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lowering her lashes and turning back to the scene below them, feeling confused and somewhat bereft as she did so.
    “Yes, indeed, very proper,” he murmured almost inaudibly, then in a more forceful tone, “I suppose we should be getting back. I would not have Mrs. Carstairs think I had spirited you away.”
    She laughed nervously. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
    They chatted amiably of weather and traffic and Bath history until he handed her down at the Carstairs door.
    Zachary made no specific assignation with Miss Waverly as he bade her good-bye, but he was confident she would be in the Pump Rooms the next afternoon, for her aunt had mentioned such earlier. In any event, he knew everyone was likely to be in the Pump Rooms several times a week, if not daily. Not only did one “take the waters” of the medicinal fountains there, but the accompanying tea rooms were the social center of the spa community.
    He had been shaken by that moment in the park with her. He had wanted to kiss her, had been on the verge of doing so, then sensed reluctance or conflict in her and the moment was gone. He found her intriguing—and that bothered him. He could not afford the sort of commitment of time and attention a woman like Sydney Waverly would require—would deserve. In a month he would be back on the Peninsula, slogging his way to and through the Pyrenees.
    Three weeks, Quintin. Enjoy them while you can. Don’t waste time and energy on what could have been or might have been. After all, that was what she wanted, too.

CHAPTER 5
    I n the next two weeks, Miss Waverly visited the usual tourist attractions in the city of Bath—always on the arm of Lieutenant Quintin, for he proved to be as good as his word in acting as her guide. The two were invariably in an open carriage, a crowded public place, or accompanied by others—Sydney’s cousins, the lieutenant’s fellow soldiers, or a combination thereof, along with other young men and women. But just as often, the two might be seen in company somewhat separated from others, engaging in private conversation, though the gossips found little to criticize in their behavior.
    A keen observer, or a particularly snide one, might have pointed out that the lieutenant was always quick to seek Miss Waverly’s company in the tea rooms or at a ball, and that he was a more frequent caller at the Carstairs home on Queen Square than he had been before her arrival in Bath. If the observer were especially astute, he or—more likely—she would see how their eyes lit with pleasure on seeing each other. He—or she—might observe innocent touches occurring more often than one might expect and glances that suggested shared opinions and amusements.
    For her part, Sydney welcomed his company. As they became better acquainted, she found him an easy companion. Their “pact” kept the relationship casual, free, on the surface at least, of the usual extremes of tension between a young man and a young woman attracted to each other. They argued vehemently, albeit amicably, about the relativemerits of two modern landscape painters. Mr. Constable’s scenes of the English countryside pleased Lieutenant Quintin, while Sydney praised Mr. Turner’s experiments with light. They were equally strong in considering the place of women in public life. Here, their disagreements were just as vehement, but considerably less amicable.
    Lieutenant Quintin and Ensign Harrelson, calling at the Carstairs home one afternoon, were invited to stay for tea. As befitted the modest home of a navy widow, the drawing room sported furniture chosen for comfort rather than showy style. Sydney found the colors—maroon, mauve, and gray—relaxing. The Carstairses and their guests occupied two couches and two upholstered chairs arranged around a low table on which was a large tray with tea paraphernalia. The conversation had turned to stories of school-day escapades and Lieutenant Quintin casually mentioned having studied