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After they’d both had several passes back and forth between a row of ancient oaks, they fell into the grass, heads curled toward one another and began to mutter for only one another’s ears, pointing at the sky and other things they saw.

A warm body settled near Freddy, and her lungs, swimming in the horse and masculine scent of him, knew exactly who stood next to her without turning her head.

“So, Mr. Webster,” she said, “how have they done?”

He grinned, a lopsided affair that made her heart flip. No question why the ladies of London loved him so.

“They are marvels,” he said. “Ready for Garrison’s tomorrow. You certainly will have no more need of me after this morning.” His voice stretched out like a tightwire.

But why?

“You are a masterful teacher.” Not false flattery. “You know what to say and how to act to get different types of people to relax. There are few more different from one another than Izzy is from Bridget, yet you found success with both. Your talent for teaching is as clear as your one atop a horse.”

“No.” His voice was definitely gruff now, like a wild animal only just learning speech.

Where were his flirtations? His over-the-top compliments and teases? She wanted them. Perhaps she had estimated wrong, though. Perhaps he had not looked at her lips as if he wanted more.

It called for a slight experiment. The girls were distracted, and though the moment in the park was not of her design, it did present an opportunity. If she could be discreet. And most certainly she could. An experiment, then.

She turned to him, licked her lips, smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Webster.”

His gaze darted away from her eyes, settled a tiny bit southward. His own mouth opened slightly. “Pardon me”—still he remained fixated—“what did you say?”

She licked her lips again.

He shuddered, ripped his gaze away from her. Was that … had that been a curse he bit off before it could escape? His fine, chiseled lips had shaped a word, blunt and crude, then swallowed it back down.

He was not unaffected. Not at all.

Well, then. Hope sprang eternal in tortured men’s gazes.

A raindrop plipped onto the tip of Freddy’s nose, and then another on the slice of Mr. Webster’s right cheekbone. She reached out, set the thumb of her gloved hand right on that cheekbone, and swiped the drop away. His body stilled, his breathing stopped, and his eyes broke into a thousand pieces.

Not immune at all. Perhaps she should thank Max for his unexpected intervention.

But what to do with this information? How to move forward from here?

She dropped her arm to her side, deep in thought. Another raindrop hit her face, and she looked up at the gloom-cast sky. “I should get the girls back home and the pony back to the Cavendish townhouse.”

“Yes. I’ll escort you. You should have come with a groom. What was Baron Eaden thinking?”

“We have permission to use the pony whenever we like without asking. I had the groom saddle Penelope and left a note with him that we would return the pony before noon.”

“Penelope the pony. Ridiculous.”

“Nora’s youngest sister, Pansy named it, I’ve been told.”

“Pansy and Penelope the pony. I rescind my judgment. It’s perfection.”

“I think so. Izzy! Bridget!”

The girls looked up.

“Come along.”

They jumped to their feet.

“Can I ride Penny?” Izzy cried.