Sir Ashley's Mettlesome Match. Mary Nichols

      ‘Oh, yes, my dear. My heart beats as everyone’s does. Here.’ Before she could stop him he had grabbed her hand and laid it flat over his heart, where she felt its solid beating beneath her palm. It had a strange effect on her own heartbeat, which suddenly became erratic and unduly loud, as if to prove it was every bit as efficient as his. It took her breath away and, for a moment, she could neither move nor speak. She was hurtled back in time, to the days before Edward Cadogan turned his back on her. He had made the same gesture to prove his constancy. ‘Two hearts beating as one,’ he had said. And what an empty gesture that had been! She would not succumb again. She would not! She pulled her hand away and made a pretence of fumbling for her handkerchief in the pocket of her cloak.

      ‘Allow me,’ he said, handing her his own pristine square of cambric. She took it and squeezed it into a ball in her fist. She did not speak, not even to thank him.

      They journeyed in silence for several minutes but they could not go all the way to Narbeach without speaking; the atmosphere was tense enough without that. ‘Let us call a truce,’ he said. ‘After all, we both want the same thing—freedom for your cousin, the end of crime and bloodshed. And a peaceful life. Do you not agree?’

      ‘Yes,’ she murmured.

      He held out his hand. ‘Then let us shake hands on it.’

      She took his hand. It was warm and dry and his grip firm. ‘I am sorry, Sir Ashley. It is only my anxiety that makes me flare up,’ she said. ‘I do it far too often. It is all on account of my hair …’

      ‘Your hair?’ he queried, ‘What has your hair to do with it?’

      ‘It is red,’ she said.

      He pretended to study it. ‘So it is,’ he agreed mildly.

      ‘Red hair is supposed to denote a quick temper,’ she said. ‘I am afraid, in my case, it is true. It is also said to be unlucky. Some people of a superstitious nature turn away from me. Some go as far as to say it is the mark of the devil and cross themselves.’

      ‘Then they are ignorant bigots.’

      ‘Are you married?’ she asked suddenly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’ll wager you would not marry a red-haired woman.’

      ‘My dear Miss Kingslake,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘are you proposing to me?’

      Her face turned nearly as red as her hair. ‘Certainly not! I have no wish to marry you or anyone.’

      ‘Oh, dear, that has put me in my place.’ But he was laughing.

      ‘My question was purely hypothetical,’ she said.

      ‘Then I will answer it. Purely hypothetically, of course. The colour of a lady’s hair would not influence me if all her other attributes were favourable. And if I were in love.’

      ‘You believe in love overcoming all, then?’

      ‘Of course. Without it the world would be a poorer place.’ He didn’t know why he said that. Love had never entered his head before. Desire, perhaps, but that was not the same thing at all; one involved the physical senses and the other the emotions, and he had schooled himself not to become emotional. In his mind he related it to weakness. Still, his contemporaries James, Jonathan and Harry were far from weak and yet all three loved their wives at a time when being in love with one’s wife was considered eccentric.

      ‘Have you ever fallen in love?’

      ‘My dear, I do it all the time. At least once a month.’ His flippancy hid his confusion. Confusion was something else he did not allow himself.

      ‘Now you are roasting me.’

      ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘What other attributes?’ she asked, going back to his reply.

      ‘Why, she must be good-natured, generous, sympathetic to others, well read, able to converse properly without simpering and she must love me, of course.’

      ‘You say nothing of her colouring, dark or fair, or coming from a good family, or having a generous dowry …’

      ‘A woman with all those virtues would be beautiful, whatever the colour of her hair. As for a dowry, that is unimportant. I have no need of it.’

      ‘And have you found such a one?’

      ‘No, which is why, once a month, I am disappointed.’

      ‘You are teasing me again.’

      ‘It amuses me.’

      ‘Perhaps you do not come up to the ladies’ expectations. Have you thought of that?’

      ‘It is a possibility, I suppose,’ he said, pretending to give it some thought. ‘But as I have no wish to be married, I have never asked any of them what those expectations might be.’

      ‘I surmise you have had many mistresses.’

      ‘Well, you see,’ he said with a deep sigh, ‘they flock round me. I cannot seem to help it.’

      She laughed. ‘How vain you are.’

      ‘No, simply truthful. Now are you going to tell me why you have no wish to marry? Have you had a surfeit of lovers, none of whom has lived up to your expectations?’

      ‘Oh, of course,’ she lied.

      He knew she lied. She had been badly hurt in the past, he decided, and it had something to do with the colour of her hair. He could not believe anyone would be so unkind as to turn her down on those grounds. Why, he thought its richness was an asset and it certainly would not deter him, if he were ever to think of marriage, which of course he would not.

      ‘What are those expectations, apart from liking the colour of your hair, I mean?’

      It was impossible to be offended by him. They were, after all, simply enjoying a light-hearted exchange of views, a small flirtation, which, she guessed, was intended to take her mind off the problem of her cousin. ‘He should be good-natured, generous, sympathetic to others, well read, able to converse without simpering,’ she said, repeating his own words with a mischievous smile. ‘And he must love me.’

      ‘To distraction?’

      ‘Oh, definitely to distraction.’

      ‘'Tis a pity that we have both eschewed marriage,’ he said with another sigh. ‘We might have made a match of it.’ He paused to look at her. She was pensive, as if her mind had flown to some other place, some other time. ‘But perhaps we can be friends.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Friendship is safer.’ It was a strange thing to say, but he did not comment.

      Instead he changed the subject abruptly. ‘Your aunt will no doubt be upset to think of Ben in Norwich Castle, but we shall have him out of there tomorrow, I promise you. And as you are concerned that I shall roast him, I think you and your aunt should accompany me to Norwich to make sure I do not.’

      ‘Both of us?’

      ‘I think Mrs Whiteside might be glad of your presence. She seems a rather excitable lady and I am not skilled in dealing with distraught mothers.’

      ‘Very well. We will put it to her.’

      Augusta had been pacing the floor of the Windward House drawing room for hours, refusing to eat, drink or even sit down. As soon as she saw Pippa, she flung herself at her. ‘There you are at last. Where is he? Where is my boy?’

      ‘Calm yourself, Aunt,’ Pippa said, leading her to a sofa and drawing her down beside her. ‘Ben is to be let out tomorrow.’

      ‘Tomorrow! Why not today? What have they done with him?’

      Pippa looked up at Ash, who was standing looking down at them. ‘Madam,’ he said, coming to her rescue. ‘Lord Borrowdale