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ugly shawl up, skittered away, then darted back to his side.
    Ian had no warning. She rested a hand on his chest then went up on her toes and grazed her lips against his cheek. He got a fleeting impression of warmth and softness and a little whiff of spring flowers before he had the presence of mind to steady her by the elbows. For a procession of instants, she remained next to him, a woman who likely permitted herself no allies and no affection. Ian’s hands slid from her elbows to her waist, sharing an embrace that was as comforting as it was unexpected.
    She was not prim, fussy, and prejudiced. She was shy, lonely, and uncertain.
    Also brave.
    It was a sweet moment, and just as Ian might have stepped back and bowed over her hand, she whirled away.
    In a flurry of tan shawl and bare feet, she scampered off, reminding Ian of a doe startled at her quiet grazing, then fleeing into the safety of the surrounding shadows.
    ***
    The Earl of Balfour was a more complicated man than Augusta had wanted to credit. She pondered this realization while she exchanged her old walking dress for a day dress of almost the same sorry vintage.
    Her first impression of him was that he had decent manners, a genial disposition, and—like many of his peers—did not suffer from excesses of introspection. And she’d thought him… big. Physically big. Tall, broad through the shoulders, solid in the chest, and whether he wore riding attire or the kilts he seemed so fond of, she could see his legs had as much muscle as the rest of him.
    Big, fit , and handsome in a tall, black-haired, green-eyed Scottish way.
    And then he’d caught her in all her ridiculous glory this morning, giving in to the impulse to feel the wet grass on her feet, to sniff a fat, bloodred rose sporting morning dew, to allow the morning sun to kiss her bare cheeks.
    Things she could do in exile in Oxfordshire but had missed terribly during these weeks when she’d again been in the company of her family.
    The earl hadn’t remarked her behavior. He’d been courteous but honest, gruffly honest. She’d liked the honesty and had tried to convey her approval by returning his candor in full measure. The more serious earl, the man who bluntly broached topics like marriage and Genie’s hesitance to become his countess, was a more appealing fellow than the easygoing host.
    Too appealing, if her impulsive little buss to his cheek was any indication. What had she been thinking, to presume on his person that way? And in what tidy little compartment of proper thought and behavior was she going to stash the memory of their embrace?
    He’d been oddly gracious. The first time he’d tucked her shawl up, Augusta hadn’t known quite what he was about and had nearly flinched away. The second time, she’d found it… intriguing.
    Not quite endearing. Endearing was the grave look in his emerald green eyes when he informed her he was not yet officially the earl. Augusta had heard her aunt and uncle discussing this at tiresome length, with Uncle pointing out the man was at the very least an earl’s heir, complete with courtesy title, and likely to be the earl in the next year.
    So Aunt had pleaded for a yearlong engagement, and Uncle had started ranting.
    Augusta gave her hair a repinning after she’d changed into morning attire. She hadn’t intended to go to breakfast, but the day had had a promising start. The more she got to know Lord Balfour, the more Augusta was convinced he could make Genie a very decent husband after all.
    The man apparently intended to begin his campaign with the morning meal. Augusta watched from her place opposite the laden sideboard as he managed to arrive at the breakfast parlor at the exact same moment as Genie.
    “Good morning, Miss Daniels and Miss Hester,” he said from the doorway “You both have the radiant appearance of women who’ve enjoyed a fine night’s rest.”
    “I was asleep before my head hit the pillow,” Hester said, sailing into the room.