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glad we were both stranded here, Miss
    Thompson, though I was not at all glad when the storm forced me to stop at what looked like a sad apology for an inn."
    "It has indeed been pleasant," she agreed, extending her right hand. "Thank you so much for inviting me to dine here with you. Good night, Lord Staunton."
    "Good night, Miss Thompson," he said, taking her hand in his. But instead of shaking it, which seemed rather too formal a way to end the evening, and
    instead of raising it to his lips, as he might well have done, he covered it with his other hand and leaned across it to kiss her cheek.
    She must have guessed his intent and turned her cheek to him. But while she was turning her head one way, he went the other and ended up kissing her on the
    lips. It could have—should have—been an extraordinarily embarrassing moment. If either of them had jerked away, it would have been. But neither
    of them did. He pressed his lips more firmly to hers, and she kissed him back while her fingers curled about one of his hands.
    It was neither a long nor a lascivious kiss. He raised his head after a few moments, squeezed her hand, and released it.
    "I do beg your pardon," they said simultaneously, and her cheeks grew rosy. They both smiled.
    "I meant no disrespect," he told her. "I have enjoyed meeting you, Miss Thompson."
    "And I you," she said as he turned to open the door. "Good night."
    He was left feeling slightly hot under the cravat and a bit flustered and wondering if he owed her more of an apology than he had already expressed. But
    that would merely draw attention to what had surely been nothing of any great note.
    He gave her time to return to her room before making his way up to his children's, where he dutifully kissed their sleeping cheeks and smiled at their
    nurse, who was sitting by the window in the light of a single candle, knitting. And suddenly he felt melancholy and very alone in the world despite these
    precious two children.
    Perhaps the Creator in his wisdom knew exactly what he was doing,
she had said. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Georgette was perfect just as she was. Perhaps Robert was perfect just as
he
was. Indeed, he knew
    they both were. But ah, the responsibility of being a father, a single parent. He desperately wanted them to be happy. They desperately needed a mother.
    It must be difficult to choose someone who will suit both you and your children,
she had said. He closed his eyes briefly before leaving the room to return to his own. Yes, indeed it was. He must always think first of what was best for
    them, of course, but ah, sometimes it was difficult not to be selfish and long for someone to ease his loneliness, someone to love again.
    And someone with whom he could relax in a late evening after the children were in bed, while they drank their wine and their coffee, and talk upon any
    subject under the sun. Someone to kiss and take to bed afterward.
    Good God,
did
he owe her a more proper apology?
    * * * * *
    The sun was shining, the road was firm beneath the wheels of the carriage, the journey was drawing to its end, there was excitement in the expectation of
    seeing her family again soon, and…and Eleanor was feeling really rather depressed.
    She knew why, of course. For she had almost made up her mind to have a talk with Wulfric, but it would take courage. He would be disappointed in her. He
    would consider her a failure. Her mother and Hazel and Christine would be disappointed too—and upset for her. But the truth was—oh, horror of
    horrors!—that she was not enjoying being owner and headmistress of Miss Thompson's School for Girls. She had had no idea when she took over from
    Claudia with such eager delight how different it would be from simply teaching. It was not just all the extra work, though that seemed endless and was
    wearying enough. It was more the distance the position somehow put between her and her teachers, much as she respected and even loved them all, and between
    her