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gestured for him to sit beside her. She began a discourse, explaining the benefits and burdens of trying to raise trout in a pond, about the evils of pond scum, and the trials of dry years versus the trials of wet years. When she had prosed on for a good five minutes—and again noted what a pleasant scent Amery wore—Gwen realized she had yet to hear a single question from his perishingly proper lordship.
    Her companion had fallen asleep, wedged against one of the supports holding up the roof. For a moment she was insulted; then she reasoned a man of his exaggerated sense of propriety would not deal her such a slight intentionally. She watched him fall more deeply asleep, his head turning against the pillar, his hand going lax against his thigh.
    To see a grown man fall asleep right before her eyes was novel and more interesting than it should have been. A muscle leapt along Amery’s square jaw once, his breathing evened out, and his hand slid off his leg to fall against Gwen’s thigh. On a soft sigh, he was gone into the arms of Morpheus.
    In sleep, Douglas Allen was appallingly, surprisingly handsome. Waking, his features were schooled to a chronic pained reserve. The relaxed version of those same features was infinitely more appealing. Slumbering, his thin, disapproving mouth was fuller, his lips more sculpted. His blond hair, usually swept back in a queue, had come loose from its ribbon and spread over his shoulders in golden disarray.
    After a few more minutes studying her companion’s sleeping visage, Gwen let the lazy quiet of the afternoon penetrate her senses, to the point where resting her eyes gained appeal. She wouldn’t fall asleep, of course, not in the presence of a man who was nearly a stranger to her—
    When she awoke, the sun wasn’t much changed in its position, but she had changed her position.
    “Steady,” her pillow said. “Rising too quickly can leave one dizzy.”
    Mindful that the warning bore some merit, Gwen did not abruptly abandon her location. She was cuddled against a warm slab of male muscle, one bearing the pleasant, spicy scent of Douglas Allen. His arm rested loosely around her shoulders, and for an instant, Gwen battled an impulse to close her eyes and go back to sleep. Amery’s proximity should have felt distasteful and presuming, threatening even… Except, it didn’t.
    “Beg pardon, my lord.”
    “Now, Miss Hollister,” his lordship chided gently, “you weren’t contemplating abandoning me here when I was having such a lovely meditation, were you?” He retrieved his arm and shot his cuffs, not a hint of self-consciousness or hurry about him. “I do feel somewhat refreshed, but I confess I missed some of your profundities regarding the care and feeding of pond trout, for which I heartily apologize. For my penance, I suppose you must harry me off on yet another lesson?”
    Gwen watched him, knowing she regarded him with the look he detested, the wary, careful appraisal that anticipated mischief. His expression was more relaxed though, as if he really had needed a nap to restore his spirits. He rose and extended a hand toward her, a hint of challenge lurking in his eyes. She braced her free hand on the back of the bench and let him assist her to her feet.
    “Oh, blast and perdition,” Gwen muttered, glaring at the hand she’d rested on the wooden bench. A small drop of blood welled on the outside of her fourth finger. A splinter lodged there, but the angle of penetration made it hard for her to examine, much less extract with her teeth.
    “Allow me,” Amery said, reaching for her hand.
    “No thank you.” Gwen snatched her hand back. “I can tend to it when we return to the manor.”
    “Of course you can,” Amery agreed pleasantly. “And ride all that way without gloves—because you surely don’t intend to put a glove on over that—and blister your fingers for no reason other than your abundant pride.”
    Was he laughing at her? Gwen thrust her hand under the