      “Well, think about it,” appealed Julie. “Please. And don't go before lunch whatever you decide.”

      “All right.” Ruth smiled at her friend's concerned face. “I won't.” She turned towards the door. “I'll go now and leave you to get some rest. We can talk later.”

      “Marvellous!”

      Julie sank back on her pillows looking pale and drawn, and Ruth let herself quietly out of the door.

      As she descended the stairs again she saw Patrick Hardy standing in the hall. Slowing her step, she half wished she could have turned and gone back up again without him seeing her, but he had heard her. He came to the foot of the stairs and resting one hand on the banister, said: “How is Julie?”

      Ruth halted two steps above him. “She has a migraine.”

      “So she won't be going riding?”

      “No.”

      “Will you?”

      “On my own? No, thanks.” Ruth was abrupt.

      Patrick regarded her mutinous face tolerantly for a minute, and then he said quietly, but distinctly: “I didn't mean you to go alone. I'll come with you – if you still want me to.”

      Ruth stared at him with the warm colour rising in her cheeks. “You don't have to do that.”

      “I know I don't have to. Do you want to go, or don't you?”

      Ruth took a deep breath. “I'd love to,” she answered simply.

      “Good.” He moved away from the stairs. “Then I suggest you go and put on some more clothes. I'll wait for you in the lounge.”

      “All right.”

      Ruth nodded, and turning sped back up the stairs. The blood was pounding through her veins, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy out of all proportion to the occasion. It was the very last thing she had expected, but there had been no thought of refusal.

      Zipping herself into a warm navy blue parka, she tried to school herself to calmness. What was she about to do, after all, but go riding with a cousin of Julie's father? That should be nothing to get so excited about, and she was courting trouble if she thought it was. It was simply that Patrick Hardy was a kind and polite man, taking pity on her because her friend wasn't well. He didn't really want to take her riding. The situation had practically been forced upon him.

      Downstairs, she entered the lounge with a faint sense of trepidation to find Patrick standing by the windows, a warm sheepskin coat accentuating his dark masculinity. He turned at her entrance and said: “I've told Cook where we're going. Apparently no one else is up yet.”

      Ruth made a gesture of acquiescence and then they both moved out into the hall. He had apparently informed the groom, too, that they intended going riding, because as they descended the steps at the front of the house, a stable boy appeared leading their two mounts.

      It was exhilarating to have the wind tugging her hair, tangling it into wild disorder, as they went down the drive and across the road and into the meadow. A rime frost had cast a film of white over the grasses and they crunched with a curiously satisfying sound under the horses’ feet.

      They didn't speak much to begin with. Patrick was obviously in no hurry, allowing his mount to pick its way as he took an encompassing look at the countryside. Ruth, on the other hand, was accustomed to these surroundings, and she gave the mare its head, galloping on with careless grace.

      Eventually he caught up with her and their pace slowed to negotiate a belt of trees, coming out on to a grassy hillside overlooking a village in a valley, the sound of church bells ringing in the clear air.

      “There's nowhere in the world where the sound of church bells on a Sunday morning sounds quite so charming,” remarked Patrick, reining in beside her, and taking out his case of cheroots. Cradling the lighter against the wind, he lit one of the narrow cigars and exhaled blue smoke with enjoyment. “We have churches in Puerto Roca, but their bells never sound like this.”

      “Puerto Roca?” Ruth frowned. “That's where you live?”

      Patrick nodded. “That's right.” He dismounted. “Shall we walk?”

      They walked in companionable silence for a while, leading the horses, until Ruth said: “How long do you expect to stay in England, Mr. Hardy?”

      Patrick shrugged. “Six or seven weeks. I'm not sure. Why?”

      He was very direct and Ruth flushed. “I was interested, that's all. Perhaps you'd like to come and have dinner with my father and myself one evening when you're in London.”

      “That's very kind of you.”

      He