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found himself at a crossroads. He’d chosen to let the poison of the past drift away, choosing life instead.
    “But I think you try to hide something with all your merry turns of words, do you not?”
    He leaned forward, determined that he should be as open with her as possible. Doubtlessly, she’d known enough lies from men to fill a lifetime. “I’m not trying to hide how I feel about you.”
    “You
feel
something for me?” she drawled.
    “Is it so difficult to believe?”
    “You have known me less than twelve hours,” she exclaimed. “So, yes. It is.”
    “
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
” he quipped, though he couldn’t help feeling that once again he had suddenly tripped upon something. He would never go so far as to say he loved Clare. He didn’t know her, but he was compelled to know her. To give himself over to their meeting as if fate had thrown that rock through her window.
    And the longer he spent in her company, that woman he’d dreamed of as his companion began to look more and more like the duchess sitting across from him.
    She frowned. “I think we can leave Shakespeare out of this.”
    “Shakespeare shouldn’t be left out of anything,” he replied. “He understands the hearts and souls of all men and women.”
    Clare’s mouth opened and a look of pure astonishment softened her features. “You are a romantic, sir.”
    “I am a man of facts. You are with me now because you need protection. But I am also a man who will not laugh at what life contrives to put before us.”
    “Are you saying our meeting is fate?” she scoffed.
    “I am saying that there are things more wondrous in this world, more full of magic than we could ever imagine. And I, for one, despite the terrible things I have seen or perhaps because of them, choose to believe in them. If my thinking means I can have feelings for you after twelve hours of acquaintance, then yes, I am a romantic, Clare, and I am not afraid to admit it.”

Chapter 6
    Clare couldn’t stop the feeling of simmering anger inside her. How could Lord Wyndham be doing such a thing at such a time? And yet, he didn’t seem like a cad.
    But if he wasn’t a cad, where was this absolute idiocy coming from?
    “Clare, forgive me if I have offended you.”
    “I have not given you permission to call me Clare,” she said tightly. Even as she spoke, she hated how she sounded, like a cold, old bitter woman.
    Just as he was about to speak, the hackney rolled to a stop.
    Wyndham’s face shuttered, whatever boyish light about it fading. He grabbed the door handle, gave it a quick twist, then jumped down onto the graveled path below. His hand suddenly reappeared back inside the carriage.
    She had to take it.
    It was absolutely ridiculous, but there seemed something more powerful in taking that hand than just the simple acceptance of a courtesy.
    Every part of her that found men threatening and unkind demanded she gather her skirts and descend on her own sail. But another part of her, a quieter, deeper part of her urged,
take it
.
    That strong, quiet, calm voice was one she had never heard before, but it seemed to be coming right from her very core. So, with trepidation in her heart, she slipped her fingers into his firm grasp and let him guide her down out of the vehicle.
    She couldn’t even focus on her surroundings. That strong, warm hand of his enveloped hers. It would be so easy for his hand to crush hers. She’d been crushed before in a strong man’s grip, but this one was gentle, assured, and just the very touch of his palm sent a jolt of that strange feeling through her limbs.
    She pulled her hand slowly from his, once again shocked by the feel of his slightly roughened, ungloved skin, and she took a step away, requiring distance.
    After a quick, muffled conversation and the clink of several coins, the hackney was off into the night, leaving the two of them standing near a hedgerow.
    She glanced left to right, taking in the long, rutted