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but no opportunity arose. The park was not the place for such a discussion, especially as his socially attuned antennae reported that, alerted by the news, the matrons and grandes dames were watching them strolling together, the ease between them, the lack of social constraint, very apparent. Their relative age set them apart, excused them, but also focused more eyes upon them.
    He steered her back toward the Calverton carriage, determined to engineer a suitably private meeting. There was no reason for equivocation, not between them. “I assume you intend monitoring the Caverlocks’ reactions, at least as far as they allow them to show.”
    She nodded, determination lighting her face. “They’ll be attending Lady Hammond’s soirée this evening.”
    He might as well be hanged for a wolf as for a lamb. “If your mother’s agreeable, I’ll escort you there.”
    She halted; gaze direct, she met his eyes. He didn’t try to conceal any of what he felt, neither the aggravation at the wasted day, nor his intention.
    Her eyes searched his, then she smiled, tightened her fingers briefly on his sleeve, and turned toward the carriage. “I’m sure Mama will be delighted to accept your escort.”
     
    That much of his plan went well—when applied to, Minerva was indeed willing to have him escort them that evening. Her dark eyes met his, but she merely smiled and refrained from comment, much to his relief.
    Subsequently, however, nothing went quite as he wished.
    Lady Hammond’s soirée proved too crowded to indulge in anything beyond the social norm; Hammond House was sadly lacking in amenities—at least the sort of amenities that might have helped. He was reduced to doing the pretty for the entire evening. The only mitigating circumstance was that Anne remained by his side throughout, and nothing—no word, no glance, no touch—in any way suggested she regretted the previous evening’s interlude in Lady Hendrick’s parlor.
    Quite the opposite, which only lent yet another layer of tension to the evening.
    Added to that, none of the Caverlocks appeared, which fact exercised Anne greatly.
    Nerves he hadn’t known he possessed rubbed raw, he set out early the following morning, too early for the social round, determined to catch Anne at home and speak privately with her—put what lay between them into words, and take the next step—only to discover she’d already left for the Foundling House.
    He followed her there—as long as the room had a door he didn’t care where it was—only to be totally distracted; he spent the entire day learning things about her—and himself—that, while decidedly relevant, only built the pressure within him, and her, until the need to speak filled their eyes, colored their words, infused every touch.
    And still they had no opportunity, no chance to be alone and broach that one, urgent topic.
    Now, later that evening, standing by the side of the Grismeades’ ballroom, he watched Anne whirl down a country dance. Even from this distance, he knew she was slightly flustered, although she knew her partner, Gordon Canterbury, quite well. She didn’t like being physically close to other men, yet conversely, with Reggie, she took his arm with relief, stepping as close as propriety allowed. And when they waltzed, she came into his arms with an alacrity she didn’t try to hide; her senses might leap, but they did so with pleasure, with anticipation and delight.
    The noise about him faded; a vision swam before his eyes—the first sight he’d had of Anne that morning at the Foundling House. She’d been seated on a stool reading a story to a score of children gathered about. Her attention had been complete, as had been theirs.
    And his.
    Then she’d looked up, seen him—and smiled.
    And promptly conscripted him into helping with the older boys.
    Later, he’d looked across the yard and seen her with two toddlers in her arms, one balanced on each hip. By then, her pins had come loose, or been