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to go about her domestic routine as always, though her mind was still in a daze. One moment, visions of what she’d done with the viscount in the woods that morning sent her stomach swooping with elation. The next, their cold parting twisted it into a hard knot.
    He wouldn’t even look at her when he said goodbye.
    He’d mumbled vague apologies, eyes darting in distress, unable to complete a sentence. Just “We can…” or “We’ll just….” or “Of course we shouldn’t have….”
    She couldn’t help feeling that she’d wronged him in some terrible way.
    And she had no idea how she’d ever put it right.
    At least she had the house to herself for a few hours—the town drunkard, Donald Evans, had got deep in his cups again and was fighting with Mrs. Evans, and one of the Evans boys had come running for the vicar to calm the man down before he turned vicious as he sometimes had in the past.
    She was just reaching up to slide the last of the plates onto its shelf when a series of hard, urgent knocks sounded at the vicarage’s front door.
    She wiped her hands hastily on her apron. People came to the vicarage at all hours in need of her brother’s services, and one of her duties was to greet them. She felt rather grateful for the interruption tonight—if nothing else, a small emergency would take her mind off the viscount for a few minutes.
    She hurried to the foyer, lit the small lantern they kept there for such occasions, and opened the door.
    Out in the gloom stood Viscount Parkhurst.
    A slew of emotions swept over her—half cold, half hot. Embarrassment, thrill, fear.
    There was no helping it: his nearness sent a hot spark of energy rippling over the whole surface of her skin, and set off a throbbing pulse low in her belly. For a moment, she could scarcely resist pulling him into an embrace, kissing him hard, and trying to draw him down on the foyer floor with her so they could repeat what they’d done that morning, and more.
    But the collar of his black wool greatcoat was turned up, a barrier to his face, and his tall beaver hat loomed darkly. He looked quite literally like a shadow of himself.
    The little she could make out of his expression was grim.
    Was he angry with her, or….
    Did this have nothing to do with what had passed between them earlier? People who knocked at night often wore that look, and it usually meant a clergyman was needed in a hurry.
    Oh, dear .
    A quick mental reshuffling was in order—a switch from lovelorn maiden to efficient vicar’s sister. She pushed her personal desires aside as though shoving them into a sack. “What’s the matter, Lord Parkhurst? Is someone ill?”
    “What?” He blinked in apparent confusion, as though she were the one who’d surprised him at the door. Oh, his eyes were so startlingly blue, even in this half-light. It made her breath catch.
    “Is someone ill ?” she repeated. “At Parkhurst Hall? Your mother? Your brothers?”
    “No,” he said, but his brow creased as if with worry. “They’re well. They’re all well. Is—is your brother at home?”
    So he had come for the vicar. Something was certainly wrong, even if he wasn’t being quick to say so.
    She schooled her voice to its usual rational self-control. “I’m afraid my brother was called out already. Donald Evans’s got drunk again, and fought with his wife, and Thomas has gone to get him into the care of one of his cousins before he does any harm.”
    “Ah,” John said distractedly. “I hope someone found where Donald hid his musket and got it away before real trouble starts.”
    Her heart flipped at the thought. “Thomas will calm him before it comes to that. I’m sure of it.”
    “Yes, yes of course.” John seemed to realize he’d spoken rather alarmingly. “I’m sorry, Mary. Miss Wilkins . Your brother will know just what to do.”
    “Donald will need watching till the drink wears off, and he minds Thomas better than anyone else, so Thomas may stay some hours. But