"What?"

Emma blinked, as if just suddenly returning in full to the conversation. "Except me, of course."

"Well, you couldn't, anyway," Henry felt obliged to point out, unable to pinpoint when exactly the conversation had veered into the bizarre. "As you are already married, that is."

"I meant before I married." Emma laughed. "What a widgeon you must think me. I don't usually have so much difficulty remaining on one topic. It's the babe, I think." She patted her stomach. "Well, probably not, but it's deuced convenient to be able to let it shoulder the blame for all my idiosyncrasies."

"Of course," Henry murmured.

"I only meant to say that Dunford is very popular. And he is a very good man. Rather like Alex. A woman would have to be a fool to turn down a proposal from a man like that."

"Except there is the little problem that he hasn't exactly proposed yet."

"What do you mean 'exactly'?"

Henry turned and glanced through a window which looked out onto a cheery courtyard. "He has implied that we will be married, but he hasn't asked me directly."

"I see." Emma caught her lower lip between her teeth as she thought. "I expect he wants to propose here at Westonbirt. More of a chance to get you alone. He'll probably want to, er, kiss you when he asks, and he'll not want to have to worry about Aunt Caroline swooping down to rescue you at any moment."

Henry didn't particularly want to be rescued from Dunford, so she made an inarticulate sound that was meant to convey agreement.

Emma cast a sideways glance at her new friend. "I can see from your expression that he has kissed you already. No, don't blush, I'm quite used to such goings-on. I had as much trouble when I had to chaperone Belle."

"You chaperoned Belle?"

"And did a dreadful job of it, too. But no matter. You will be delighted to learn I will probably be just as lax with you."

"Er, yes," Henry stammered. "That is to say, I think so." She spied a bench covered in rose damask. "Do you mind if we sit down for a moment? I'm suddenly very weary."

Emma sighed. "I tired you out, didn't I?"

"No, of course not...Well," Henry admitted as she sat down, "yes."

"I have a tendency to do that to people," Emma said, lowering herself down onto the bench. "I don't know why."

Four hours later Henry had a feeling she knew exactly why. Emma Ridgely, Duchess of Ashbourne, had quite the most energy she'd ever seen a person possess, herself included. And Henry had never thought of herself as a particularly languid person.

It wasn't that Emma bustled about with nervous energy. Quite the opposite; the petite woman was the epitome of grace and sophistication. It was simply that everything Emma did or said was infused with such vitality that her companions were left breathless just watching her.

It was easy to see why her husband so adored her. Henry only hoped Dunford would one day come to love her with such single-minded devotion.

The evening meal was a delightful affair. Belle and John had not yet arrived from London, so it was just Dunford, Henry, and the Ashbournes. Henry, still slightly unaccustomed to taking her meals with anyone other than the Stannage Park servants, reveled in the company, shaking with mirth at the stories her companions told of their childhoods and adding a few of her own.

"Did you really try to move the beehive closer to the house?" Emma laughed, patting her breastbone as she tried to regain her breath.

"I have a dreadful passion for sweets," Henry explained, "and when the cook told me I couldn't have more than one a day because we didn't have enough sugar, I decided to rectify the problem."

"That will teach Mrs. Simpson to make up excuses," Dunford said.

Henry shrugged. "She's never minced words with me since."

"But weren't your guardians terribly upset with you?" Emma persisted.

"Oh, yes," Henry replied with an animated wave of her fork. "I thought Viola was going to faint. After she had me drawn and quartered. Luckily she was in no shape to punish me, what with twelve bee stings on her arms."

"Oh, dear," Emma said. "Were you stung as well?"

"No, it's amazing, but I wasn't stung at all."

"Henry seems to have a way with bees," Dunford said trying very hard not to remember his own reaction to Henry's beehive exploits. He felt an incredible surge of pride as he watched her turn back to Emma, apparently to answer another question about the beehive. His friends loved Henry. He had known they would, of course, but it still filled him with joy to see her so happy. For what must have been the hundredth time that day alone, he marveled at his blind good luck in finding the one woman in the world who so obviously suited him in every way.

She was marvelously direct and efficient, yet her capacity for pure, sentimental love knew no bounds; his heart still ached whenever he remembered that day at the abandoned cottage when she cried over the death of an unknown baby. She had a wit to match his own; one didn't even need to hear her speak to know she was uncommonly intelligent—it was right there in the silvery sparkle of her eyes. She was terribly brave and damn near fearless; she'd have to be to try to—and succeed at—running a modest-sized estate and farm for six years. And, Dunford thought, a half-smile creeping onto his lips, she melted in his arms every time they touched, turning his blood to fire. He ached for her every minute of the day and wanted nothing more than to show her with his hands and lips the depth of his love for her.

So this was love. He almost chuckled out loud right there at the dining table. No wonder the poets spoke so highly of it.