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wouldn’t take such pleasure from it nor speculate about what other behaviors Lord Rosecroft might engage in on a dark and breezy night.
    Emmie turned the topic to the details of moving her bakery to Rosecroft, then prattled on about the neighbors surrounding the property and the various tradesmen and farmers in the area. She cast around for topics that were pleasant, soothing, and even humorous rather than make her escort dwell on a past better left in silence. And she did not drop his hand until they approached a stately two-story house, the structure more grand than a tenant farmer’s cottage, but certainly not a manor in itself.
    “The old earl put you here?” Rosecroft asked as he led her up wide porch stairs.
    “He did. He purchased it as a sort of dower house.”
    It was a pleasant place, or so Emmie told herself. Flowers abounded, a small barn with adjacent paddocks stood back from the house, and large trees afforded a shifting mosaic of moon shadows. In sunlight, it was cheery, airy, and gracious.
    “This is a lot of property for one person to maintain,” the earl said as Emmie settled on the porch swing. He set her bonnet on the steps and turned to look at the moonlit landscape. “You have a nice view to the river, though.”
    “I do, and I love my trees. The shade is lovely, and in winter they provide protection from both wind and snow.”
    “I missed the greenness of England terribly when I was on the Peninsula,” her companion mused. “Missed it like some men missed their sweethearts.”
    “We English are basically homebodies, I think.” Emmie set the swing to rocking gently with her toe. “We wander hither and yon for King and Country, but we come home and are glad to be here.”
    “I will take that as my cue to wander home,” the earl said, holding out her bonnet.
    “Thank you for your escort, my lord.” She rose from the swing and retrieved her bonnet. “I will see you on Monday.”
    “Until then.” He took her hand in his and bowed over it, a courtly gesture one might show a lady but not the daughter of a mere soldier, earning her living in some Yorkshire backwater.
    “You can find your way in the dark?” she asked then realized the question was silly. What if he said no? Would she escort him back to the manor?
    “I’ll manage.” His teeth flashed in that buccaneer’s smile, and he waited as an escort should until she was safely inside her house. Before she lit a single candle, she turned and peered through her parlor window, watching him disappear into the shadows, his stride brisk, his sense of direction unerring.
    When she said her prayers that night, Emmie dutifully thanked the Almighty for the good turn that had finally befallen little Bronwyn. If Emmie could just loosen her grasp of the child, the earl would provide for Winnie, provide generously, and not in any absentminded way, either. He would personally notice what she needed and provide it. The adjustment to not caring directly for Bronwyn, to not worrying about her, would take time, but Emmie vowed she would make it. If she loved that child and wanted what was right for her, she absolutely would.
    But before she bid her Creator good night, Emmie also asked for more than the usual measure of fortitude to see her through the coming days, and not just with respect to letting go of Winnie. With the earl’s competence, air of command, and masculine appeal—there, she thought, that term would suffice—Rosecroft was going to be a temptation. Fortunately for her, he was also possessed of pride, arrogance, and a lofty title. If all went well, he would notice Bronwyn and ignore Bronwyn’s cousin.
    The fortitude was necessary, however, to assist Bronwyn’s cousin in ignoring—or at least pretending to ignore—the earl.
    As that gentleman strode toward his new home, he considered the developments of his day and let his pace slow to a more thoughtful amble. The fountain would need to be repaired, as first impressions were