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an enemy.
    A truce .
    “Good morrow, Kate.”
    She giggled. Giggled. How ridiculous.
    “My name is Catherine.”
    “I do like Catherine,” he said. “And I like Kate. They both fit you. The regal and the common.” He took her arm. “Shall we?”
    She let him guide her out of the house, to where their horses and grooms waited.
    “Are you calling me common?”
    “Only if I am calling you regal, as well.”
    “Hmmph.” She slipped her arm off of his and mounted her mare, Clara. Then looked back at Peter to find him still on the ground, looking up at her.
    “No, Kate, there is nothing common about you.”
    There was a look of physical admiration in his gaze. She knew it, had seen it before in others’ gazes, had taken it as her due, as the triumph of her fight for social approbation. But now for some reason the warmth of his gray eyes made her uncomfortably hot. She laughed. “How kind of you. Not that you were forced into such a compliment. I know it was positively spontaneous and natural.”
    “And you would be correct. You may be petite, but your spirit is quite large.” She watched him accept his groom’s help, mount the horse whose brown flank was still lightly damp from the ride over.
    Once he had seated himself comfortably, she guided Clara over to him. “Is that a compliment, Your Grace?”
    “Naturally.”
    “You admire a large . . . spirit?”
    He laughed. “Are you flirting with me?”
    “You did call a truce, did you not? Why be so shocked?”
    “I believe I like flirty Kate. Brighton and London might have been more enjoyable.”
    “I thought you enjoyed all of our exchanges,” she contended.
    “Yes. Flirtation of a different sort.”
    “Flirta—” She looked at him incredulously. “A strange man you are.”
    “Not regal?”
    “Hah. Not the first word that comes to mind. Though I suppose by definition you are ducal. Not that that flatters dukes in general much.”
    “Ouch, Kate. If this is your truce, I am afraid of your war.”
    She flushed. “Old habits, I suppose. But it is rather fun to poke you. I hadn’t realized till just now that I enjoyed it.”
    “The way you continually abused my poor valet.”
    “He deserves the abuse. That man is a criminal for what he does to you. How a man could be regal, let alone ducal, while wearing the most clashing colors and patterns, I do not know.”
    “He suffers from Daltonism . . . he cannot see certain colors.”
    That stopped her. She’d maligned the man for something out of his control. “And yet you keep him as valet. I knew he had been of service to you during the war but I hadn’t imagined. Oh, Peter. That is rather good of you. But perhaps a different position, more fitted to his talents?”
    “Talents. He had a talent for war. Shall we ride to the grove?”
    From flirtation to seriousness, the conversation had shifted again, and as they thundered over the earth, eating away at the verdant rolling ground, she had the very odd idea that here in Watersham she had fought many a battle and perhaps she had a talent for war, as well.

 

C HAPTER S IX
----
    “H e certainly seems to be paying you an inordinate amount of attention.”
    Kate flushed. She wanted to deny her stepmother’s words but the facts were the facts. Peter Colburn seemed determined to monopolize her time.
    “Perhaps he’s decided to settle down, start a family.”
    Kate’s cheeks burned hotter. “I wouldn’t know.”
    “It’s very interesting. Do you like him at least a little? Affection can grow, my dear.”
    “He’s doing his best to be likeable,” Kate muttered, because, after all, until the day they’d called a truce, she’d actively disliked him. Or thought she had.
    The sound of a carriage thundered up the drive, and Kate stood, and then realized, with wool all about her, that she still held the fragment of scarf she’d been knitting. Her stepmother smiled and put her own work down sedately, then stood, as well.
    “I imagine that must be