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handsome, I admit, but I could not say if he was ‘dashingly brave,’ having never seen him in battle. Are you thinking of trying your hand at some matchmaking, Mary Ann?”
    “Of course not! I am not our mother.”
    “Good. Because I am not thinking of marrying again at all. Now, are you quite finished here? We should be getting back to the hunting box before tea. Mrs. Taylor made you her special almond cakes.” Mrs. Taylor was Sarah’s faithful cook, who had been with her since her marriage to Sir John.
    “Oh, wonderful! And I can’t wait for a glimpse of your village, too.”

    The drive back to the hunting box proved to be a quiet one. After Mary Ann imparted all the news of their family, and Sarah told her about Phoebe’s visit, Mary Ann took out her book again and instantly became absorbed—or seemed to be.
    This left Sarah time to reflect at length on her odd morning—and reflect she did, on Lord Ransome particularly. It was hard not to think about the man, when she was riding in his very own carriage.
    She leaned back against the buttery-soft leather of the squabs, and ran her hand over the tufted seat. It was a most comfortable and luxurious equipage, and she could swear she caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap and sunshine scent.
    Sarah pressed one hand against her mouth to hold in a laugh at her own silliness. One glimpse of a handsome man, and she was like one of the ridiculous heroines in the Minerva Press novels Phoebe and Mary Ann loved so much! Sarah had never had time for such things. Even as a young girl she had been too wrapped up in dusty old books and history to care about gentlemen and flirting and, besides, her and John’s circle of friends would have found those frivolous. Why, then, did her mind keep turning back to Lord Ransome? Why did she wonder when she would see him again?
    Perhaps it was because he was not what she had feared—not thus far, anyway. He had not been one of those obnoxiously bluff and stiff military men, lecturing her about women’s proper spheres and ordering her off his land. It was true that he was quite ignorant of the true purpose of her work, but he seemed willing to listen to her. He wanted to look at the village.
    He was kind, as well as handsome. He had rescued her neatly from her dilemma, thus saving her nice shoes, and lent her this fine carriage. It was that kindness, and the good humor shining from his sky blue eyes, that so disarmed her.
    But she would just have to be sensible now. She had digging and studying to accomplish, and Mary Ann to look after. Despite her sister’s protestations, Sarah strongly suspected she was not over her infatuation with Mr. Hamilton. Mary Ann could not even look directly at her when she spoke his name.
    So there was really no time for any infatuations of her own, Sarah thought with a little sigh. Surely Lord Ransome would not be around very often, and she seldom had reason to go to Ransome Hall. If he was out of sight, she would not think about him. It was only the novelty of his presence that made him so interesting. In fact, he would be out of her thoughts by supper.
    Surely he would.
    Thus satisfied, Sarah straightened her gloves, and turned her attention to the scenery passing outside the window.
    There, just visible in the distance, she could see the graceful, pale gray stone of Ransome Hall. She wondered if Lord Ransome had returned there yet. . . .

    Mary Ann was not truly absorbed in her book; she just held it before her eyes, so Sarah would think she was. She dearly loved her sister, and was delighted to see her again, but she didn’t think she could indulge in polite conversation any longer without crying.
    She knew that her family considered her feelings for Mr. Hamilton to be mere infatuation, and they smiled about it behind her back.
    It was true that she had been just fifteen when they met last year, but her feelings had not been a schoolgirl crush. She often borrowed novels from Phoebe Seward, and her