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it.
    He gave her a rogue’s smile. “I might live, and become a hero. I prefer to think of that possibility.”
    â€œAt least you have Salvation.”
    â€œYes, and never did a stallion have a more perfect name. I thank you for christening him. I trust he will indeed carry me into battle and back out again, unscathed.”
    â€œI will go at once and have a word with him, beard him in his stall, and insist that he do so. If you must do your duty, Salvation must do his.”
    She felt tears fill her eyes.
    He squeezed her hand gently. “We all have our duty, Miranda, our place in life.”
    She shut her eyes, closed her lips on an admission it was far too late to speak.
    The music ended too soon. He held her for an extra moment before he released her, as if it was indeed the last time they would meet. She let go reluctantly, breathless, her body tingling. He bowed to her and smiled, a thousand emotions, all destined to remain unspoken, clear in his gray eyes. Then he stepped away and disappeared into the crowd, and she knew that even if she never saw him again, she would never forget his eyes, or his touch, or the way she felt when he lifted her off the floor, and the brief instant of intimate contact between them. She wanted to call him back, to take his hand and race out through the French doors and into the shadows and kiss him.
    â€œYou’re flushed!” Marianne said. “And what did you talk about with Mr. Fielding?”
    â€œSalvation,” Miranda whispered.
    â€œSalvation?” Marianne asked. “Is he going into the army or the church?”
    Miranda shut her eyes and hoped, for sanity’s sake, that she never saw Gilbert Fielding again.
    T he cold silence in Lord Kelton’s coach was like a snowdrift. She dragged a fingernail over the plush velvet seat, half expecting frost.
    Her fiancé had only danced with her twice, had taken supper with Lady Endersly, and had not spoken a single word of flattery or love, or attempted even the most rudimentary discussion with the woman who was to be his future wife.
    Was this how their marriage would be, completely without passion or even polite conversation? Perhaps he was saving up a host of witty things to say about cravats so he could dazzle her on their wedding trip.
    Kelton’s coldness seemed even more unbearable after touching Gilbert. A dance, a single, simple dance in a crowded room, and her body burned for him.
    She tried to put Gilbert Fielding out of her mind, consign him to the past and think only about the future. She considered what she would say when Kelton escorted her into Marianne’s drawing room, and they were alone and she had to speak. How would she start? Should she tell him in private how happy she was to be marrying him? It wasn’t exactly a lie, nor was it perfectly true.
    Should she start instead by telling him about the weavers, make her proposal for their happiness at Kelton Grange, even as her own hopes of contentment dwindled?
    Or perhaps she would tell him stories of Christmas at Carrington Castle, make him laugh.
    She glanced at his perfect profile as he stared out the window at the passing streets, as cold and perfect as a marble statue of a Greek hero, and wondered if he ever laughed.
    She swallowed, and fidgeted with the betrothal ring on her finger. Would an idea involving weavers truly change his demeanor toward her, impress him with her devotion and intelligence?
    Just what kind of wife did he want her to be?
    The butterflies circled her stomach again, and it was not the pleasant flutter she felt in Gilbert’s company, but the swoop of birds of prey, evil omens, the nauseating sensation of anxiety and dread. She had come to associate that sensation with Kelton since her betrothal.
    They pulled up under the elegant colonnaded portico of De Courcey House. “I will take you inside. I wish to speak with you.” Kelton— Anthony —said coolly.
    The butterfly