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could not be back so soon? She did want to reach Thorn Hill, to meet the people she would be living with and working for. But this time was surprisingly fine, too, this just being alone, being silent, not having anyone look at her or expect something from her. Before, the solitude frightened her. Now she found she was loath to let it go just yet. And she wasn't terribly eager to see who was coming, either. It might be someone like that leering coachman.
    She stood up and peered down the road, lifting her hand to the edge of her bonnet to shield her eyes from the gray glare of the sky. There was a carriage coming toward her, but not from the direction the coachman took off in. And it was not the portly coachman. It was a man wielding the reins of a handsome little curricle.
    The vehicle slowed as it reached the banked post chaise, rolling to a halt as the man tugged back on the reins. He twisted on the curricle seat to face her, his lips curved in a smile beneath the brim of his hat.
    Not just an ordinary, everyday smile. A dazzling sunburst glow of a grin that lit up the gloomy day. The sheer, unexpected beauty, the welcome wonder of it, made Kate involuntarily fall back a step. She felt the roughness of the rock at the back of her knees, forcing her to halt or fall backward in a most inelegant way. She glanced behind her to see if there was someone else he might be smiling at, someone who had crept up on the moors.
    There was no one. Only sheep.
    Kate turned back, and gave him a hesitant smile of her own.
    He climbed down from the high seat of the curricle, and Kate was absurdly shocked to see that the man with the heavenly smile moved in a distinctly earth-bound manner. His left leg was stiff, unbending, as he stepped to the ground. For one second, he held on to the carriage, as if to get his balance, but when he walked it was with a vigorous strength. He swept his hat off politely, and light brown waves of glossy hair fell over his brow in glorious disarray. The wind played with it, as if with caressing fingers, and he impatiently pushed back the unruly locks.
    Kate knew it was very rude of her, but she stared at him agape—she couldn't seem to help herself. He was like an avenging angel, a warrior god of ancient days, pulled out of a Renaissance fresco in Venice and deposited on this lonely English road. She recalled a Botticelli painting she had once seen, of Mars and Venus. Mars was reclining, asleep, under Venus's watchful gaze, his head thrown back, dark curls falling away from the sculpted planes of his face.
    Kate had stood there in that gallery, entranced by his beautiful face, wondering what the dreams of such a slumber could be. She wished she was that Venus, so quiet, so watchful, so—so triumphant that such a man was sprawled across her bed, all his thoughts of war melted away under her caress, leaving only love. Now Kate had an inkling of how Venus must have felt, since Botticelli's Mars stood before her now, dropped practically at her feet in this unlikely spot.
    He had the same sharp cheekbones, the same sculpted jaw and aquiline nose. If he wore a drape of gauzy cloth and nothing else, the resemblance would be absolutely complete.
    Kate almost laughed aloud at that mental image, and clapped her gloved hand to her mouth. Of course the man would not wear just a piece of gauze over his loins—this was Yorkshire, not Venice during Carnevale, when any sort of outlandish costume could be seen. Indeed, this man was dressed quite conventionally, even conservatively, in fawn doeskin breeches and a well-cut blue coat, his waistcoat a plain gray, his impeccable white cravat simply tied. A black greatcoat was pushed back carelessly, and the hat he held was black and low crowned, stylish enough but not ostentatious. Quietly expensive—and Kate should know, since judging a man's worth at first glance had been an important part of her education.
    His eyes narrowed a bit as he peered up the slope at her, tiny lines