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able to distinguish English uniforms from those of the French.”
    Amanda, sensing the direction of Ash’s comments, began to squirm in her seat.
    “Now you, on the other hand”—Ash’s tone contained nothing beyond a bland curiosity—“seem to have forgotten everything that you ever learned in your whole, admittedly rather short, life. You were about to leave the house hatless and coatless, like the veriest hoyden—behavior quite unlike your very proper self, and you seem to have forgotten how to tie a bonnet properly. You are, apparently, totally unfamiliar with the terrain of Mayfair, an area in which you have resided for several years. I am wondering how to account for this.”
    “How very fortunate,” said Amanda in some exasperation, “that you are so knowledgeable about mental aberration. I know nothing of what I should or should not be able to remember, my lord.” How strange, thought Amanda. Calling this man “my lord” was not so difficult, after all, particularly when he phased so beautifully into his stone effigy mode. “It is as I said to my mother this morning, my mind is like that of a newborn child—except of course, that I have not lost the gift of language.”
    “How very fortunate,” murmured the earl.
    “Please believe me, Ash, I am not feigning all this. The whole thing is very confusing to me, and a little frightening, as well.”
    She looked at him straightly, and for the first time Ash was aware of the beauty of her eyes. It was the first time he had not thought of china teacups and porcelain dolls when he looked into them. Now, he was put in mind of amethysts and sapphires and tropical skies. Her jeweled gaze was clear and, it seemed to him, honest. He continued to stare, almost mesmerized, and knew an urge to pull her to him, to kiss her until those lovely eyes clouded with passion.
    Lord, he thought, suddenly appalled, where had that thought come from? It was as though the Amanda Bridge he knew had been stolen away, like a princess in a fairy tale—and now in Amanda’s face he saw the gaze of an enchantress. He shook himself at his ludicrous fancy, aware that she was speaking once more.
    “Tell me about yourself, Ash. I suppose we must be very well acquainted if, as my father has told me, you are on the verge of asking for my hand. Yes, I know I am being inexcusably forward,” she added as the earl stiffened, “but I plead temporary insanity. Please, could you not pretend that we just met?”
    For a moment, Ash stared at her. It seemed to him that the afternoon had taken on a dreamlike quality, that he and the magically transformed Amanda Bridge were enclosed in an enchanted bubble that floated, separate and serene, from the rest of the world.
    “I’ll try,” he said, pleased that his voice remained steady, “though you will undoubtedly find my story a dull one.” He bent forward in a parody of a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Bridge. I am William Wexford, and I am one-and-thirty years of age. My father was the second son of the fourth earl of Ashindon, and when he and my mother died in an inn fire, I was taken by his brother, the fifth earl, to be raised at Ashindon Park in Wiltshire, along with my younger brother and sister. I was four years old at the time, and grew up with my cousin, Grant, heir to the earldom. Grant was two years older than I and we were as brothers. In fact, I rather idolized him.” Ash paused for a moment before continuing, and Amanda caught a fleeting expression of pain in those cloud-colored eyes.
    “I chose the military as my profession and served under Arthur Wellesley. You have heard of him, I trust—the Duke of Wellington? Yes, well, a year or so before he died, my uncle purchased a captaincy for me, and I rose to the rank of colonel before selling out.”
    Amanda frowned slightly before recalling that selling out, in this time, did not have an unpleasant connotation, but merely referred to the selling of one’s commission