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flutter at the corner of his eye, a footfall, perhaps—had brought awareness crashing back and he had sensed that he was no longer alone.
    And when he had turned, there she was.
    Or perhaps the crash back to awareness had come a moment after he turned to look.
    For that moment before it happened the woman standing on the path had seemed a part of the beauty of the evening. She had looked tall and willowy slender, her cloak flapping in the breeze and revealing a dress of lighter color beneath. She had not been wearing a bonnet. Her hair was fair, perhaps even blond, her face oval and blue-eyed and lovely, though truth to tell he had seen it one-eyed from twenty feet away in the dusk and could not be sure he had observed accurately, especially as far as the color of her eyes was concerned.
    She had looked like beauty personified. For one moment he had thought…
    Ah, what was it he had thought?
    That she had walked out of the night into his dreams?
    It was embarrassing even to consider that that was perhaps what he had thought before he had come jolting back to reality.
    But certainly he had taken a step toward her without speaking a word. And she had stood there, apparently waiting for him.
    And then he had seen the horror in her eyes. And then she had turned and fled in panic.
    What had he expected? That she would smile and open her arms to him?
    He gazed after her and was again Sydnam Butler, grotesquely ugly, with his right eye gone and the purple scars of the old burns down the side of his face, paralyzing most of the nerves there, and all along his armless side to his knee.
    He was Sydnam Butler, who would never paint again, and for whom no woman would ever walk beautiful out of the night.
    But he had left self-pity behind long ago, and resented moments such as this when his defenses had been lowered and it crept back in like a persistent and unwelcome guest to torment him. He knew that it would take him days to recover his equilibrium, to remind himself that he was now Sydnam Butler, the best and most efficient steward of the several Bewcastle employed to run his various estates—and that was the duke’s assessment, not his own.
    He was Sydnam Butler, who had learned to live alone.
    Without a paintbrush in his nonexistent right hand.
    Without a woman for his bed or his heart.
    He did not linger on the promontory. The magic was gone. The silver had gone from the sea to be replaced by a heaving gray, soon to be black. The sky no longer held even the memory of sunset. The breeze had turned chilly. It was time to go home.
    He headed off along the path, in the direction from which the woman had come. After a few steps he realized that he was limping again and made a determined effort not to.
    He was more glad than ever that he had moved out of the house and into the cottage. He liked it there. He might even stay after Bewcastle and all the others had returned home. A cottage, with a cook, a housekeeper, and a valet, was all a single man needed for his comfort.
    Belatedly it struck him that there had been nothing grand about either the woman’s cloak or the dress beneath it, and her hair had not been dressed elaborately. She must be just one of the servants who had come with the visitors. She
must
be. If she were indeed Lady Alleyne, she would be at dinner now or in the drawing room with the rest of the family.
    It was a relief to realize that she was only a servant. There was less of a chance that he would see her again. Whenever she had any free time from now on, he did not doubt that she would stay far away from the cliffs and the beach, where she might encounter the monster of Glandwr again.
    He hoped he would never see her again, never have to look into that lovely face and see the revulsion there.
    For an unguarded moment he had yearned toward her with his whole body and soul.
    He thought resentfully that she would probably haunt his dreams for several nights to come.
    If only he knew exactly how long