The Reluctant Guardian. Susanne Dietze

her hopes trailing his pea-green coattails. And she had Mr. Knox to thank.

      He couldn’t help his poor timing. But she could fault him his horrid manners.

      She skewered him with a scowl. “I am delighted my private affairs offered you a moment of diversion.” She twirled to leave.

      “Peace, Miss Lyfeld.” His fingers alit just above her elbow, searing her bare skin with heat. “My words did not come out as I wished. I am not known for making good company, I’m afraid. Forgive me?”

      He stood as close as Hugh had, near enough that she could smell leather and horse clinging to his black coat—and something else. The scent provoked long-forgotten memories of freedom, sending her pulse fluttering. No cologne or soap. He smelled like the forest. Wood and water.

      Words didn’t form, so she nodded and pulled from his light grasp, moving to the wide window, which afforded the best view in the house. Beyond the drive, where Hugh’s carriage toddled away, acres of heath and copses of trees led to the New Forest. Knolls of green, including their local landmark, Verity Hill, added texture to the prospect. But Gemma didn’t find the scenery picturesque today.

      “Such gloom on your features. Am I truly forgiven?”

      Since they had first met last week, he’d yet to look at her with such intensity, as if he truly cared what she thought. But of course he did not. What would he know—or care—of her plight, whose lone option was to go from one man’s household to another, provided her sister-in-law let her go and her intended groom worked up the courage to ask?

      “I cannot hold a grudge when God forgave me, can I?”

      His head tipped, sending a curl of rich brown hair onto his forehead like an upside-down question mark. “I see.”

      Did he? No matter. “Pardon me, but I am needed elsewhere.”

      With a nod, she left him leaning against the mantelpiece. She ascended the main stair with unladylike haste, entering Cristobel’s salon in a rush.

      Two ladies, one fair-haired, the other with curls the light brown color of Gemma’s, perched on Chippendale chairs, a tea tray set on the table before them. At Gemma’s entrance, her sister, Amy, rose, curls bobbing against her cheeks. “Well?”

      Their sister-in-law, Cristobel, grimaced. “Eight minutes, Gemma. And?”

      “He did not propose.” The words tasted like bile.

      Amy reached for Gemma’s hands. “I cannot believe it of Hugh.”

      “I can.” Cristobel shrugged, making her blond hair bounce against her shoulders. “He’s too much a coward to admit he wants out after all these years.”

      Gemma pulled away from her sister. “These years he’s been considerate, waiting while I was in mourning for Mama and Papa. And assisting you, Cristobel.” Through her nephews’ infancies, Gemma had nursed them in health and illness. It had taken Amy’s strong reminder of propriety—and her promise to cover all expenses—to persuade Peter and Cristobel to allow Gemma a come-out.

      “Considerate? He’s left you dangling for ages. For all your talk about his decency, that dandy has had years to come up to scratch. Instead, he’s left you unavailable to other gentlemen while your youth crumbles away.”

      “A betrothal was discussed.” Amy regained her seat.

      “Between parents who were too foolish to do more than daydream about a match.” Cristobel twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Now the notion is long dead, like them.”

      Gemma’s fingers clenched. “Six years may have passed, but there is nothing long dead in our grief.”

      “Of course not.” Cristobel’s eyes widened. “The way your mama and papa perished—well, a tragedy like that would haunt the person responsible forever, not that anyone believes it’s your fault, Gemma dear.”

      “Because it wasn’t my fault, Cristobel.” Gemma prayed her words were true. She turned to the door. “I require air.”

      “Take the boys with you. They need exercise,” Cristobel called after her.

      Amy followed her to her chamber. “You were not the cause of the fire at the dower house, Gemma. Everyone knows it.”

      Gemma yanked a bonnet and her cherry wool cloak from the wardrobe. She’d heard it countless times, but it never helped. “Thank you.”

      “Do you wish me to accompany you?”

      “I prefer solitude. I know Cristobel asked me to take the boys, but they nap at this time.”

      “If Cristobel ever visited the nursery, she’d know that.” Amy’s hand rested on Gemma’s arm, warming the same spot Mr. Knox had touched. Her eyes held a similar intensity, too. “You’re more of a mother to Petey and Eddie than she is.”

      “You mustn’t say that. But I shall miss the boys dreadfully while I’m in London.” She pushed away the sad thought. “Cristobel is wrong, you know. Hugh will propose, and when we wed, I will live next door and I shall see the boys every day.”

      Amy’s brows scrunched. “But do you wish to marry Hugh? I know it’s what our fathers wanted, but do you love him?”

      Gemma tied the bonnet’s pink ribbon under her chin with a fierce tug. “There is friendship between us. How many women can claim such blessing?”

      “Few. But I want love for you, too.”

      “Doing my duty and caring for our nephews—that is all I hope for.”

      “Perhaps God has more for you. Trust Him, Gemma.”

      Hot tears pricked the back of her eyes. She had set aside any such dreams long ago. Still, she nodded at her sister before she hurried outside.

      She strode down the drive in seconds, at such a pace. Angry as she was with Cristobel, it was Mr. Knox whose face filled her thoughts. She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Hugh’s retreat was not Mr. Knox’s fault. But, oh, how glad she was Tavin Knox and his amused, arched brow would not be in London to watch her wait for Hugh’s proposal.

      She stomped through sodden grass toward the copse of trees skirting the base of Verity Hill like an emerald-ribboned hem. Above the trees, the rise loomed green and steep before her. She hadn’t stood at the top in a long time, but reaching its crest, perched higher than her surroundings, would feel defiant. Victorious, somehow.

      Gemma would conquer Verity Hill, since she appeared incapable of surmounting any other obstacle in her life.

      * * *

      At the sound of movement behind him, Tavin lowered the spyglass and slid it under his coat. Would he never get the drawing room to himself?

      Tavin spun and then let out a breath. It was only Wyling. He passed his friend the spyglass. “Aye, since the whole purpose for coming here was to stand at this window today.”

      “Am I supposed to see anything?”

      “Soon. They’re coming from the far side of the hill. Once they come ’round this side and enter the trees, I’ll know it’s safe for me to climb to the summit.”

      “Where your informant will have left you something of an incriminating nature?” Wyling confirmed. “One would think a path called Smuggler’s Road would be better concealed. Same with those who make use of it. Are they not called Gentlemen of the Night for a reason?”

      “Usually.” A grin pulled at Tavin’s cheeks. “But here in the New Forest, smuggling occurs regardless of the hour. And you can see how the Smuggler’s Road allows visibility for miles. Should a revenue agent be about on his rounds, the free traders can hide in the dense foliage of the forest.”

      “But that won’t happen today. You led the revenue man on a false trail, correct?”

      “For his own