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if an ocean divided them—his and Cecily’s thoughts would always wander back to the same place: that graying bench tucked beneath the arbor in Swinford Manor’s side garden. He didn’t want to believe that she could forget that night. But even now, as she buttered another point of toast, he could sense her mind straying…and she wasn’t kissing him on a garden bench. She was deep in the forest with a blasted white stag.
    Damn it, it wasn’t right. When she lay abed at night, she shouldn’t see charging boars and violent tussles.
    She should dream of the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the texture of organdy and the distant strains of an orchestra playing a stately sarabande. As he had, all those freezing, damp nights. As he would, in all the bitter years to come.
    What had she called him, last night? An insufferable, arrogant cad. Yes, he was. He wanted Cecily pining for him forever, dreaming she could tame him, yearning for the tender love he could never, ever give. He wanted her to remember the old Luke, not fantasize about some uncivilized beast. And if this
    “werestag” had eclipsed the memory of their kiss with his gory midnight rescue…
    Luke just would have to do it one better, and give Cecily a new memory to occupy her thoughts. An experience she could never forget.

    ***
Denny did not play the pianoforte. No one in his household did. Yet when Cecily sat down to the instrument that afternoon, she found it recently polished and tuned to a crisp perfection. He must have had that done for her, in anticipation of her visit. Always so thoughtful, Denny.
    Her fingers lingered over the keys, coaxing a somber melody from the instrument.
    “Is that my funeral march?” Luke’s deep drawl, from somewhere behind her.
    She froze to her fingertips.

    “Don’t stop on my account,” he said. “Melancholy does become you so.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. If he wished to taunt her…two could play at that game. Her fingers launched into a jaunty folksong, one she knew he would recognize instantly. They’d sung it that summer, practiced it over and over in preparation for that farce of a musicale at Lady Westfall’s estate. She played the introduction effortlessly, from memory—not caring that she would betray the fact that she’d practiced it often over the years, out of sentimental folly. And here came the cue for his entrance, that gay little trill that ushered in his bass. She drew the notes out, extending him a musical dare. Would he sing his part? He’d always had the most beautiful voice, before.
    “Enough,” he said. “I preferred the mournful dirge.”
    Cecily dropped her hands to her lap. “So it would seem. You are as devoted to low spirits as bottled ones, these days.”
    “Quite. I think I’ve developed an aversion to levity. When you marry Denny, together you will be so revoltingly happy, I shall have to remove myself to another county.” He came to stand at her shoulder.
    “Perhaps another continent.”
    He would leave England again? The thought gutted her. She knew what it was, to fret endlessly about his whereabouts, not even knowing whether he still lived. It was a miserable way to spend one’s time.
    “I’m not going to marry Denny.”
    He paused. “You have told him this?”
    “Not yet. I will tell him soon.”
    “When did you decide?”
    “Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.”
    He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.”
    “Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.” His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn’t let her in.
    Exasperated, she