The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

muddling through it.

      Thankfully, at about sundown a fresh wind had blown it away, allowing the moon to shine down, to cleanse and bless everything with its pure, cold light.

      The thought was quite poetic and it made her smile. She hoped she would remember it when she went back upstairs and took her pen and paper out of the secretary.

      She might not, though, since she was in no hurry to leave this tranquil spot. It would be nice to sit here until the first rays of morning light peeked over the rooftops, but she was fairly certain it would be forbidden.

      Given that Grandfather had cautioned her to observe every social rule, appear beyond reproach in everything she said or did, she doubted she ought to be down here by herself for even a moment.

      Still, who was to know that she sat here blissfully listening to the rustle of tall shrubbery in the breeze, and the tinkle of the fountain?

      Not a single soul. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand. She was free to sit here and wonder what she was doing in London in the first place, why she had even considered Grandfather’s outrageous request—not demand.

      And yet here she sat, somewhat contentedly listening to the sound of pattering droplets hitting the surface of the large pond when she ought to be seething in indignation.

      But it was soothing, and while not as dramatic as the crashing waves of the ocean, it was lovely in its own way. Perhaps if she viewed events as an adventure, at least until she made up her mind about them, she could find a bit of peace within herself.

      To that end she must make a point of sneaking out every night.

      Solitude was something that even Grandfather’s fortune could not purchase. Closing her eyes, Clementine listened to a symphony of frogs accompanied by the twitter of a nightingale. London might be a pleasant place after all. In time she might—

      “Curse it!”

      A man’s exclamation cut the peace of the moment. He sounded startled more than angry. The sudden rustling of brush gave way to a husky gasp.

      She leaped off the bench, ready to flee. Who would be creeping about in the hedge at this hour unless he was an intruder up to no good? Perhaps a thief or a pillager?

      A cat dashed across the walkway at the same moment the dark-clad figure tumbled into the fountain. She could not be certain, but she thought he hit his head on a stone going in.

      Oh, dear!

      The pond was only knee-deep, but the man was floating facedown in it.

      It was possible that he was a villain, or equally possible that he had a very good reason to be out here, the same as she did. In any case, she could hardly let him drown.

      Running, she came to the edge of the water, stepped into it, slippers and gown forgotten—but not forgotten enough not to feel horrible for the servant who would have to make them presentable again.

      Reaching for the man’s shoulders, she had to kick aside the long black coat he wore because it floated about him, getting tangled in her skirt and restricting her movement.

      Giving a solid yank, she managed to get him on his back. Mercy, but he was heavy and, oh, my—

      If he was a villain, he was a dashing one, with dark hair and a sweep of black, seductive eyelashes. Until this moment Clementine hadn’t known a man’s lashes could be seductive.

      No doubt his villainy consisted of sneaking home from a tryst.

      She patted his cheek. “Wake up, sir!”

      All at once he lunged, caught her about the hips and dragged her down.

      She beat on his forearms. “Why! You great lurching oaf! Let me go before I scream!” Which she could not do without everyone knowing she had come outside in the dark. It would not be well received to be found in the fountain in the slippery embrace of a man.

      The most amazing eyes she had ever seen focused on her face. Slowly, as if shuffling through dense fog, the fellow came back from wherever the blow had taken him.

      “Wh-what?” he stuttered, wiping his face and then reaching for his hat, which bobbed about on the surface of the water.

      “As best I can tell, you were startled by a cat.” She snagged the soggy headwear and handed it to him. “You hit your head after you fell through the bush and into the pond. There is a bit of swelling above your right eye, but so far it doesn’t appear too horrid.”

      What was horrid, and funny at the same time, was that she was sitting side by side with a stranger in a fountain, the pair of them blinking away water dripping down their foreheads.

      “And who do I have to thank for my rescue?” he asked, swiping the hair back from his face.

      Certainly not Clementine Jane Macooish! The scandal would be enormous were anyone to find out about this.

      “Jane—Fitz.”

      * * *

      “Thank you, Lady Fitz.” Heath did not recall anyone by the last name of Fitz among the titled but he had no wish to offend his beautiful rescuer by assuming she was not. Clearly she was an American but she might still be titled if she was married to a peer.

      It was difficult to determine the color of her eyes in the darkness. The shade of her curly, tumbled hair was disguised as well, given that it was dripping wet and dappled with moonlight. Fortunately the midnight dousing appeared not to have dampened the lively spirit shining from the lady’s eyes—no, not that so much as lively and serious all in one suspicious glance while she studied him.

      “Miss Fitz will do nicely, I think.”

      The right thing to do would be to rise from the water and offer her a hand up, but she was gazing at him with her head tipped ever so slightly to one side. He found her fascinating, so all he wanted was to sit here and look at her.

      “I believe—” her brows lifted in a slender, delicate arch “—it would be polite to introduce yourself so that I do not decide you are a criminal bent on mayhem.”

      “I assure you that I am not.”

      That admission did not mean he would reveal himself as Fencroft. How would he explain his reason for dashing through the garden at this hour like a fleeing criminal? Better she thought he was bent on mayhem.

      If his business of the evening came to light, lives would be threatened, the Fencroft estate ruined.

      “My name is Heath Ramsfield.” The first surname to pop into his mind was his butler’s, so he used it. “You are shivering, Miss Fitz. We should get out of the water.”

      He stood, reached for her hand and saw that it was bare, but he clamped his fingers around it anyway. The last thing he wanted was for her to slip and be injured, which would force him to seek help. Anyone he called upon would recognize him.

      “I can only wonder, Mr. Ramsfield, are you always so skittish of cats?”

      “It did appear rather suddenly.”

      He stood a respectable distance from her, although barely, being captivated as he was by moonlight reflecting in the beads of water dotting her face. She had a beautiful nose, not pert as so many desired, but straight and elegant. It might have given her a stern demeanor were it not for the good humor warming her eyes.

      “Oh, yes.” She squeezed her fingers around the hank of hair dripping over her shoulder and wrung out the water. “They do tend to do that.”

      Water dribbling from their clothing onto the stones chimed with the droplets sprinkling in the fountain. A breeze scuttled through the shrubbery, making him shiver. It would be wise and proper to part company now, but he found he did not want to.

      Who was this woman and why was she here in his garden? It was not as though he could come right